The dim, orange light of the room cast an eerie, warm, almost firelight tone across the walls. It was quiet, almost oppressively so, the stillness pierced only with the low hum of the bunker's ventilation system and his labored, catching breaths. The shadows felt heavy on his skin, clinging to him like the exhaustion in his bones. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but the space had begun to feel less and less like one of respite and more and more like one of war.

It could be worse, Sam supposed. At least he wasn't shackled to the bed, his body commandeered in another seizure. At least… at least he wasn't on his knees, begging for a taste, listing onward blindly, no better than a weak-willed vampire. The latest dose had served sufficient blood to cull the withdrawal's crippling incapacitation, but still the need gnawed at him like a starved rat beneath his ribs.

He'd never escape it, would he? He'd always need just one more dose—his body screamed it even now, even dulled with the lull of the prior that still attempted to appease the impatient demand of his every cell. Hate prickled on his skin, disgust in his gut. He should've never suggested a slow detoxification—he'd have been better off taking his chances with whatever was in his system at the time he first relapsed. This was reckless, agonizing, idiotic.

He shook his head to try to clear the despair that lately crept upon him ever more frequently, and released a slow exhale. It had to be for something. He'd make it be for something.

Sam stumbled a few steps toward the door, his legs struggling to regain strength, to relearn how to function in some semblance of coordination. It took a dozen steps before he merely brushed his fingers against the wall, instead of relying on it for his full support. And yet, even as he steadied his steps, something made him falter—made him grit his teeth and pause.

Almost unbidden, his fingertips grazed the cool metal of the doorknob. Before he could stop himself, his grip tightened and twisted—only, the handle refused to turn. Irritation sparked in his chest, but he managed to detach his hand from the metal, to force himself another few steps past the door.

A scoff behind him froze his body, his lungs suddenly devoid of air. Slowly, warily, he turned to find a familiar man standing in the hall that was utterly empty mere seconds ago. A man—a kid, really—in his early twenties, his close-cropped hair dark, neat. His skin, ghastly pale. His eyes, dead and all-seeing.

"You're a coward," the man scolded, lip curling in derision.

Sam couldn't help but wince, couldn't help but trace the deep gouge across the man's neck, still glistening crimson, the gaping wound in his chest, still pulsing with blood that never reached the floor. Things he wrought, lines and holes devised from the reflexive flick of his wrist, the lives stolen in decisions made in heated seconds.

"A selfish coward," he corrected, making no effort to disguise his hatred, "You could've saved me."

"I know," Sam murmured weakly, "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" he tilted his head, sneering, "I'm dead. My mother is clutching a picture frame because it's the only way she'll ever hold her son again. And you're sorry?"

Sam retreated a step, but it seemed to provide no distance from the man or his stinging words.

"You killed me. You killed Ashley Williams and Jayden Davis, and so many others. And you don't give a crap."

"That's not true," Sam refuted, but his words felt flimsy beneath the cutting deluge.

"Really?" the man jabbed a finger toward the door, "Then why are you walking away?"

Sam's eyes creased, voice faltering, thin and ridden in pain and confusion, "I can't."

"You mean you're afraid," he spat, "How many more people have to die because you're scared of… what, exactly? Becoming a monster? What does that even mean?" He stepped closer, his finger prodding into Sam's chest hard enough to send him stumbling back into the wall, "That your soul is… tainted? Why is your soul more important than our lives?" A sideways, mirthless smile, "How much can your soul really be worth? We both know you're not reaching heaven anyway."

Sam closed his eyes tight, but the man wasn't finished.

"Lucifer's not gonna care if your soul's colored in demon blood." His eyes thinned, a laughing scoff on his breath. "Give it a few centuries, and he'll strip it bare clean." He cocked his head, challenging Sam to disagree as he concluded, "It's not about your soul. That might be the excuse your brother wants to use, but that's not why you're so afraid.

"Sam, Sam, Sam," His pale, lifeless eyes bore into Sam, mere inches away, "How many more people have to die because you're scared of becoming what you were always destined to be? Because you're scared of how Dean will look at you?" The dead voice was slow and lethal, "That he'll look at you and not see his brother, but just another monster to kill."

Sam's nails dug into his palms, his head wrenched away, each word slicing deeper through the frail fabric of his resolve. Finally, he managed a whisper, barely more than a rasp, "You're not real. You're just… a symptom of the demon blood." Or of my mind. His brain hardly needed demon blood to concoct a hallucination—after the Cage, for a while, they came steadier than breathing. Or perhaps it was both that and the blood, in some coordinated effort to tear apart his mind as the withdrawals tore apart his body.

The man's expression tweaked in amusement, "And? So what? Does that make anything I said less true?" The cold hand pressed harder into Sam's collarbone, weighing heavily like the guilt anchored to his bones, "Are you gonna change anything? How many more ghosts have to weigh on your soul before you're willing to defy your brother?"

"It's… it's evil," Sam protested desperately, staring into the grey, glassy orbs.

"And killing innocents isn't? Killing twenty-year-old kids is what, God's work?"

"No, but—"

The man pointed again toward the door, "You're willing to risk your cursed brother losing control and killing dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands, because you're too afraid to read a stupid book."

"There's something wrong with that book," Sam managed, but his words wavered with uncertainty and indecision. They felt like feeble excuses to justify a delay over something he wasn't sure he believed—something he wasn't sure mattered. "It might…"

"Change you? Consume you?" he scoffed, flinging his arms outward, "Sam—look around. You're already gone. You can't even blame the demon blood. You weren't high when you tricked Lester into selling his soul. And all the others you still haven't told Dean about. And in your head, you still rationalize it. It's okay, because it was all to save Dean."

The wall dug into Sam's back, but it wouldn't budge even as he pressed with all his weight against it. The voice was so close it was echoing in his skull.

"This is how we save Dean. This is how we save everyone."

"Sam?" He spun around and stumbled backward a few steps, startled.

Dean's gaze raked over Sam, eyes large with concern and suspicion, notably flicking to the door, the handle still warm from Sam's tight grip. "What are you doing, man?"

Sam blinked, searching the hall, but they were alone—of course they were alone.

"Were you talking to someone?" Dean pressed, brow creased as he broached a step forward, still surveying Sam warily.

Sam shook his head, faintly, then with greater vigor, a feigned surety, "No. Sorry."

Dean nodded, but he hardly seemed convinced. His gaze trailed to Sam's hand, and his frown deepened, "What were you doing with that?"

Sam followed his eyes, confusion twisting his face—at the lockpick gripped between his fingers. "I… I don't know."

Dean opened his palm, in something more of a demand than an ask, and Sam placed the tools in his hand—Dean's eyes flicked upward notably at the visible tremor.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly, caution lacing his words as he stuffed the lockpick away into his back pocket.

Sam's fingers, devoid of anything to hold, worked uneasily through his hair, "Yeah—yeah. I'm, uh… good as can be expected, I guess."

"You can feel it, can't you?" the question was guarded, but Dean's gaze lingered intensely, scrutinizing every twitch. Sam thought he could trace the disappointment, the frustration hidden behind the taut words, the distrust.

"Feel what?" Sam replied in a hasty attempt to appease that confliction of emotion, but the question came out pathetic, betraying him instantly.

Dean nodded again, resolve firming with his conclusion. "Sam… that book… it isn't safe."

Sam's eyes darted upward in a fleeting moment, before sliding away. So the Book was inside, then. Somehow, it didn't come as a surprise, though Dean had refused to discuss it since they got back. His gaze averted, he replied beneath his breath, "You mean, it's not safe with me."

"It's not safe with any of us." Dean refuted, voice rising, "I can feel how evil that thing is; the Mark… it's itching for me to read it, all the time. And I know it's in your head too."

"It's not… in my head," Sam objected, though his voice wavered. His eyes flicked about the space in search of ghosts unseen. Could… the Book have been responsible for the hallucination? No—surely not. It was buried in warding and behind a couple concrete walls. It had to be just the withdrawals—the simplest explanation.

Dean's expression alone was enough of a reply, tracing the uncertainty on Sam's face, the furtive flick of his eyes. He wiped a hand over his face, "I'll… get Cas to take it someplace safe, when he gets back." He stared at the floor, like he was silently berating himself for even allowing it to stay in the first place.

"Dean," the word, the hesitant, warning tone, were off his tongue before he could stop them. Dean wouldn't like it, but… they needed to talk about this. To at least consider it. "It might have the cure for the Mark," His voice was tainted in a low, desperate fervor he wished he could purge. Even if it might be dangerous, they couldn't just get rid of it. They might not find another lead.

"It doesn't matter." At Sam's expression, the older Winchester sighed, "Look… it was a good lead; I get why you wanted to check it out, but… it's just not safe, Sam. And I don't want to trade this," he tapped his forearm, "For something worse."

Sam shook his head, pausing only a heartbeat before he spoke, frustration leaking through his words, "Dean—what do you think's gonna happen if I read it?" He'd defend Dean's verdict against the ghosts of his mind, but… he still wasn't sure they were in the right. "That I'm suddenly gonna go crazy like it's The Shining? Because as I remember it, you were the one coming at me with a hammer when that thing on your arm took control. And unless we find a cure… that's gonna happen again."

Dean's features tightened, his jaw clenching as he met Sam's gaze squarely, "It's not gonna come to that."

Sam scowled at his tone, withdrawing a step, blinking as though to ensure he'd heard Dean right. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not gonna be that again," his words were sharp, firm, as though he'd already carved it in stone, "I can't."

Sam raked his hands through his hair as he caught Dean's meaning, wringing his head as he paced a few steps before he turned back to his brother, "What the hell, Dean?"

He scanned over Sam, brow furrowed, the question written on his face.

"So, what, you're allowed to just bow out?" Sam demanded incredulously, finally able to steadily hold Dean's gaze, even as the latter now seemed to struggle to do the same. "But I don't get a choice?"

"I'm not… bowing out, okay?" Dean refuted, his tone rising to match Sam's, his anger snapping like the flare of a fire, "And neither are you."

As Sam paced, disbelief radiating from his scowl and the wring of his head, Dean exhaled deeply, "Sam, you're exhausted, and you stink like a liquor store," Sam scoffed—he wasn't drunk, at the moment, or at least not enough. Not enough to dull the memories of the fear on their faces, of the light fleeing their eyes. "We can talk about this later."

"Right," Sam muttered; given the glance, Dean clearly heard, but he didn't comment.

After a moment, he sighed again and spoke, "Look—about the Book," Dean's voice, stretched like an olive branch, was burdened with his heavy fatigue. "It's not that I don't trust you, Sam. It's just… I don't trust it, okay? Let's just… get you clean before we deal with something else."

Sam forced a nod, which seemed to satisfy Dean somewhat. He tilted his head in invitation—in beckon, really—for Sam to start down the hall. Unwilling to leave Sam standing at the door, even deprived of his lockpick.

But it's not that he doesn't trust you, a voice mocked in his skull. He shook his head, following Dean's lead.

"There is something we've gotta talk about, though," Dean started slowly, glancing over his shoulder.

Sam raised an eyebrow in prompt to proceed.

"Crowley's deal."

Sam exhaled thinly.

"I know; it's Crowley. But we don't have enough blood to finish out your schedule. We'll need a demon—probably just one more. And Cas still hasn't had any luck, last I heard."

"I could…" Sam proposed tentatively, jaw grinding with regret even as he voiced it, "I might be able to find one." Maybe he could sense it, like before, even one in hiding. How had Gideon put it? Like calls to like?

Dean paused to look over Sam, his gaze piercing, "You really think that's a good idea?" By his tone, it wasn't a genuine question. Sam didn't dignify it with an answer, and Dean shook his head, "I don't think you should be near a live demon anytime soon, Sam." After the other day, he meant. After Sam had tried to drain its blood right from the source, or after he'd used his powers to kill it, maybe.

"We don't know what Crowley wants." If they only needed a single demon, it might be less of a risk than gambling with whatever favor Crowley had in mind. Sam crossed his arms, his tone touched in a slight mocking edge, "What if he's gotten lonely and wants you as a demon again?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Cas told us Crowley wanted me cured. And he wouldn't have to make a deal to make me a demon, anyway—he'd just need to get me killed."

Sam chewed his lip, nodding. Crowley could've always changed his mind—and it wasn't like killing Dean would be the easiest feat, especially given that they would be hunkered down in the Bunker for the foreseeable future. Even if there wasn't any indication that's what Crowley was after… Sam had no interest in seeing black eyes in place of his brother's ever again.

After a few minutes, he spoke quietly, "Dean… we've been Crowley's pawns before. And I know we might need the blood. I just… don't exactly want to owe him any favors if there's some other way." Crowley, for all his show of being helpful, didn't operate from the kindness of whatever was left of his heart.

"Trust me—neither do I," Dean agreed without hesitation, glancing over Sam, "But unless Cas finds something… we might not have a choice."

Sam gritted his teeth, but didn't object verbally. Dean wasn't going to budge, so they'd deal with it if it came to that, then. If he was stronger, maybe his powers could restrain Crowley long enough to drain his blood—but then, if he was desperate enough to ask for Crowley's aid, he wouldn't be strong enough to bring the king of hell to his knees. Besides, Crowley would be careful, surely. They'd already fooled him once by feigning acceptance to his terms, back when he was killing anyone they'd ever saved to discourage Sam from completing the Trials; he wouldn't fall for such a ruse again. Sam's fists clenched tight at the memory, at the sharp image of the unseeing eyes of those that had already suffered enough, those that didn't deserve to die. Killed at Crowley's order. Their deaths, meaningless, given that Sam had backed down from the Trials. They died for nothing, nothing but a demon king's amusement at the Winchesters' suffering.

A melodic ringing wrung Sam from his thoughts, drawing a frown from his face. Dean glanced toward the sound, then at Sam, as the younger Winchester dug in his pocket for his phone. The screen read an unknown number; he raised his shoulders toward Dean and accepted the call, holding the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Is this Samuel Winchester?" A female voice, rigid, quick.

"Yeah, this is Sam—who is this?"

"My name is Zophiel—I'm an angel of the Lord."

"Zophiel?" Sam repeated, more for Dean's sake than to verify the pronunciation, "How'd you get this number?" He mouthed, 'angel' to Dean, raising an eyebrow. His brother mirrored his frown, sharing his confusion. Sam lowered the phone from his ear, hitting the speaker icon.

"Castiel," she replied, words clipped. In the background, Sam could hear the rattle of an engine, the muffled batter of wind against the windshield. "The circumstances of my receiving your number are unimportant," she dismissed impatiently, "Castiel is dying."

"What?" Sam demanded, his grip suddenly pale.

"Where is he?" Dean barked into the phone, even as the two shared a glance before starting down the hall, "What happened?"

"He's in Texas," she replied hastily, "I don't know his exact location."

Sam cursed; it wasn't exactly a small state to start searching.

"And I don't know what happened—all I know is he prayed for my aid." Her voice was terse, "Without my wings, you two will reach him far before me."

"Got him," Dean announced, pinching the map on the screen of his phone before snatching the Impala's keys from the war room table. He clenched his jaw as he glanced over Sam, though he didn't say anything—Sam could read the hesitation on his face. He was reluctant to let him leave, but maybe he knew there wasn't an option.

"What did he say?" Sam pressed, holding the microphone to his mouth as he took the stairs three at a time.

"That he was hurt—badly—and needed help," the angel's tone remained edged, "Listen to me, Winchester. Castiel has given much for you and your brother. Too much, in my opinion. And I cannot help but suspect you are responsible for his current circumstances. If you care for him at all, you will save him, before the last thing he gives you both is his life."

"We're on our way, Zoey," Dean replied in a tone matching hers, then it softened a degree, "Tell him that, on angel radio or whatever, okay? Tell him to hang in there."

A pause. "I'll relay your message, but he is no longer responding to me. With his weakened grace… I do not know if he can hear. Or if he has already perished."

"He's alive," Dean's voice was a whisper, and he cursed. "Cas, you've gotta be alive."

"Tell us if you hear anything from him, alright?" Sam tried to keep his voice level, but it was infected with worry.

"Very well," Zophiel assented, "And you the same. Drive quickly, Winchester."

The call terminated even as they ducked into the car. In the span of milliseconds, Dean keyed the ignition and lurched onto the road, screeching to accelerate. He tossed his cellphone onto Sam's lap, the navigation still open, pinging Castiel's location. Sam zoomed in and monitored the pinpoint, but the signal didn't move.

"We're coming, buddy," Sam thought he heard Dean murmur again, though his gaze was fixed dead on the road as they hurtled onward. Sam wasn't sure if his words were a prayer, and if they were, if they'd reach Castiel's ears, in the angel's depleted state. "Just hang in there."

Sam's eyes closed for a heartbeat, and silently, he hoped Castiel could hear them. And that it wasn't too late.