In the many thousands of years of Castiel's existence, he could only recall a handful of times he awoke to a sharp, physical ache. He was no stranger to the pang of worry or loss, the sting of guilt, the cut of anger, the tear of longing—especially in recent years. And he'd found himself acquainted with suffering once unimaginable to him beneath the whims of those he called brothers and sisters—vaporized by Raphael, ripped apart to his very atoms by Lucifer, tormented mercilessly by Naomi. But his grace almost always remedied any physical ailment within a few minutes or hours, at most.
Now, he woke with a grimace, his mind dazed, thoughts jumbled, side screaming in pain. He blinked, groaning as he tried to pull himself upward, his hand instinctively clutching his side.
"Woah, woah, woah—take it easy," Dean's voice came from beside him, the familiar tone grounding Castiel amidst the haze. He slowed, squinting toward the Winchester kneeling beside him. Even as relief bloomed in his chest, his eyes skated across the room—the familiar room. The Bunker—the infirmary. The relief swelled deeper, though guilt and shame rapidly pursued it.
"Dean—I'm sorry," he attempted to drag himself off the cot, "I failed you."
"Slow down," Dean's hand on his shoulder, though gentle, proved a barricade to rising. "You didn't fail anyone—Cas, just slow down a minute, would you?"
"I allowed them to get the best of me," the angel tried to nudge Dean's hand aside so he might stand, "I—" a wet cough interrupted his words as it did his labored efforts to rise. He curled over himself, tasting coppery blood on his tongue.
Dean's face tightened as he glanced over Cas, concern lurking behind an attempted mask of stoicism. He reached for a bottle of water waiting on the end table and unscrewed the cap, pushing the bottle into Castiel's hands. After a few seconds consideration, Cas took a shaky sip, spilling as much onto his chest as he managed to swallow. It helped subside the itch in his throat, though, somewhat.
When he thought he had Castiel's full attention once more—or perhaps when he was reasonably sure Castiel wasn't about to succumb to death—Dean finally spoke, "It wasn't your fault, Cas. I shouldn't have sent you out there. You were in no shape to hunt."
Castiel dismissed the apology, again attempting to stand, "I'm fine, Dean. I'll… find another demon." Had Dean managed to secure Sam's next dose already? How long had Castiel been unconscious?
"No, you won't," Dean's voice was sharp, final. …Irritated. Hurt.
The angel frowned, his eyes skating over the space, "Where's Sam?" Had his withdrawals worsened? How many doses had they missed? Was he… alright?
"He's safe." Dean answered tersely—his words offering a comfort and yet his tone sparking confusion.
"Good," Castiel replied slowly, uncertain if he should proceed. "How is he?"
Dean didn't meet his gaze, repeating in the same, low tone, with the same, unsettling finality, "He's safe."
Castiel's frown deepened, "Dean… what happened?"
The Winchester seemed to withdraw somewhat, somehow stiffening further. His face contorted with what looked like a silent conflict—as though Dean hadn't ruled out simply refusing to answer. And yet… he gritted his teeth and spat, "What happened is everything went to hell." He shook his head, perhaps in disbelief, his sigh rigid in choler. Still, he continued, slowing, "We followed the demons that kidnapped you. They were just… waiting for us." His jaw tightened, "They were waiting for Sam. And I—" his hands grasped the sides of his head, "I left him alone with them for one minute and he…" his voice pitched ever so slightly, "He drained them, Cas. I came back, and he was covered in blood. He looked at me, and he…" Finally, his words seemed to falter. His head dropped with his voice, "I don't know how much he drank. But… Cas, he would've drained them all if I didn't…"
Dread and confusion flooded Castiel's veins. Sam had relapsed, then. Disastrously, by Dean's description. A fact only propounded by the heat of emotion humming beneath Dean's skin, by the guilt twinging the corners of his eyes, by the pain haunting his every exhale. Dismay quickly clawed its way to Castiel's throat. Sam had resisted so nobly, so admirably, for so long. Castiel knew it hadn't been easy, but Sam had fought for every inch, every minute—and he'd even refused apparent free access to the blood when he'd gone on a hunt with Dean. What had changed? What caused him to finally succumb now?
Castiel searched Dean's eyes, asking again quietly, "Where is he?" Sam had flogged himself with guilt and shame for his addiction before the relapse—Castiel could only imagine what he must be feeling now. How his mind must torment him so cruelly and unfairly.
Dean leaned back, perhaps in an attempt to distance himself from the answer as it fell from his lips. "He's safe… he's… he's in the dungeon."
Alarm set Castiel's face to rigid concern, silencing the words in his throat.
From the edge to his tone and the hastiness to supplement his response, Dean evidently interpreted the silence as an accusation or offense, "I had to, Cas. He's not in control anymore."
The angel parted his mouth to speak, but his voice was corrupted in a cough. Sam was locked in the dungeon? Dean's tone left no doubt that it was against Sam's will. Just how bad was it, then? When Famine had sparked Sam's relapse after nearly a year of sobriety, Sam had voluntarily walked into Bobby's panic room—although perhaps he knew he didn't truly have an alternative. Still, Castiel believed Sam wanted to recover, that he wanted to stay clean—both then and now. And yet… Dean must have had a reason for his actions.
Dean wrung his head, "We gotta get you more grace, man."
"Dean…" Castiel started thinly. Such a task wasn't so simple. Castiel couldn't ask that of his brethren—he couldn't take that from them. But it was something he didn't think Dean would understand. Something he didn't think the Winchester was ready to face.
"I need you, Cas," Dean swore, refusing the words Castiel couldn't even manage to voice. His tone bordered on harsh, curt, impatient, "I can't do this, I can't… deal with this alone." His jaw clenched tight as he spoke. Castiel couldn't be sure which torment he referred to—Sam's addiction or the Mark he rubbed roughly with the pad of his thumb. Either way, the pain of the words tore at Castiel's core. Dean cursed again, "I'll… I'll go find an angel and—"
"And what, Dean?" Castiel exhaled weakly, leaning back against the metal frame of the cot and tile wall behind it.
"Convince them," Dean replied with little warmth or tact, the charge of the word implying anything but a gentle conversation or level negotiation.
"No more of my brethren should die because of me," Castiel's voice was soft, quiet as the kiss of a breeze on a lake.
Dean scoffed, raking a hand through his hair as he paced a few steps, before he stilled and turned back, "Your friend Zoey."
Zoey? Castiel frowned when his hasty mental scan returned no familiarity of the name. After a moment, he tilted his head, "Zophiel?"
"Yeah," Dean snapped his fingers, like he'd attained enlightenment. "The angel chick that called—told us you were in trouble." Dean's tone was already climbing in unmistakable hope, as though the solution was already cementing itself in his mind. It hurt just as much as the pain in his voice mere moments before—if not more. "You can take some of hers."
Castiel dropped his gaze, trying to solidify his words into certainty, "I'll… I'll contact her tonight." Guilt churned his stomach painfully—he hoped the pain contorting his face disguised its bitter curl.
"Good," Dean remarked, voice finally leveling somewhat, though he continued to monitor the angel with guarded glances—Castiel couldn't be sure if he caught distrust weaving amidst the prickled concern.
Before Dean could pursue it further, Castiel coughed to clear his throat and tried to shift the conversation—they had more pressing matters to resolve, and given the heavy emptiness creeping upon the borders of Castiel's existence… they may not have much time. "Dean… about Sam," the Winchester immediately tensed once more, his momentary hope vanishing in a vapor, "How much blood do we have?"
"Doesn't matter." Dean dismissed without pause, the sharpness returned as though it had never departed. "He's not getting any."
Castiel's brow sank further. They had decided to wean Sam from his addiction slowly for a reason. A detoxification would have been risky from the initial relapse of a pint of blood. Now, after Sam had possibly consumed gallons? If they believed Sam's assessment of the fatality of the process initially, the present circumstances must pose a negligible possibility for survival at most. He paused before he spoke, his words not quite a question, "You understand how dangerous that is."
"Giving him that poison is dangerous," Dean spat back instantly, his tone harsh.
"I know—I don't want to give it to him either." Castiel inhaled a slow breath, his voice light, soft, "But if we don't… he may die."
"And if I give it to him, I might lose him anyway!" Dean shouted, his voice cracking faintly on the words—for the first time, Castiel noticed the moisture collecting in Dean's pinkened eyes. The Winchester seemed to notice the sympathetic falter of the angel's expression and twisted his head away.
Even as Castiel struggled to assemble any vestige of comfort he might offer that carried more than a façade of truth, Dean spoke softly, his gaze on the ground, "When I got back up to that room—when I saw him sucking down a demon's blood like a frickin' vampire… he looked up at me, and Cas… it wasn't Sam." His face curled beneath the war of emotion attempting to claim it, "It wasn't my brother."
Responses filled the angel's mind, but they stilled on his tongue. He'll be okay. He'll pull through. We'll get Sam back. It all felt more like a wish than a reassurance.
Dean shook his head, muttering low—his tone as dark as though they'd already lost. "This is my fault, Cas. I started this whole nightmare."
"Dean—"
"I gave Sam the blood. And then I let him take more. I sent you out hunting demons like this," he gestured toward the angel, voice trembling somewhere between frustration and despair. "And I don't know how much of it is me or this bloody thing on my arm."
"Dean, it wasn't you that gave your brother the blood," Castiel protested—Dean couldn't continue to fault himself for his actions as a demon.
"What difference does it make?" Dean's voice assumed a shout once more, "I gave him the rest." He raked his hands harshly through his hair as he paced another few steps and his tone faltered, "I don't know if I'm saving him or..." He met Castiel's gaze, his desperation written into the unshed tears in his eyes, "Cas, I'm supposed to protect him. But when I saw him sucking down that blood, I almost killed him. Again."
Castiel dropped his gaze to the Mark. Its influence seemed only to swell—a fact perhaps only compounded with the stress of their circumstances. And it would only continue to worsen until they rid him of the curse. Except… a cure seemed farther from reach than ever—perhaps because none had even the strength to search for it anymore. But… Dean could control it. Couldn't he? Somewhat shakily, Castiel rebuffed, "But you didn't."
"This time." Dean shook his head, "Cas… he's safer in there."
Castiel was silent for a moment as he studied Dean, unable to help the thread of pity that dressed his face. Dean was afraid—both of his brother's addiction and of the Mark. The angel feared it rendered his decisions irrational and impulsive. And yet… he didn't trust his own judgment as superior. Dean knew his brother better than anyone or anything in the world. And Castiel harbored no doubt that Dean wanted the best for him. Finally, he released a slow, weighted exhale, "Very well, Dean… if that's what you think is best."
And yet, instead of relief, Dean's eyes flickered with doubt, and he gritted his teeth. Castiel tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he tried to parse the emotion lurking behind Dean's hardened expression.
The Winchester merely shook his head again, wiping a hand over his face as he muttered, "I don't think I know what's right anymore."
A few weeks ago, Castiel might have encouraged Dean to have hope. Reminded him that the brothers had saved each other from fates that seemed impossible to avoid. When the ruin of the very world hung in the balance. And yet… Castiel's words ran dry. For where his being should have been thrumming with faith, right now, he felt only… despair. Loss. Futility. No matter how desperately he wished for the contrary.
If Dean was surprised at the silence, his face didn't reveal it. He sighed, his shoulders sagging somewhat beneath an invisible weight, "Call your angel pal. We'll… figure out the rest later." His tone mirrored his posture as he slowly trudged from the room—despite the exhaustion and nigh hopelessness in Castiel's bones, witnessing defeat steal ground in its war against Dean pinched Castiel's chest in pain.
The angel leaned back against the steel headboard and tile wall, fatigue dragging at his eyelids almost instantly. The thought of praying to Zophiel crossed his mind, of surrendering and accepting the balm of her grace, of allowing it to ease the ache from his bones, the fog from his skull, the weariness from his very being—a thought much like the whisper of the Devil in the desert. But the only thing to which he allowed himself to surrender was the heavy exhaustion sweeping over him like a blanket; his eyes drifted closed, and he waited for the novel, somewhat frightening stillness of sleep to claim him once more.