Author's Note: Takes place almost immediately after Metamorphosis.

"No, Dean, it has to be right now. Just find a bar and chill for a night. We'll be back on the road first thing tomorrow."

Dean drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair in the hospital waiting room, eyes flickering between the long-cold cup of coffee on his right and the oddly-shaped stain on the linoleum right next to his left boot.

"That doesn't even make any sense, Sam. What do you need to stay in town for?"

Dean wet his lips and lifted his eyes to the fluorescent lighting, letting the unnaturally white glow burn his retinas for a moment or two. He looked back down, black spots dancing across his vision, and his fingers drummed a little faster, outdone only by the rapid bouncing of his left leg.

"I just really need to do something. It can't wait. It won't take long, like—like twenty-four hours, tops."

Dean wiped his face on his sleeve, sniffing quietly as his fingers resumed their jolting dance. Footsteps and shuffling papers and a waiting room television clambered over each other, the sounds thrumming against his eardrums before falling away to nothing, nearly silent under the pounding blood in his veins.

"Sam… it's getting really hard to trust you, especially with this whole demon blood thing. I need you to be honest with me. Just… what's going on?"

Dean barely registered his name being called—Dean Winston, because he'd been so terrified, he'd almost given them his real name and only caught himself at the last second—and it took a bit of effort to get his feet beneath him. He was halfway across the waiting room when he realized he had left his coffee, but he didn't have the energy or inclination to go back for it.

"I, uh… I need to go to the hospital."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean realized the nurse was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear a thing. Of course, he couldn't make his lips and tongue cooperate long enough to tell her he was utterly shell-shocked and lost in a world of his own, either, so she kept talking, unaware she was being involuntarily ignored.

"Hospi—? Sam! You gotta tell me this stuff right away. What is it? Was it the ruguru? Are you bleeding? Hit your head?"

Dean startled slightly, lifting his gaze to the doorframe he was about to walk through. Room 304. He wasn't with the nurse anymore. She had ushered him toward the opening and moved on to the next task on her checklist; as if there could be anything more important than the happenings of Room 304.

"Dean…"

Bed No. 1 was empty.

"What?"

Bed No. 2 was not.

"I… I made a really big mistake."

Dean blindly felt around for a chair and pulled it closer, his eyes fixed on Sam.

Sam was almost too big for the hospital bed, with a pillow keeping his knees bent while the bed itself kept his torso propped up. There were tubes and cords taped and shoved everywhere, and the green line on the monitor rose and fell with every breath.

Breathing. Sammy was breathing. That was good.

Dean sank into the chair beneath him, dazed, reaching out and taking Sam's hand in his. He jumped at the cold touch, immediately tightening his hold in an attempt to warm the digits. He knew the frigid skin was due to the hospital being cold and Sam being unconscious, but that wasn't what it felt like, and Dean couldn't handle Sam's hand being anything but warm and thrumming with life.

"…I need to have my stomach pumped."

"What? What does that even me—"

"I overdosed."

"…"

"Dean?"

Dean let his forehead hit the mattress, shoulders shaking as the sobs he had pushed down for the past hour and a half came rushing out. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, and Sam's unmoving fingers brushed against his temple with every shudder that hit his body. He stifled the noises but still let himself have that moment of weakness, of fear and uncertainty.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that.

He knew he didn't move when the tears stopped after about five minutes. He knew his hands got just as cold as Sam's, and he knew the sun was starting to climb above the horizon through the window behind him. He knew two nurses had been through to check the machines. He knew he was hungry and nauseous and tired and wide awake. He knew he didn't regain the ability to do much of anything until Sam finally breeched consciousness.

"Mm…"

Dean's head snapped up. "Sammy?" His voice was scratchy and raw, and if the look on Sam's face was anything to go by, he looked twice the wreck he felt like.

"What…?" Sam trailed off, the question dying on his lips. Pain flooded his expression, and he screwed his eyes shut, turning his head away. "Dean…" There was panic and vulnerability and shame in his voice.

It hurt.

"Hey, it's alright." Dean didn't bother forcing a smile while Sam wasn't looking at him, but he reached out and took Sam's other hand in his. "They got all the—the stuff out, and you're gonna be okay." Please tell me that's a good thing. Please, Sammy.

Sam bit his lip, glassy eyes fixated on the wall. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please, don't be disappointed. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean."

"Hey, stop, enough." Dean could barely get the words out, his legs lifting him from the chair and planting him on the edge of the bed. "Shh, Sammy, shh, look at me. Hey, look at me."

Sam kept his head turned, but all it took was Dean gently taking Sam's face in his hands, and then Sam was looking up at him with those puppy eyes; those adorable puppy eyes that weren't supposed to be so full of humiliation and pain and torment.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean forced a smile, blinking rapidly to clear his tears, and he nodded encouragingly despite the helplessness he felt. "It's gonna be okay. I promise. We're gonna make it better."

Sam choked back a sob, tears slipping down his cheeks and running between Dean's calloused fingers. "I'm sorry, Dean. I thought I had it under control."

"Shh, Sammy—"

"I thought I was better." Sam's face contorted, a fresh wave of tears rushing to his eyes as his sobbing increased. "I thought I was better, but—I'm not, Dean, I'm not. I—I tried, but I'm not, and after what you did to bring me back, and everything you went through for me, I still couldn't—I couldn't—and I'm so sorry."

"Shh, shh, shh. Sammy, shh." Dean slid his hands from Sam's face to his shoulders, pulling him close and wrapping both arms around his shaking frame. "Shh, it's alright, Sammy." Dean stroked the tangled strands of hair, kissed the top of Sam's head, and rocked slightly, just as he had when Sam was little and needed comfort after a bad dream, a bad hunt, a fight with their dad… or anything else he needed comfort for, because Dean had never turned him away. "Shh, we're gonna figure this out." Dean had no idea what 'this' was or why Sam seemed so familiar with the urge to kill himself, and he was scared, but the last thing Sam needed was an interrogation. "We're gonna make this better, and it's all gonna be okay. I've gotcha, Sammy. I'm not disappointed, I promise. You scared me, that's all. But it's okay now. It's okay."

Sam wept, slumping against Dean's chest but making no attempt to reciprocate the hug. His arms hung limply, still constrained by the medical equipment, and his nose was starting to run over the oxygen supply tube. Dean didn't care. If any nurses heard the machine making noise, it hadn't made enough for them to intervene, and as long as no one tried to get between him and his brother, Dean didn't care about much of anything.

"Sorry," Sam whispered. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

Dean pressed his lips to Sam's temple and shut his eyes, running his hand through Sam's hair again. He exhaled, shaking his head against Sam's. "It's okay. It's okay, Sammy. Please don't apologize."

Sam either didn't hear or didn't care, because he continued to mumble various apologies and pleas under his breath, shoulders heaving with sobs.

Dean made sure to mumble just as many assurances and then a couple extra, determined to outnumber the negatives with positives. Maybe it wouldn't make Sam believe him, but it had to help, right?

Right?

"Dean, I'm so sorry… I didn't—"

"Hey, you know I love you, right?"

Sam nodded his head with a congested, "Uh-huh."

"I love you so much, Sammy." Dean squeezed his brother. "Tell me you know that."

"I do." Sam moved his hand, as if intending to return the hug, but the bundles of wires proved to be too much of a hassle. He grasped at the edge of Dean's unbuttoned shirt instead. "I love you, too. I'm sorry."

"Shh, stop. Stop it." Dean shook his head. "Stop."

Sam fell silent after that, his cries quieting somewhat. He stayed pressed against Dean, and Dean made no attempt to stop him. Dean reveled in the sensation of Sam's heart beating hard against both their chests, a constant, throbbing reminder that his little brother was still alive.

"Dean…?"

"Yeah?"

Sam sniffed. "I don't… I don't know if I can do this." He sniffed again. "Angels and demons… the Apocalypse… Lilith… even regular monster hunting…" He shook his head and sniffed again. "I'm trying so hard, Dean, but I can hardly get out of bed in the morning, and I don't—I don't know how much longer I can adrenaline my way through everything. I'm—I'm no good to you like this. Or Heaven or Hell or anyone. I just—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Just… tell me you won't be mad if I can't do this. Please."

Dean felt a stabbing pain in his sternum, and he held Sam a little tighter. "No, Sam. I won't be mad or, or disappointed or anything like that. Sammy…" He shook his head. "If we need to take a break, then we take a break."

"But the angels—"

"Can go screw themselves. You come first, Sammy." Given the threats Dean had received in the past, he secretly hoped no angels were listening at that exact moment, but even if they were, Dean wasn't going to back down. "We're gonna get you healthy, okay? We'll do some research, find out what you need… you said you already have antidepressants?"

Sam couldn't look at him when he nodded, and that broke Dean's heart more than anything else.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"I, uh, my brother, he—he took some pills. Like, a lot, I don't know what, but he—"

"I took all the—the antidepressants I had."

"Sammy, it's okay." If anyone had asked Dean Winchester what he thought of depression twenty-four hours earlier, he would have laughed in their face. He wasn't ignorant enough to think depression was just 'being sad,' but he figured it had something to do with trauma or coping mechanisms. He had always managed to get by with sarcasm and a bottle of Jack, so he didn't have much sympathy for those who wouldn't shoulder a little extra-heavy weight now and then. Not that he had anything against them, he was just… indifferent.

Funny how things changed when your brother started having a seizure on the floor because he chugged all the psychiatric medication he had on hand and washed it down with that bottle of Jack he was so fond of.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean rubbed Sam's back a few times, at a loss for words, feeling like he was supposed to fix things—knowing he was supposed to fix things, it was his job to fix things—but having no idea what to say or do. "It's okay. I mean, it's not okay. It's not—don't ever do this again. I don't—I don't know what I did or didn't do to you to make you think you couldn't come to me, but that's—man, whatever it was, it's in the past. You gotta—you know that now, right? That you gotta tell me this stuff?"

Sam nodded his head miserably, but his face was still awash with shame. "I'm sorry."

Dean fought the urge to strangle his brother, then fought the rush of guilt that came with his frustration, and then let out a soft sigh. "Sammy…" He didn't want Sam to feel any more responsibility for the situation than he already did, but he didn't want Sam walking away from the hospital thinking a suicide attempt had bettered his situation as a whole. "I remember Hell."

"Wh-what?" Sam pulled back slightly, his face twisted with confusion.

"I remember Hell. All of it. And…" Dean cleared his throat and swallowed hard. "And the last thing I want to do is put that on your shoulders… and I did things I don't ever want you to know about, Sammy, not ever. And I think, uh, I think if I ran myself into the ground and just—just snapped, you know, it wouldn't feel…" He wiped his face and swallowed again, taking his own turn with overwhelming humiliation. "It wouldn't feel like giving up. It wouldn't feel like weakness, like—like burdening the people I care about. It would feel like I fought until I—until I physically couldn't anymore." He shook his head, sniffing. "But, uh, but that's not good for me or you… or Bobby or, or anyone, so… I'll tell you about it, if you'll listen. I'll tell you about the nightmares, and I'll tell you what helps me sleep, and…" He blinked a few times, trying to banish the tears from his eyes. "But Sammy, you gotta promise you'll do the same."

Maybe that wasn't fair or right or healthy, and maybe manipulating Sam was the worst possible thing to do in their situation, but Dean didn't know what else to do. He didn't know how to get Sam to open up unless he forced him, and he was terrified—terrified—of what would happen if Sam closed himself off again.

"Promise me, Sammy. Man, you gotta tell me about this stuff. You gotta tell me what helps, and you gotta come to me when you're not doing good." Dean forced what he hoped what a smile and a quiet laugh, though it might have been more like a grimace and a sob. "I'll wind up like Dad, questioning everything you do, and then all we'll do is fight, and it'll be terrible."

Sam flashed a weak smile of his own, and he actually hit the mark, even if it didn't make it all the way to his eyes. "Yeah." He sniffed. "Okay." He nodded a few times and cleared his throat, triggering a few coughs and pained grunt. "I promise."

Dean looked down at Sam's stomach. "Are you okay?"

"Just sore. I'm okay." Sam reached up to wipe his face and frowned at the IV in his arm, using his other hand. "How long do I have to stay?"

"I don't know." Dean got up from the bed and pushed the chair out of the way, wiping his face a few more times before he faced Sam again. "I'll go find someone and ask for an update. You, uh… you good if I leave you here alone?"

Sam looked away and nodded. "Yeah. I won't do anything."

"But will you be okay?" Dean pressed the issue, wanting Sam to realize he was concerned about more than Sam trying to kill himself again. "Because if you need me to stay for a while, I can."

Sam looked at him for a moment, a flicker of hope flashing through his eyes, but he ultimately shook his head again. "No, I want to get out of here." He wet his lips, looked away, and cautiously turned his eyes back to Dean, once again hopeful. "Maybe we could… go to Bobby's? Just… lay low for a while?"

"Done." Dean dismissed it with a flick of his wrist, as if physically shoving the item off his to-do list. "Anything else?"

Sam shook his head, watching Dean with tired, weary eyes. "No." He licked his chapped lips. "I just want to go home."

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded. "Like I said, consider it done. I'll be back as soon as I get an answer on when we can hit the road." He almost walked away, but he changed his mind at the last second and stepped close enough to the bed that he could plant a quick kiss on Sam's forehead. "Be right back."

Sam gave another nod and a tight smile, leaning back into the cushions and closing his eyes with a final, heavy sigh.

Dean stayed to watch over him for a moment, but he made sure to start walking before Sam could notice the lack of footsteps. He left the room and took a quick look around, deciding to follow the exit signs. He would either run into a nurse or make it all the way back to the reception desk, but he would get an answer either way. It didn't really matter how it happened, as long as he got back to Sam as quickly as he possible.

Dean rounded a corner and stepped onto concrete, white walls suddenly replaced by open sky and the dim light of early dawn. Wind was in his hair, the sun was in his eyes, and he got the sense he was not alone.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean whirled on the spot, and while he was relieved to find Castiel standing there, it didn't do much to ease the miniature heart attack he had suffered. "You can't do that to me, man."

Castiel frowned slightly. "Apologies." His expression faded, and he was back to business as usual, his trench coat flapping in the wind. "There is a seal twenty-two miles east of here. We don't have the manpower to—"

Dean was already shaking his head, despite feeling his heart seize in his chest. "Cas, I can't. Sam needs me right now."

Castiel frowned again, tilting his head to the side. "Is that why I found you in this hospital?"

Dean took a look around and realized the location he had been zapped away to was, in fact, the hospital roof. "Uh, yeah." He shook himself and got back to the conversation. "I wanna help, man, but… Sam needs me, and at the end of the day, this isn't my fight."

"Dean." Castiel interrupted before Dean could go any further. "This is not a request. I thought I made that clear after the incident with the Witnesses."

Dean squinted, caught off-guard and panicked, and he thought back to the conversation they'd had. When did he say…

"You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell; I can throw you back in."

Oh. That conversation. Right.

Dean swallowed and averted his eyes, suddenly struck with the horror that had taken him over the night he first heard those words. "Cas…" He couldn't make himself look the angel in the eye—something he berated himself for—but he still managed to keep his voice level when he replied, "I can't save the seal. I need to be with Sam."

Castiel took a step forward.

Dean flinched despite himself, an action which gave the angel pause.

Blue eyes narrowed slightly, sliding from the top of Dean's body to the bottom and back up again. His brow quirked, a thoughtful expression twisting his features, and he replied. "I will take Sam somewhere safe."

Nowhere is safe from his own head, Cas! Dean wanted to scream, but he only shook his head. "That's not good enough. He can't—" He lifted his hands slightly, fingers curling with the frustration of not knowing how to say what he needed to say. "He can't be…" He moved his hands again, trying to words and failing.

"Dean?" Castiel tilted his head slightly, eyes caught somewhere between suspicion and concern. "What's wrong with Sam?"

Dean let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his face. What was he supposed to do? Sam was so embarrassed, and with his attitude toward angels, he probably didn't want them knowing about his… problem. But Sam couldn't be alone, either. But if Dean refused, Dean would get thrown back in Hell, and Sam would wind up alone regardless. And what if Dean's death had triggered this—this depression thing? What would Sam do if Dean died again? No, no, no, that couldn't happen. Dean could ask Castiel to take Sam to Bobby's using Angel Air, but would Sam be too embarrassed to tell Bobby what was really going on? And even if he wasn't, would Bobby know what to do? Not that Dean really knew what to do, but—

"Dean." Castiel took a step forward, and he didn't stop when Dean backed up again. Rather, he reached out and grabbed Dean's jacket collar, pulling him a little closer and speaking sharply. "What is wrong with Sam?"

Dean debated the issue for another second and then went with his gut. "Sam, uh… Sam tried to…" He lifted his hand to his head and made the universal gesture for shooting himself in the temple.

Castiel only looked more confused, his brow creasing as his lips parted in preparation to ask a question that never saw the light of day.

"Sam tried to kill himself." Dean spread his arms. "Okay? He tried to—" He rubbed his face, cutting himself off. My baby brother tried to kill himself.

Castiel didn't look any less confused, but he didn't look any more confused, either, so that was something. "What was the purpose of the attempt?"

Dean threw his arms up and shouted, "I don't know, Cas! He's depressed, he hates himself, he's miserable, he wants to die—take your pick!" He dropped his arms, heart hammering in his chest, eyes searching desperately for any sign that Castiel would show a little humanity for once. "I've got no frickin' clue, which is why I need to stay with him. He's not—he's not okay, Cas. He's sick, but—but it's in his head." And I don't know how to protect him from that.

Castiel tilted his head the other way, inclining only slightly, his movement slow. His eyes searched Dean's face, countless thoughts written in the shades of blue, and Dean wondered if Castiel knew how expressive human eyes could be when left unchecked.

"I'll stay with Sam. You go defend the seal."

Dean's face screwed up, confused. "If you can stay with Sam, why don't you go defend the seal? Clearly, you're not needed anywhere else."

"I could, but the angelic remedy for this particular seal will likely be the destruction of everything in a two-mile radius of the demonic activity." Castiel gave him a pointed look. "I assumed you would want to prevent that kind of outcome."

Dean cursed under his breath. "I…" He struggled for a moment but then shook his head. "No. No, if you destroy a town or city or some crap, that's your fault." It killed him to say that; stabbed him in the gut and twisted the blade hard. "It's not—it's not my job to save everyone, it's my job to protect my family. That's what I'm gonna do." He turned to go, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Dean. If you leave without completing the task, I'll have to hurt Sam."

Dean stopped and turned. "What do you mean if I—"

Castiel pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead, and the world was suddenly different. Less pastel sky and more vibrant flower beds, less city and more suburban, less windy and more stillness, less concrete and more blacktop.

Less hospital roof with Sam downstairs and more small town with Sam over twenty miles away.

Dean cursed out loud and ran his hands through his hair, turning in a circle and spotting Baby parked up the block beneath a streetlight. Muttering—mostly profanities, including a rather colorful string that lasted a minute and a half—Dean grabbed his phone from his pocket and held down the number two.

Come on, come on, come on, come on…

"Dean?"

"Sammy!" Dean tried and failed to keep the overwhelming relief from his voice. "Listen, Cas showed up on the roof, and he zapped me somewhere. He said he was gonna stay with you, maybe you can get him to take you to Bobby's, but I'm—"

"What?" Sam sounded calm, but Dean could detect fear in the undertones.

"I can't leave without saving the seal here, or they're gonna hurt you." Dean felt a simultaneous rush of guilt and rage. "Just—just do what he says, Sammy, and I'll be there as soon as I can. I swear, this'll be the quickest hunt of my life." Not that he knew what he was hunting. Or what was happening. Or where to start. "Is he there yet? Normally he just—"

Sam startled on the other end of the line.

"That's him, isn't it?" Dean ran a hand through his hair again. "Give him the phone, Sammy. Let me talk to him."

"Uh, yeah." Sam seemed a little dazed. "Yeah, let me…" There was rustling, air over the microphone, and then a significantly deeper voice spoke.

"Hello, Dean."

"I'm gonna skip the part where I tell you I'm gonna bash your head in the next time I see you and get right to the part where I tell you to find out from a nurse or doctor when Sam can leave." Dean hated how pointless his glaring and angry gestures were. "You take him to Bobby's, and then you stay with him like you said you would, or I'll pluck your feathers one by one, capice?"

"You do realize—"

"Hey! I'm not in the mood for your literalistic bullcrap. You think, Cas, you think really hard about why I was in Hell in the first place." Dean was seething, vision blurred with rage. "Think about what you saw when you dragged me out, and then think about me running headfirst into it for the sake of someone else, and then think about who you're responsible for right now and make a very careful decision."

Several seconds passed in silence, and then Castiel's voice came through the speaker. "I will find a nurse or doctor."

"Frickin' straight. Now give me back to Sammy."

There was another pause, and then Sam was back on the phone. "Uh, Dean?"

"Hey," Dean replied, suddenly softer, all the air rushing out of his lungs. "Cas is gonna take good care of you until I get back. I threatened to pluck his feathers."

"Dean—!"

"Just let him take you back to Bobby's and keep an eye on you. He's not that bad, just a bit stuck up and bent on following orders." Dean put a hand on his hip and surveyed the area again, trying to figure out where to start. "I swear to you, Sammy. I'm gonna be home as soon as I can."

"It's okay." Sam didn't sound all that certain, but he cleared his throat and continued a little more confidently. "I'll be here… or there, at Bobby's. Um… stay safe."

"Yeah, you too. Text me. Seriously." Dean was hoping he would get another verbal reply out of Sam—just another little something to help convince him Sam was okay—but the line went dead without any other sounds.

Okay. Dean sighed and snapped his phone shut, shoving it into his pocket and taking a look around. Let's get this over with.

Sam swallowed hard, slowly closing his phone and lowering it to his lap. He tried to sit up a little straighter, inhaling sharply at the pain it caused, and he gave Castiel a brief, tight smile. "Uh, we've never formally met." He tried to extend his hand for a shake, but the IV tugged slightly, and he didn't want to accidentally dislodge something or make the tape any more irritating than it already was. "Um. Sam. I'm Sam."

"I know." Castiel tilted his head slightly, looking at the hand Sam had moved. "Sam Winchester… the Boy with the Demon Blood."

Sam dropped his gaze and offered a jerky nod, not giving himself the luxury of a bruised ego. Honestly, what did he expect? Sam had been a freak and a monster from before his first birthday; why wouldn't Heaven and its angels know?

"Is something wrong with your hand?"

Sam blinked, looking back up at Castiel. "Huh?"

"Your hand. You moved it toward me." Castiel stepped a little closer, squinting at the body part in question. "Do you want me to heal it?"

Sam looked down at his hand and then back up at Castiel. "No, I—" He looked back down and back up. "I was just going to shake your hand."

Castiel furrowed his brow, clearly confused, but he said nothing else. "I will find a nurse or doctor and ask how long you have to stay here."

"Oh, I'm fine." Sam pulled himself into a sitting position and removed the oximeter from his finger, more than a little self-conscious about being in a hospital gown, especially in front of a celestial being. "Uh, just—just let me get dressed."

Castiel watched him closely, eyes suspicious. "Dean seemed to think you might not be able to leave the hospital yet."

"He, uh, he worries too much." True, but if Sam were honest with himself, he would admit Dean wasn't the only one scared.

It had been years since Sam's last attempt, which had also been his first, and that particular cocktail hadn't had alcohol or tricyclic antidepressants… or tachycardia or tremors or a violent seizure on the floor.

"I just need to, uh…" He removed the tape over his IV and slipped out the plastic catheter, sticking it to his pillow. He grabbed a tissue and pressed it over the bleeding hole, flashing Castiel a quick smile as he moved toward the edge of the bed.

"This is safe?" Castiel asked, leaning down to inspect the discarded IV. "It's leaking."

"It's just saline." Probably. "I'll be fine without it." Hopefully.

Sam rolled the bedside table a little closer, grabbing the bag of belongings and digging out his shirt. He untied his gown in the back and peeled off the pads on his chest, sticking them on the pillow by the IV. He threw his t-shirt on first and followed it with his flannel.

"Mr. Winston? Everything okay in here?"

Sam smiled over his shoulder just as a nurse stepped around the edge of the curtain. "Just using the bathroom quick. But, uh, I'm not alone. I'll be fine."

She hesitated for a moment, but then she smiled and went on her way, apparently satisfied.

That was a good sign. Most overdose patients were released within twenty-four hours of admission—a fact Sam continually reminded himself of—and if the nurse left him alone so willingly, he was probably fine.

"You lied to her."

Sam inwardly cursed, biting his lip. "I didn't want her sticking around." He cleared his throat and flashed a quick smile. "I mean, I figured you were going to… zap me to Sioux Falls… or whatever it is you do when you travel… if she saw that, she would think she'd gone crazy." It felt wrong to lie to angel, but Sam didn't know what else to do. He needed to get out of the hospital. "It wouldn't be fair to do that to her."

Castiel said nothing, but he didn't look convinced.

Sam tossed his gown and sheets aside and slipped off the mattress, grabbing his jeans from the bag and slipping them on. They were slightly damp—he had probably wet himself when he seized, which he absolutely refused to be embarrassed about—but it wasn't noticeable, so he grabbed his socks and then his boots and then he was ready.

"Um, we can go now." Sam looked at Castiel with a brief smile, rubbing the back of his head. He had no idea what Dean had told the angel exactly, but knowing Dean, every reason for staying with Sam had been given in an attempt to sway Castiel. So, most likely, Castiel knew what had happened. "If that's okay with you, I mean."

Castiel looked at him for a moment or two, and then he nodded. "Where were you and Dean staying?"

Sam squinted slightly, his brow furrowing.

"Your things? I assume you didn't bring your belongings during an emergency."

"Oh. Right, yeah, of course." Sam reached into his jeans and felt around for the key, pulling it out and checking the tag. "Grand Valley Motel, Room 309."

Sam barely had time to inhale before there was a hand on his shoulder and the world shifted around him. He felt like he was floating for a moment—like he was back on the ambulance, half-coherent and quickly tumbling into darkness—and then the ground struck his feet. His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself.

"Woah!" Sam blinked and looked around, a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. "That… was awesome." He wet his lips and looked at Castiel, immediately disquieted when he saw Castiel examining a lamp on the floor. "Uh, I'll clean that up before we go."

Castiel hummed, keeping his eyes on the broken shards while his head turned toward Sam. "How did it break?"

"I, uh, I must've hit it." Sam quickly moved to gather his things from the table, shoving them into his duffle with less care than he normally used. "Or Dean. I don't know."

When Castiel spoke again, he sounded unhappy, and that was not a comforting tone to hear from an angel. "I don't like your aversion to honesty."

Sam inhaled slowly, frustrated but still too… fearful, in a respectful and awe-inspired kind of way… to say or do anything untoward. "I really don't remember, Castiel. I—I was really confused." He rearranged the items in his bag, not wanting to turn around to grab Dean's just yet. "I remember the symptoms getting worse, and I remember telling Dean I needed to go to the hospital. I told him I overdosed… then he called for help, and somewhere in the middle of the call…" He trailed off, zipping his bag shut a little harder than he probably needed.

"Yes?" Castiel pressed impatiently.

Sam took a deep breath, going for Dean's bag while avoiding eye contact with Castiel. "I, uh, I started seizing. I don't know how long… or how bad… Dean and I didn't really get to talk. I just woke up a little while ago. But, uh… it definitely felt bad… what little bits I can remember, anyway. It was…" terrifying, "…intense." I was so scared.

Sam cleared his throat and started putting Dean's things into the second duffle, easily able to identify what belonged to the motel and what belonged to his brother.

"You… overdosed." Castiel didn't quite sound like he doubted Sam, but there was a distinct note of confusion. "I take it you ingested some sort of poison?"

"Uh, not—not really." Sam rubbed the back of his neck and continue to pack, shame burning his face as he threw in a gun, a couple knives, their dad's journal, and a jacket. "Overdosing is just… taking too much of a substance that isn't deadly at a lower dose. I just… took a bunch of pills. They're good for me, but… not when I take two bottles of them at once."

Castiel didn't say anything to that, and Sam was fine with the silence. He preferred it, actually. He wanted to get to Bobby's and be alone as soon as possible. He wanted to sleep off the past forty-eight hours and everything in them.

Really, he wanted to sleep off the past six months or so, but… that wasn't going to happen, so he would settle. Sam was good at settling.

"Is that everything?"

Sam threw the bag over one shoulder and turned to Castiel with a tight smile, surprised to find the lamp was repaired and sitting on the nightstand where it belonged. "Uh, thank you. This is everything, yeah." He walked over to the table and grabbed his own bag, throwing it over the other shoulder. "Um, if you just want to send me off to Bobby's… I can take it from there."

"Dean asked me to stay with you."

They both knew the correct word was 'threatened.'

"I told you, Dean worries." Sam flashed another weak smile. "I'm fine." And I'm pretty sure angels have better things to do than maintain a suicide watch for something like me, so…

Castiel stalked over to Sam, eyes narrowed, and he held himself with a presence that said he had no idea he wasn't the one with five inches on his opponent. "And I told you I dislike your aversion to honesty."

Sam dropped his eyes to the carpet, pressing his lips together. "Yes, sir." Old reflexes sensed the danger and kicked in, shutting down Sam's tongue as they had done so often throughout puberty.

Castiel said nothing more, taking Sam's shoulder and transporting the two of them across the country.

Sam was a little more prepared for the second trip, and he bent his knees to keep himself from stumbling again. It took a moment or two of blinking away the dizziness to realize he was standing in Bobby's kitchen.

"Um, it's—" Sam looked at the clock above the stove and saw it was nearly seven in the morning. "He's probably still asleep, and if he isn't, it means he's working on a car. Um… I—I really am—" His voice died before he could say anything resembling 'fine' or 'okay,' Castiel staring him into silence.

"You should sleep. Humans need sleep when they've been injured."

Injured. As if I didn't do this to myself. As if it's more than me just not being able to handle day-to-day life. As if Dean would be having the same trouble in my place. Or Dad. Or Bobby. Or literally anyone else, because I just can't—

"Sam." Castiel held out a hand. "I'll take those. Go find a bed."

Sam reluctantly handed over his baggage. "I can just sleep on the c—"

"Bed." Castiel glared. "I won't tell you again."

"Yes, sir." Thank you, soldier brain. Because I've missed this helplessness so much. I really can't express how nice it is to bite my tongue and take orders again. "I think… Bobby has a guest room upstairs."

Sam didn't wait for Castiel to respond, choosing instead to walk—not run, or rush, or scurry, because he didn't do any of that—over to the stairs with his destination in mind. He found the room exactly where he remembered it, and while it was more of a storage room than it had been when Sam was young, there was still a bed along the wall.

Right. Sleep. He couldn't complain—not really—especially when he considered how tired he was. Maybe when I wake up, I won't feel like this anymore. Right. Because that was how it worked. He felt tired, slept, and woke up somehow feeling refreshed and rejuvenated like a normal person. No. Stop. That kind of thinking is what made you give up. You have to believe it can get better.

Sam jumped half a foot in the air when someone grabbed him from behind, one hand gripping his shoulder and turning him while the other grabbed his hip. "Woah, hey, wait!"

Castiel ignored him and pushed back until Sam was lying on the bed, if a bit oddly angled. "If you're sleeping, I can return to my duties and watch you from afar." He grabbed Sam's foot and began unlacing the boot.

"I told you it was fine if you left," Sam protested, trying to pull his foot away.

"I will not leave until you're asleep." Castiel pulled off the boot and tossed it on the floor, grabbing Sam's other foot and repeating the process. "You're the one who delayed."

Sam grunted. "Okay, I'll go to bed, just—"

Castiel grabbed Sam's jeans and unbuttoned them.

"Castiel! What are you doing?"

"You want to be rid of them, correct?" Castiel continued to pull on the denim, ignoring Sam's attempts to push him away. "If you wear soiled clothing, your skin will become irritated."

Sam actually stopped resisting for a moment, cheeks flushed. "You can—it's noticeable?"

"To me, but I can smell a bladder infection from three feet away, so that's irrelevant." Castiel tossed the jeans on the floor and gestured to the blankets and reached for Sam's boxers.

"Woah!" Sam grabbed them before Castiel could. "No. I got these."

Castiel dropped his arms, and Sam started wrestling with the garment, trying not to think about the fact that Castiel was probably staring.

"Here."

Sam simultaneously tossed his boxers and looked up, surprised to see a fresh pair hanging from Castiel's fingers.

"I found this in your bag." Castiel waited until Sam took them, and then he gestured to the bed in general. "Get dressed, make yourself comfortable, and I'll put you to sleep."

Sam objected but started putting on the boxers nonetheless, figuring Castiel would force him if he didn't. "I would really like to stay awake. Can't I have a book or something? I—" he paused to adjust his pillow. "I actually feel kind of awake right now." Something he attributed to the ten adrenaline rushes between the hospital bed and the one he was currently in. "I mean, I'm tired but… it's not as bad as it was. Like I might be a little bit alert. Just—"

"If you sleep now, you will be more alert later. You can read then." Castiel stepped forward and reached out with two fingers.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, mumbling. "I really won't, but okay."

Sam waited, but nothing happened, Castiel's voice filling the space that should have been occupied by supernaturally induced sleep.

"What do you mean you won't?"

Sam opened his eyes and sighed softly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's hard to explain. But… the kind of tired I am… sleep doesn't fix it, and sometimes it makes it worse." He scoffed. "Most of the time it makes it worse. Clarity and energy sort of… come and go as they please. Sometimes you know the trigger… sometimes you don't." He shrugged his shoulders and burrowed down in the blankets, curling up slightly. "It's fine."

Castiel dropped his arm to his side and looked at Sam for a long moment. "Sam, tell me honestly: what is wrong with you?"

Sam wet his lips and dropped his gaze, staring at the place where his fingers met the mattress. "I, uh, I have depression. So, things like… losing Dean… trigger episodes. Not always. Sometimes episodes just happen because my body hates me. But… I wasn't… good… when Dean…" He swallowed hard, both angered and embarrassed by the tears in his eyes. "I thought I was getting better, but…" but then he had to stop self-medicating or face heavenly wrath, "…I was wrong, I guess." He flashed a weak smile. "I'll be alright. It's nice of you to show concern." Especially considering it wasn't genuine, and Sam was under the impression Castiel wasn't good at social law. "But I really will be alright."

Castiel watched him for a long time, and given their interaction up to that point, he was probably trying to decide if Sam was lying, and if so, what about. If he had any theories, though, he kept them to himself. "Close your eyes, Sam. I have work to do."

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded, pushing down the painful sting of irrelevancy. "Yes, sir." He adjusted himself one last time and closed his eyes, barely registering the sensation of fingertips on his forehead before he was jumping awake to the sound of Bobby's voice.

"Yeah, I found him. He's upstairs in the guest room."

Sam blinked slowly, looking around. When did the room get so dark? Hadn't it been early morning just a second ago? How did he go from facing the room to facing the wall?

"What? No, no angel anywhere." Bobby huffed. "Don't cuss at me, boy, I ain't the one who fell through." More irritated sighs. "Sam, you awake?"

Sam could have replied, but the thought of maintaining a conversation was exhausting. He kept still, breathing easily.

"No, he's out like a light. Must've been sleeping all day." Bobby's footsteps started to carry him away. "Didn't even know he was here until you called… quiet all day… in at, oh, about four in…" Nothing after that was distinguishable.

Sam heaved a sigh and rolled over, staring into the darkness and trying to will himself into happiness. Or at least contentedness. Or at least not feeling so utterly miserable. He hated waking up and feeling like nothing had been gained. He felt no better—he actually felt a little moodier and more exhausted than before—and going back to sleep for the rest of the night wouldn't change that. But there was only so much time he could take to wallow, and then he would be dragging himself out of bed, telling Dean he was feeling better, telling himself he was feeling better, because… well, what else could he do?

Sam shifted again and frowned, his hand brushing against a portion of the blankets that felt warmer than the rest. He felt around the edge of the warm oval and immediately realized what it was.

It didn't make him feel better. It made him feel good, but not better; it didn't remove that numbing ache of lonely, worthless, angry, cold, confused nothingness. But it removed the sensation of insignificance for a moment. Because, despite his lonely, worthless, angry, cold, confused nothingness, an Angel of the Lord apparently thought he was worth guarding. Castiel, clearly a powerful entity, who had stormed the gates of Hell and dragged Dean back to the land of the living by his arm, had sat next to Sam on the bed long enough to leave an imprint.

It was only because Dean told him to, his brain said.

Sam rolled back over to face the wall, screwing his eyes shut.

He just wants to manipulate you so you'll do what he wants, his heart concurred. Like Dean. Dean would do anything for Castiel, including leave you alone with a stranger right after you tried to kill yourself.

He tried to dismiss the thoughts, but that only made them come harder.

You don't actually mean anything to anyone, depression insisted. Even Dean only cares for you out of obligation. Bobby, too. Castiel knows what you are—it was the first thing he said to you—and he knows what you're going to become.

Sam rolled over a little more and laid on his stomach, burying his face into his pillow to muffle the sobs rising in his throat.

You're a disappointment, Sam. You always—stop.

If Dad could see you now, can you imagine what—stop.

You can't ignore it, Sam. It's like trying to ignore the sun in the sky. It's—stop it, stop it, stop it! Leave me alone!

Why? If you keep having bad thoughts—stop it—are you going to down another bottle? 100 proof or 100 pills; pick your poison. Maybe both? Go ahead, try—no, this isn't me, this isn't what I want—nobody's going to miss you, Sam. You're such a burden, always—why can't I stop thinking like this? It's not true, it's—are you sure about that?

Sam grit his teeth and tried to breathe deeply, his already feeble resistance crumbling. He put his hands over his head and gripped his skull.

It's your fault your mom is dead, it's—stop—your fault your dad is dead, it's your fault—no, stop—Dean went to Hell, it's—I know, but—your fault Jess is dead, it's your fault the demons got out of Hell, it's your— I know, and I'm sorry, but—fault Lenore and her nest are—I know, alright? I know, and I—you're a psychic freak, you drink—I know—blood to fuel your sick, twisted powers, and you're sleeping with—I know, I'm sorry—you're already thinking of crawling back for more. You just—I'm sorry—can't handle life without a pick-me-up, can you? You're weak; a disgusting—I know, I'm sorry—pathetic, useless—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—disrespectful failure. You're a disappointment—I'm sorry—and you always have been. You spineless, self-centered—I'm really sorry! I try to do better, but—you don't try hard enough. It's never enough. People do so much for you, and they really don't ask for all that much in return, but you can't even manage that. You can't even keep your hands off your own life, despite knowing what Dean did last time I died, because I just don't care, because I'm a selfish, terrible brother, and I don't deserve him, and I wasn't worth dying over, and I don't deserve to be saved, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—

"Get up."

Sam jumped, his heart leaping into his throat as he was hoisted from the bed by the back of his shirts. "Wh—" He barely got his feet beneath him before he was being pulled backward into a chair in Bobby's kitchen. "What the—?"

Six thundering footsteps carried Castiel out of the kitchen and into the library, at which point he addressed Bobby, clearly and concisely, in that rumbling, threatening tone he so liked to use. "Fix him."

"What?" Bobby got up from his desk in unison with Sam making a break for the stairs.

Sam took all of two steps before Castiel's hands were on his shoulders, the rest of him stepping into the light from the library as he pushed Sam back into the chair.

"Sit," he growled.

Sam felt a chill cut down his spine, and he briefly wondered if Castiel had sounded like that when threatening Dean with harm to Sam unless orders were followed.

"Not that it ain't good to see you again, Feathers, even though it ain't, but what are you doing to my boy?" Bobby put his hands on his hips, casting a dark look at Castiel.

"I told you." Castiel moved behind Sam's chair and gripped his shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully. "Fix him."

Sam shook his head, whispering, "I'm f—" He was cut off by Castiel's fingers digging in no-so-almost painfully.

"He is not fine," Castiel insisted, loosening his hold as soon as he had spoken.

Sam hoped Bobby would convince Castiel to drop the subject, but Sam had made the unfortunate mistake of speaking and drawing attention to himself. Even in the dim light, Bobby must have seen the redness in his eyes and the tear tracks on his face, because he slowly approached the table and sat down across from Sam.

"Yeah, I'd say so." Bobby gave Sam a cautious look. "You got somethin' you wanna tell me?"

Sam lowered his head, face flushed, and mumbled, "No."

Castiel squeezed his shoulders, his thumbs and forefingers coming down hard on either side of Sam's neck.

"What?" Sam snapped. "That wasn't a lie. I don't want to talk about it."

"Sam loathes himself, and it needs to stop."

Sam cursed out loud, temporarily forgetting—and maybe not caring—there was an angel in the room. "Castiel, you can't just—just say things like that!"

Castiel had loosened his hold upon forcing an answer from Sam, but there was anger in his voice when he replied. "Yes, I can."

"They're my private thoughts," Sam objected over his shoulder, energized by the rush of indignation. "You had no right to listen in!"

Castiel didn't have a chance to reply.

"You're not denying it."

Sam's head snapped back to face Bobby. "I…"

Bobby folded his arms on the table and looked at Sam intently, not wearing any kind of shock or disdain or confusion. He was simply listening. "Talk to me, Sam."

Sam bowed his head and drew a breath, dragging his hand across his mouth. He couldn't think in any kind of distinct, linear pattern—not with Castiel standing right there, though apparently, he could listen in from wherever he wanted, so his presence was nothing special—but he tried to figure out what to do.

Castiel dug his fingers in again.

"Ow! Geeze, okay, okay." Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was just—just, I don't know, upset with myself. That's all. Just thinking about some mistakes."

"Must've been some pretty big mistakes," Bobby commented, inclining his head in a slight nod. "I ain't seen you like that since Dean got dragged to Hell."

Sam bit his lip and inhaled slowly, blinking away the sting of oncoming tears. He was struck by a wave of relief, humiliation, and self-loathing, all three hitting at once and dragging him under. "Yeah, they were biggies." He cleared his throat, but he made no attempt to keep speaking.

Castiel growled. "You really are the Boy with the Demon Blood, aren't you?"

Sam flinched at the words, but he was still surprised when Castiel dragged his chair sideways and got in front of him. Castiel grabbed him by the shoulders again, leaning forward and staring Sam down like an opponent on the battlefield.

"Stop behaving like a child."

Sam's temper flared again, and he was yelling when he replied. "I have a right to my privacy! What happens in my h—"

"That has nothing to do with this," Castiel snapped. "You could care less about your privacy; this is about your pride. You're resisting because you're embarrassed."

Sam scoffed. "Yeah, well, invaded privacy and embarrassment generally go tog—"

"You want to tell someone, and I think you have wanted to tell someone for a very long time." Castiel narrowed his eyes, lightning flashing in the shades of blue. "Even as you berated yourself, there was a part of you that hoped someone was listening in, that someone would catch you, because you can't bring yourself to discuss these things on your own." His voice darkened. "You should be careful what you wish for."

Sam dropped his gaze, feeling cornered and helpless and terrified, and yet—

"Look at me." Castiel grabbed Sam's chin in an iron grip and dragged his head up, one hand still clutching Sam's shoulder. "You want to tell someone because, somewhere in that thick head of yours, you know you need to talk about it. I've taken the choice out of your hands, thus removing your self-imposed obstacles. I am doing you a favor."

Sam all but spat his words. "Because you're so fond of doing favors for me." He snarled, meeting the cold blaze with a fiery, chestnut-red glare of his own. "Is this coming from the guy who threatened to hurt me if Dean didn't do exactly what you wanted? Or the one who made him leave me alone when I needed him the most?"

Castiel didn't seem bothered by the accusation or the clear hypocrisy. "And what would Dean have done for you? Whiskey? Some bumbling attempt to figure out a mind entirely different from his own, as if he could possibly understand what's happening to you? As if he could truly help you in your—"

"Dean does the best he can!" Sam shouted.

Castiel shouted back, like thunder to the lightning in his eyes. "And you don't?"

Sam stopped, breathing hard, and he realized he'd started crying again. His face was hot from more than just embarrassment, a hand on either cheek to hold his chin up. His fists were shaking in his lap, his throat was closed up, and behind the tightened muscles of his chest, his heart was pounding wildly.

Castiel stared intently, gaze flickering from left to right as he searched Sam's eyes, something colliding with the anger in his own and leaving a helpless infuriation in the unearthly shades of blue.

"Why is his best good enough but not yours?"

Sam clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes in lieu of turning his head away. His lips spread, but he couldn't get his teeth apart, the flesh closing up overtop almost immediately.

"I'd hit'im over the head with a chair if he weren't completely right, kid."

Castiel didn't even glance in Bobby's direction. "It wouldn't do any harm."

"Yeah?" Bobby replied. "You think that'd stop me?" He snapped his fingers a few times, and when that didn't get Castiel's attention, he slammed a hand on the tabletop.

Both Sam and Castiel jumped, though Castiel's 'jump' was more of a nearly-inaudible gasp and a jerk of the head.

"Let him go, Feathers." Bobby spoke in his usual, easygoing, gruff tone of voice, as if an Angel of the Lord hadn't just pushed his surrogate son to the verge of a meltdown in his kitchen. "Go back to being a polygraph."

Castiel looked confused, but he let go and allowed Sam to readjust his chair before grabbing onto Sam's shoulders again. He must have figured the 'back' in the sentence meant 'polygraphing' was whatever he had done prior to taking over the interaction.

Sam heaved a shaky sigh, swallowing the lump in his throat and trying to smother the urge to cry. He cleared his throat and wet his lips, glancing up at Bobby before dropping his gaze again.

"So." Bobby gestured to the space between them. "Mistakes."

Sam exhaled sharply but managed to suppress anything more. "Just… I mean, you know. Mom, Dad, Jess, Dean… Gate of Hell…"

"I don't recall any of that bein' your fault."

Sam scoffed, still looking at his lap. "Yeah. I figured you would say that." He reached up and rubbed his face. "Maybe I didn't do those things, but they happened because of me. If I had never been born, none of those things would have happened."

"Maybe." Bobby shrugged his shoulders.

Sam continued as if Bobby hadn't given the arbitrary response to Sam's statement. "It doesn't matter anyway. I can't do anything about that, it's in the past. But if me being here is going to cause so much…" pain, destruction, death, "…bad stuff, I feel like I should, I don't know, try to counter it with…" literally anything remotely useful, "…good stuff."

Bobby was silent long enough for Sam to look up and see the older gentleman staring into empty space with a thoughtful crease in his brow. Lips slightly pursed, fingers idly drumming once or twice, really digesting what had been said instead of spitting out the first thing that came to mind. But, through it all, completely calm and collected, unphased by every single word and phrase and movement and volume change.

Sam clung to that calm like a lifejacket in a flash flood.

"See," Bobby finally started, leaning back in his chair and turning his attention to Sam, "here's my thought: I get that your brain cooked up these theories, maybe over months and years, never mind what's true or not, but right here, right now… I could tell you all the reasons you're wrong, and you wouldn't listen."

Sam opened his mouth, but Bobby held up a hand.

"Now, just let me finish, boy." Bobby lowered his hand and chose his words carefully, but he didn't hold back. "I think I could tell you who's responsible for all those 'mistakes' of yours, and I could tell you all the good you've done in your life, and you wouldn't hear a single word because, deep down, you don't want to."

Sam flinched like he'd been slapped, and he immediately shook his head. "No, I—"

Bobby held up a hand again. "Let me tell you why." He used the same hand to point at Sam. "I think you don't want to change the way you think. 'Cause if you start to believe the truth, then you gotta realize Dean is the only one responsible for goin' to Hell."

Sam started shaking his head immediately. He knew where Bobby was going, and he wanted the train derailed now.

"Dean did it to himself. It's his fault. Your mom dug her own grave when she made that deal, and she jumped in when she was thick enough to forget about it."

"Don't—don't talk about her like that." Sam shook his head harder, and it started throbbing from the movement. "She didn't—"

"And your Dad threw his life into hunting, and your Dad sold his soul. And maybe Jess didn't burn herself on that ceiling, but you sure didn't."

Sam choked back a sob, but the noise still escaped. No, no, no, no, no…

Bobby wagged his pointer finger twice. "I realized it when Feathers pointed out that Dean's best is enough and yours ain't—at least to you." He dropped his hand to the table and leaned back, sliding it toward himself. "Dean's always enough, 'cause you decided Dean's got nothin' to make up for, because you took all his mistakes and made'em your fault. 'Course, this all brings us back to your way of thinkin'. I kept askin' myself, 'His brain's feedin' him lies, and he's believin'em, but what reason does he have to not fix it? What's makin' him hold onto this?'"

Sam's shoulders slouched, Castiel's hands resting on them more than holding them, and he let out a slow, shuddering exhale. "Bobby…"

"I decided on two things. One, you don't wanna blame your family for what happened. That's obvious. That's normal. Two—and this one took me a little longer to get—your brain's got an either-or situation going on up there. You think that if you take the blame off yourself, if you start feelin' better about some of this stuff, you're gonna turn into some," he waved his hand, struggling for the right term, "piece o'work jackwagon who runs around, wrecking lives and doin' whatever he wants, 'cause he's decided nothin's his fault and responsibility is for chumps."

Bobby paused for a long moment, and then he spoke in a voice softer than any Sam had ever heard him use. "Look at me, boy."

Sam lifted his head, sniffing, instinctively reaching up to clean his face and make himself more presentable.

Bobby looked him in the eye, still so calm and yet so serious, completely sincere, heartfelt. "Your brain is lyin' to you. It's tellin' you that it's better to hate yourself than to be somebody worth hating; that it's better to be a burden people tolerate than the guy everybody spends every conversation wishin' they could punch the teeth outta."

Sam swallowed hard, hot tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

"But you listen to me, Sam Winchester." Bobby's voice wavered for the first time, and there were tears in his eyes, but he never looked away. "That ain't you."

Sam's eyes flooded with fresh tears, blurring Bobby's face beyond all recognition.

"That ain't never gonna be you."

His lip wobbled, and he shuddered with silent spasms.

"'Cause I know my boy, and he's good. He's always been good."

That was it. That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. That was what finally broke the dam—splintered it, destroyed it—and let everything out.

Sam cried.

He folded his arms on the table and dropped his head down into them, burying his face. He shook and gasped, every muscle in his body turning to stone, racked with shuddering sobs that grew steadily louder with every second they were unhindered, uninterrupted, heard. His sleeve was soaked, his head was pounding, his nose was running, his eyes were screwed shut so tight he was seeing stars; he was hot all over, and he didn't know what to do with his legs when all they wanted was to curl up to his chest.

He wasn't embarrassed.

He wasn't angry or relieved.

He wasn't hurt or scared or confused.

He was… he was…

He was a shaken soda bottle with the top twisted off. He was oxygen after scrambling to reach the surface, water falling away with the fear of suffocation while pain lingered in the lungs. He was a cup of chilled water after a marathon, just a little too cold to stomach. He was a gift finally given, the fear of rejection fading with excited smiles and enthusiasm. He was the release of death after a long and arduous battle between a body and itself. He was a move that won the last game before retirement, a piece of music finally mastered and ready for a funeral, a perfectly executed performance before the theatre closed for good.

He shifted his arm, keeping his head buried in the right one while the left one wrapped around his skull to pull on his hair. He gasped air down between the cries, skin burning as his body temperature rose, throat splitting under the coarse air being forced along its walls.

He felt Bobby take his wrist, the callouses familiar and comforting, and then his hand was pulled away from his head. Bobby grabbed his hand and held it, not saying a word. Seconds passed, and then a slightly larger, smoother hand landed on top of the one still pressed to the table.

"Whew! It's raining cats and dogs out there! You would not believe—"

Sam looked up just in time to see Dean freeze in the doorway, horror and confusion crossing in his eyes before panic set in.

"Sammy, what's wrong?"

Bobby gave Sam's hand a squeeze and then let it go, resting his arm on the table as he gave Dean an irritated look. "We'll tell you, we'll tell you, just cool your jets."

Castiel's hand disappeared from Sam's, and he faced Dean with the immediate question of, "Did you save the seal?"

"Yeah, I saved your stupid freakin' seal, now what—"

Castiel nodded. "Good. Sam has some things to tell you." He paused. "Don't overreact, you're prone to it."

Dean spread his hands slightly, face screwing up with confusion, and he looked to Sam and Bobby for help.

"Castiel." Sam's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Sorry. Castiel."

Castiel turned around to face Sam, silent permission to continue in his eyes.

"Give me your right arm." Sam extended his left hand to take the limb, clearing his throat again to remove some of the phlegm.

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, but then he did as Sam asked.

Sam grabbed his arm at the elbow and bent it a little more, shifting it slightly. Then he took his own right hand and put it in Castiel's, squeezing slightly. "Grip my hand like I'm gripping yours."

Castiel did so, watching their joined hands with extreme focus.

Sam let go of Castiel's arm. "Handshakes are used when you meet new people, to finalize agreements or deals, and to show thanks. Most of the time, one shake is fine. If it's a formal meeting or situation, go for two. If you're really enthusiastic or giving the moment emphasis, go for three or four. Don't do more than that, or it gets creepy." He sniffed, clearing his throat again. "Culturally, at least in America, a firm handshake is a sign of confidence. If you shake too weak, it's assumed you're intimidated or uncertain. If you shake too hard, it's usually seen as a display of dominance or anger. So, just relax your arm and let me show you."

Castiel glanced up at Sam but put his eyes right back on their hands.

Sam gave several firm handshakes to demonstrate, and then he let go. "So, in practice, it goes something like this…" He cleared his throat and made the universal gesture for 'turn around.' "You were facing Dean, talking to him…"

Castiel buffered for a moment but turned, stiff and clearly confused.

Sam cleared his throat again and wiped his face, despite knowing it was completely pointless. "Hey, Castiel, before you go…"

Castiel turned around to look at him.

"I just wanted to say thank you," Sam stuck out his hand, "for all your help tonight."

Castiel looked at the hand for a moment, but then he reached out and took it like Sam had instructed.

Sam shook his hand four times, maintaining eye contact. "Really. Thank you."

Sam dropped his hand and, after a moment of hesitation, Castiel did the same. He pondered the interaction for a moment, and then a light seemed to come on in his head. He nodded to Sam.

"I understand your explanation."

Just like that, Castiel was gone. No goodbyes, no explaining himself to anyone, no more questions about seals, just—handshake and gone.

Dean squinted at Sam, then at Bobby. "Do you have any idea what just happened? No, wait." He looked back at Sam immediately. "You. You first. What, uh, what do we need to talk about? Is everything okay? Did you—"

Bobby sighed heavily and took a few steps toward Sam, patting him on the shoulder. "Have fun. I'm going to bed."

Sam smiled slightly. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Yuh-huh." Bobby walked away, adjusting his hat. "Idjits."

Dean watched him leave and then turned to look at Sam again, silent but expectant.

Then there were two. Sam eased himself back into his chair, sighing heavily, and he struggled with his words for several moments before he finally knew what he wanted to say. "We just talked. I, uh… I realized some things… admitted some things…"

Dean slowly made his way over, never taking his eyes off Sam. "Good things?"

Sam wet his lips, sniffed, and then nodded. "Yeah. I think so, yeah." He sniffed again and then cleared his throat. "It was a lot, and… I'm tired, and I know you're tired, so…"

Dean eased himself into the chair Bobby had occupied, concern creasing his brow.

"Can we just…" Sam dropped his eyes and shrugged. "Can we just sit here for a while? And you can tell me about the seal, and I can listen, and then we can just go to bed?"

For a moment, it looked like Dean might refuse—how was he supposed to sleep when he was worried about his Sammy?—but he nodded in the end. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, if that's what you want."

Sam ran his hands through his hair and sniffed, wiping his face again and wondering if it had begun to bleed. It was definitely raw, and he didn't want to think about what it looked like.

"Okay, so, let me tell you how I wound up there in the first place. I was try—"

"Can you…" Sam screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, laying his arm out on the table. "Can you hold onto my arm?"

There was a second of nothing, and then Dean's fingers wrapped around his wrist. He shifted his arm so he could do the same to Dean's, and he relished the familiar security. It was the kind of hold they used when pulling each other out of graves or up to a ledge or window—grabbing hands rarely worked in real life—and it was harder to break a wrist-hold than linked hands.

Sam chanced opening his eyes again.

Dean smiled at him, squeezing once. "You good?"

Sam inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, and then let it out. "Yeah. But, uh… skip to the good part.

Dean's smile expanded slightly. "Well, first things first, virgin sacrifices are a legit thing."

Sam's eyes widened, a confused smile twisting his lips. "No way."

"Way." Dean nodded seriously. "So, I got poofed into the middle of suburbia, right? Like, I'm waiting for someone to call the police because I'm wearing work boots and flannel and clearly do not belong because no one on the street owns either of those things."

Sam's smile broadened a little more, a soft laugh escaping his lips.

"I figure best to start with gossip. So, I head to the bar. I swear, I was actually there for research purposes—"

Sam rolled his eyes anyway, despite knowing Dean had frantically worked the entire time so he could get to Sioux Falls ASAP.

"—and I didn't plan for the off-duty cop to be so hot, either. It just happened. Luck of the draw." Dean waved it off. "Anyway, I start talking to this lady, and she starts telling me about people going missing from, guess where, the street I got zapped to. I'm like, hey, thanks for being a helpful pain instead of just a regular one, Cas. I start asking the usual questions, you know, weird sights, smells…"

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was;

the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past