"I'm so afraid, cause this addiction won't break.
It takes and takes. And leaves me nothing, with nothing.
I feel alone. I feel there's nobody out there. I'm all alone.
I could just end this right here.

Cause I, hate myself, for who I am, for what I've done.
I just need some deliverance.
Cause I, hate myself, for who I am, for what I've done.
I just need some deliverance."

- Deliverance, We As Human

"Sam? Sam, wake up. Sammy, come on."

"This is my fault. I knew he wasn't doing well. He told me he wasn't, and when I asked if I could do anything, he said no, but I could tell he was lying. I should have done something. I should have at least told you. Or Bobby. I should have—"

"Cas, stop. Stop, okay? We can sort out who's to blame later. Right now, let's just take care of him." Pause. "Pull the blankets back. I'm gonna get him off the floor."

Someone grabbed Sam and lifted him up. Someone put him on the bed. Someone touched his shoe, lifting his leg and wrestling with the leather boot until it was off. Someone did the same thing to his other shoe. Someone kept talking to someone overhead.

"What do we do, Dean?"

Sam didn't open his eyes or speak. He didn't know if he could.

"I don't know, Cas."

Sam fell back asleep.

"Sammy, we gotta leave for a bit. It's, uh, it's a bit of a long story… but I guess the angels resurrected Adam, and they're trying to use him as Michael's vessel instead of me, and… well, basically, Cas and I gotta go stop it. We'll be back, okay? I won't say yes to Michael. I promise. I'll be back, just… just hang in there." Pause. "I love you."

He felt Dean kiss him on the forehead.

I love you, too.

Sam woke up in the dark. He had to pee, but not badly enough that he was actually going to get up. He rolled over and stared at the wall until he drifted off again.

He woke up in the dark again, and his bladder wasn't going to be ignored that time around. He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the counter for support while he relieved himself. He flushed and started back toward his room. Just gotta make it to the bed. He somehow managed to get there before his shaking legs dropped him like a ragdoll, and with a heavy sigh, he was unconscious again.

"Adam's gone. I tried to get him out, but…" Pause. "I don't know where Cas is. He zapped himself away getting rid of some angels, and he's not answering his phone…"

Sam felt himself move his arm, sliding it closer to Dean. He felt it dangle over the edge, palm up, fingers twitching to indicate the desire for Dean's hand to be in his. He felt Dean comply.

Laughter. "You're holding my hand?" Soft. "Typical." Scared. "What do I do, Sam?"

Sam felt his head jerk in a slight shake. He didn't know what to do any more than Dean did.

He passed out again.

"Come on, Sammy, you gotta take your meds. It'll take, like, thirty seconds."

Sam felt his eyes blink sluggishly, his gaze drifting over to Dean. He felt numb. No embarrassment. No confusion. No fear. Nothing. Just an overwhelming need to sleep.

He felt himself blink again. He felt his hand slide closer so Dean could give the pills to him. His brain told him that the fabric his hand brushed against was soft. He looked at the pills. He felt his hand hit his mouth, felt the pills hit his tongue, felt his head drop back to the pillow.

"Come on, Sam. Just a drink of water. Then you can sleep some more."

He reached out for the glass, hooded eyes watching his own movements as if they were someone else's. He took the glass and managed to hold it for all of two seconds before it clattered to the floor. He could taste half-dissolved pills on his tongue. He hated that taste.

"Here. I'll hold it this time."

He had no idea where the second glass came from. Had he dropped glasses before, so Dean started keeping backups? Had Dean left and come back, and Sam was so far gone he didn't even notice?

It doesn't matter.

Sam felt his head lift and felt his lips settle on the rim. Dean poured some water into Sam's mouth. Sam felt his throat contract as he swallowed the pills, a bitter taste left behind on his tongue, and then he dissolved back into the sheets.

"…strangle you, honestly. I guess I shouldn't say that. You might be listening. I don't know." Pause. "It doesn't matter whose fault it was. It happened. It happened on my watch." Pause. "Sam, I'm so sorry. If I could go back…" Pause. "I guess that doesn't help." Pause. "I was angry, Sam, but I didn't… if I had known you would…" Sigh. "Last time you were like this, it was some big, y'know, physical trauma that caused it. If I had known fighting with you could make this happen, I never would have… I'm just sorry. I'm so sorry." Pause. "I never should have believed you when you said things were the same. I shouldn't have let it go that easily. I should have looked out for you; it's my job to look out for you, and… I shouldn't have let it go." Pause. "I didn't want to think you were really that bad, because… if you were, then I missed… so much… for so long… so I just…" Sniff. "You're right, Sam, I don't listen. I don't know why. And maybe—maybe that's the problem, you know, maybe—maybe I need to figure out what's going on in my own head before I can figure out yours." Tears. "I don't—I don't know." Sniff. "Please, Sammy, just… gimme a chance. I'll do anything, just… wake up and get better enough to talk to me. I'd listen until my ears bleed if you would just talk again." Swallow. "Just stop lying there, like you're already dead. Please… I just want to see you happy again, and I—I don't know how…"

"Hey, Sammy. There's, uh, there's a situation with some pagan gods, and Cas needs my help. Bobby's staying here with you, and we'll be back as soon as we can, okay?"

Wait… wasn't Castiel missing?

"I love you."

He felt his jaw open about a half a centimeter.

"L'vm too…"

He felt Dean kiss him on the forehead.

Sam opened his eyes and sucked in a short breath. Holy crap. He had experienced that in the first person. He didn't feel his eyes open, he opened them. He didn't feel himself breathing, he breathed. He was still exhausted, and he was still miserable, but he was.

"Dean…?" Sam rasped out the word, more breath than voice, and looked around the room.

It was empty, but not completely dark, and the steaming cup of coffee by the bed said someone had been sitting in the bedside chair recently. I'm pretty sure Dean said he was leaving… and Cas was going with him… Something about pagan gods, if Sam remembered correctly. Bobby wouldn't need a chair, and he wouldn't be able to get up here without some help, anyway, so…

Oh, look at that. Sam was thinking, too. He was following logical trains of though from one point to the next. Except he couldn't figure out who would have been in the chair. Oh, well. It probably wasn't important; it was probably something a healthier brain would have put together fairly quickly.

"Ugh…" Sam pushed on the mattress and slid closer to the edge of the bed. He got up carefully, but the room was still speckled with floating lights and gray spots that forced him back down. "Come on…"

Sam took a deep breath and got to his feet again, carefully getting control over his balance. He walked toward the bathroom, rubbing his face, swaying as the world tilted beneath his feet.

He felt his fingers curling around the edge of the sink, holding on for dear life to keep him from collapsing. He watched himself use the bathroom, and then he watched the handle go down, followed by swirling water.

He swore under his breath. He was back to experiencing things from a distance.

He felt himself return to the bedroom, and he felt his body hit the mattress.

He felt someone tuck him in. He heard a quiet chuckle.

He felt himself fall asleep.

"How long?"

"Uh… eight days."

Sam nodded, eyes still closed, and inwardly berated himself. Over a week in bed from a verbal fight? From some emotional stress and personal doubts? Pathetic.

"So… we ran into Gabriel." Dean huffed out a weak laugh. "I punched him for the Mystery Spot thing… which I'm pretty sure broke my hand… but, y'know, totally worth it."

Sam let out a little laugh of his own, eyes fluttering open for a second before closing again.

"He asked about you. He… kinda seemed to know a little of what was up." Dean slowed to a stop and then inhaled, choosing his words carefully. "Did you… you know, tell him about… all this? Or was it just part of his… archangel-ness?"

Sam tried to open his eyes again with no success. "I… kinda?" He jerked his head in a little shake. "Last time… when he said he just wanted it to be over…" He took a deep breath and let it out. Talking was so hard. Being conscious was so hard. "I prayed… didn't think he was listening… mostly just… talking out loud… I guess…"

"Okay." Dean sounded upset… but also understanding… which was both unusual and immensely comforting. "Well, he was listening. He seemed kinda worried about you."

Sam smiled lightly, the twitch of muscles lasting no more than two seconds.

"Cas is hovering. If I'm not in the room, he's in the doorway, just watching from a distance with this look on his face like he's contemplating the cosmos."

Sam smiled a little at that.

"Bobby is cooking. I didn't even know he liked to cook." Dean snorted, and his chair creaked, meaning he leaned either forward or backward. "I can literally feel Dad staring down at you with his brooding and pensive face. You know, the one he passed on to you? Yeah, that one."

Sam smiled again, but that one didn't hold at all.

"We miss you."

I miss you, too. Sam tried to breathe. "...jus' wan'it to be over…"

Dean took Sam's hand in his and gave it a squeeze. "It will be. I promise."

Sam tried to open his eyes again, but it was even more impossible than before. "Lay with me?" he mumbled, getting a little more control over his tongue only to feel the resulting exhaustion push him back into silence.

Dean didn't reply at first, probably thinking the proposition was a little too 'chick-flickish,' but then he stood up. "Sure, bud." He held onto Sam's hand as he crawled overtop of Sam and settled on the other side of the bed. "How's that?"

Sam rolled a little, snuggling in close and resting his head on Dean's chest, laying their intertwined hands on Dean's stomach. "S'nice… not…" He let out a sigh. It was so hard to talk. "Not… doing this 'lone…"

Dean squeezed Sam's hand. "Never again, Sammy. Never again."

Sam smiled faintly to himself as he soaked up the warmth of another human body; the comfort of knowing someone would be there to help him wake up when he couldn't do in on his own. He held Dean's hand a little tighter.

"M'sorry," Sam whispered. "Didn'… mean it…" He was talking about their fight in the panic room, but he didn't know if Dean would be able to figure that out from the slurred, incoherent word jumble.

"I think you did." Dean clearly knew exactly what Sam was talking about, and he had a surprising lack of anger in his voice. "Maybe you don't think it's true… and maybe it isn't… but I think it's really how you feel. I think it's how you've been feeling for a long time."

Sam felt his throat spasm slightly, trying to tighten around a lump but winding up completely relaxed. His eyes felt different, maybe a little drier, in that way they always did when he wanted to cry but his body wouldn't let him.

"M'sorry…" Sam shook his head and took a breath. "You don' deserve this… I…" His lips and jaw continued to move, but he couldn't quite make himself form words, and in the end, he slumped against Dean in silence. You deserve better. I'm not good enough, and I never will be, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're stuck with me.

"You don't deserve this, either, Sammy."

Sam shook his head. "No, you… don't des… I'm…" He shook his head again, voice dropping to a whisper. "You should have a better brother…"

"No better brother for me than you, Sammy."

Sam only shook his head, unable to get his mouth open again.

Dean pulled Sam in a little closer and planted a chaste kiss to his temple. "My Sammy…"

Sam buried his face in Dean's chest and tried not to think about anything at all. He breathed in the smell of Dean's Irish Spring soap—Dean must have showered recently—and savored the feeling of a heartbeat thrumming alongside his own.

"Go to sleep, Sammy. I gotcha."

Sam did as he was told, and for the first time in a long time, his descent into slumber was slow and peaceful.

"C'mon, Sam. Drug time."

Sam stayed sprawled on the mattress, eyes shut and face half-hidden in a pillow, but he mumbled a response nonetheless. "Milkshake?" He could feel drool on his cheek.

"You want a—? Yes, yeah, absolutely." Dean sounded like he had won the lottery. "I'll go make it right now." He shot out of the room like a racehorse from the gate.

Sam tried to stay awake until Dean got back. He couldn't quite manage it, but he did wake up again with minimal effort from Dean, and then he sat and slowly sipped his milkshake until the glass was empty.

It wasn't much, but it was something. It was the kind of something that made Sam think maybe he could make it to the end of the tunnel.

"Oh, you're awake. I'll go get Dean."

Sam reached out and caught the edge of Castiel's trench coat. "C'mere a second." His arm was too tired to maintain the hold, and it dropped lifelessly over the edge of the bed.

Castiel examined the hand for a moment, and then he took it in his, covering it with his other hand the same way he had when they first met. "I… am sorry, Sam. I am very sorry."

Sam screwed up his face, not capable of expressing his confusion any other way.

"I should not have gotten drunk… and I should not have said what I said." Castiel rubbed idle patterns on the back of Sam's hand. "I should have stayed when you offered to talk instead of…" He heaved a sigh. "I'm afraid I'm no better at being human than I am at being an angel."

Oh… that's right, he was there for most of the fight. Sam inhaled and exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers a little in lieu of squeezing Castiel's hand. "Thanks for calling me."

Castiel blinked, clearly confused.

"You called while I was…" Sam huffed out something that vaguely resembled a laugh. "I was going to do something bad, and… I told myself nobody would notice. But you… could tell something was wrong just from my voice… and…" He blinked a few times, wanting to cry but ever-incapable of producing tears. "My arms would be all cut up… if you hadn't picked up on that… you're a good friend, Cas…"

Castiel looked at Sam for a long moment, though Sam couldn't quite meet his eyes, and then he tightened his grip. "I knew you were upset, but… there is still so much I don't understand about humanity. Certain cultures have certain rules, certain genders and chemical makeups change certain responses, and… it's all so confusing. I'm glad I was able to help you despite that." He sighed softly, squeezing the hand again, like he didn't know how else to offer comfort. "You look tired."

Sam blinked slowly and hummed.

"Go back to sleep." Castiel situated Sam's hand on Sam's stomach. "We'll continue to research your condition… and we'll find a way to fix you soon."

Sam smiled weakly.

"Er, not that… not that it isn't okay to be… not fixed… we simply want you to be not… un-fixed… as it seems to make you rather unhappy to be… this way." Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, looking down at Sam with worried eyes full of confusion and uncertainty. "It's okay, Sam. I can tell you that much. It's okay."

Sam flashed another smile. "You remembered…"

"Of course." Castiel offered a small smile of his own. "It's okay, Sam. It's okay."

Sam's eyes fluttered and then began to close. "Thanks, Cas…"

"You're welcome, Sam. It really is okay."

Sam smiled.

Sam woke up with a fuzzy sensation in his head and a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, I know you were just up, but I didn't want to leave without telling you. We got a lead on Pestilence. Cas and I are gonna go see what we can do."

Sam blinked slowly and looked at Dean, confused. Pestilence?

"We'll be back. Wish us luck."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but he passed out before he could form words.

I have to do something.

Sam dragged himself into a sitting position and slid off the mattress. He stood up and took a few moments to regain his balance. I can do this. I've been in bed long enough. He staggered toward the pile of his belongings that had accumulated in the corner, digging through until he found a pair of pants. I can do this. He was already out of breath, his legs aching, but he leaned against the wall and wrestled himself into his jeans. He glanced at his belt, but there was no way he had the energy for that. He looked at the door. Come on. Just get downstairs, get to the couch, and read some books. Do some research. You just have to sit and read; you can do that.

Sam took a deep breath and pulled himself to his knees with a grunt, sucking down another lungful of air and pushing himself to his feet. Once again, he had to take a moment to get the floor to stay still, but then he was walking. Shuffling, really, but he wasn't going to nitpick the success.

Okay. Hall, stairs, hall, library. Here we go.

Sam swallowed hard, his throat running dry as he gripped the handrail for dear life. He watched his feet carefully, silently cursing the old-house trademark of skinny steps, and he almost made it to the bottom.

Almost.

His foot hit the third-to-last step just as his racing heart failed to push enough blood up to his brain. He stumbled, hit the ground, and the world went black.

"What in the name of—Sam!"

Sam jerked on the floor, trying to open his eyes but finding that only gave him more of a headache. "Mm… Bobby…" He was so tired.

"Boy, what are you doing down here?"

Sam rolled over slightly and bumped into Bobby's chair. Right. He can't really help me up. Well, actually, that wasn't true.

"Sam? You idjit… Sam, are you still there?"

Sam reached out a hand and grabbed the arm of Bobby's wheelchair, forcing his eyes open and finding Bobby's face. "Can I…?"

Bobby nodded, wide eyes trained on Sam like a hawk.

Sam grunted and pulled himself to his knees, stopping to catch his breath before he tried to get up. His legs were having none of it, and with a heavy thud, he was back on the floor.

"Now, don't do anything crazy," Bobby muttered, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep him from trying again. "Just give yourself a few seconds. You tryin' to get to the couch?"

Sam jerked his head in a nod. "Mhm."

Bobby gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Okay. Just take a breather."

Sam nodded again, slouching against the wheelchair and drawing his knees in close. He could feel the metal frame digging into his back, shoulder, and even the side of his head, but he didn't care enough to move.

He couldn't move.

"What were you doing out of bed in the first place?"

Sam blinked at the bottom of the railing, his eyes having picked that particular place to fixate for the next few minutes. "I was gonna try and… do some research."

"Sam, you're not well. You need sleep."

"I've been sleeping for two weeks!" Sam was halfway through shouting when his voice broke. He dropped his forehead to his knees and swallowed the sob trying to rise in his throat. He shook his head. "I can't stay in bed for the rest of my life, Bobby."

"It's not the rest of your life," Bobby replied, sliding his hand to Sam's back and rubbing a few times. "Two weeks—or four, or six, or eight—is not the rest of your life."

"I want to be better," Sam growled the words, low in his throat. "It's been years, Bobby, and I'm so… so tired of this…" He scooted a little and laid his head on Bobby's thigh, sliding his hand to Bobby's shin and grabbing on. Like a child trying to hide behind his father's legs, Sam drew in close and breathed through the urge to cry.

"I know, boy." Bobby sighed heavily, running his hand over Sam's hair, more of a petting motion than the combing, raking thing Dean did. "I know."

Sam screwed his eyes shut and stopped fighting, cries immediately racking his body. He couldn't really complain, though; it hadn't been all that long since he wanted to cry but couldn't.

"We'll get'cha there, Sam."

Sam leaned in a little closer and focused on the sensation of Bobby petting his hair, doing all he could to shove everything else into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind.

"One way or another, we'll get'cha there."

"Cut the crap, Crowley. Just tell me: can you help Sam or not?"

Sam inhaled slowly, feeling the pull of consciousness and trying to stagger toward it.

"Sorry, Squirrel, but depression's a different kind of monster."

Sam was on the couch. He must have found his way there with Bobby's help the night before, though he didn't really remember it.

"You gave Bobby his legs back, but you can't make Sam's brain work? I mean, I get that you're no philanthropist, but you have to know our chances are better with Sam. I'll write a freakin' dissertation on selfish reasons to do it, if that's what you want, just…"

Bobby had his legs again? That was great. Somewhere, deep down, Sam was really happy about that. Confused, but… happy… and tired. Wait, what chances? What were they talking about? My brain is all over the place… I don't… I don't understand. He couldn't think.

"I can only fix what I can identify, and there is something about depression that goes beyond the physical and mental. I can fix the chemicals, but no one knows what triggers the change in chemicals in the first place. Whatever patch job I whip up could last for two minutes or two days or two weeks. It could last a lifetime or not at all. We just don't know."

That sounded dangerous… but also kind of worth it.

"Well—I mean, even if it's just for a little while, at least he would feel better."

That was Sam's thought exactly. He just couldn't make his mouth say so.

"And then he would plummet back to where he is now. Do you think his mind can handle a blow like that right now? Or tomorrow? Or next month? And we don't know if the episode would come back worse than before or not."

Oh. That was a good point. Sam hadn't thought of that.

Mostly because he couldn't think ahead more than a minute or two at a time. His foresight was shot, his decision-making ability had dissolved into nothing, his impulse control was in pieces on the floor… and he just wanted to feel better. He was tired of waiting.

"Sammy, wake up a sec."

Sam inhaled sharply when he felt a hand on his arm, and he forced his eyes open, turning them toward Dean. "Hmm?"

"We found Death, and he's the last Horseman, so…" Dean forced a weak smile, and there were so many secrets swimming in the pools of green… so many things he wasn't saying. "We're gonna go see if we can get his ring… and then we'll be back."

Sam looked at Dean in confusion. Rings? He vaguely remembered War having a ring they cut off him, but… What are they doing with rings? But he couldn't make his mouth ask that.

Dean took a breath. "Right. You haven't been…" He thumbed Sam's arm and sighed. "If we take the rings of the Four Horsemen and put them together, we get the key to Lucifer's Cage. That's what we've been working on."

Sam squinted for a moment, but then he started to nod. That made sense; he could follow that. But how were they going to get Lucifer in the Cage?

No. Wait. That was more than a minute or two in the future. Forget that.

"So, we're going to get the last one, and then we'll be back," Dean explained.

"If we don't all die horrible deaths," Crowley drawled, standing a few feet behind Dean.

"Shut up." Dean glared over his shoulder and then gave Sam one, last smile. "You'll be alone for a little while, but you'll be fine. Cool?"

Sam nodded, eyes fluttering shut. "Cool…"

Something in Dean's voice said it wasn't cool, and Sam could sense that something was off, but he couldn't muster up the brain power to figure it out. And even if he could figure it out, he wouldn't have had the physical energy to do anything about it.

I hate this. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this…

But that didn't make it go away. It didn't make anything better.

Sam was only half-aware of what transpired over the next several days. He knew Dean was able to get Death's ring, and he knew the key definitely worked. He didn't remember them saying anything about going after Lucifer, but when Sam woke up in Bobby's house alone, he put two and two together.

It felt good to figure something out, even if it was a pretty obvious something.

Miraculously, all three of his family members came back alive. From what Sam understood, Dean had used himself as bait to draw Michael to Lucifer's location, and their plan had been to stay close enough to the fight to open the Cage in a way where Lucifer would fall or be thrown into it. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, depending on how one looked at it—Michael had tumbled down into the Cage with Lucifer.

Sam felt bad about Adam. So did Dean.

But the world was safe, and they could breathe again.

Bobby could walk, which everyone was happy about. Castiel was almost entirely human, and it was clearly hitting him hard, but he was slowly regaining his powers. Like a battery, he was recharging, and it was slow-going, but it was going.

It got warmer outside, the sun spent more time in the sky, and Sam got a little more fresh air. He liked to spend late mornings and early afternoons on the porch with a cup of tea. He started doing various puzzles, and some days he could only manage a word search, but he still did them. He showered about once a week and changed his clothes every few days, and he honestly couldn't remember when he had last brushed his teeth, but the fact that he even cared was an improvement.

His hypersomnia eased up until he was only sleeping for about fourteen hours at night with an hour-long nap in the late afternoon. He didn't really eat, per se, but he snacked almost every day. Chips, crackers, cookies; an apple here, an orange there, a muffin then; half a bowl of soup when Bobby made it.

And, of course, daily milkshakes from Dean.

He was still underweight, and he didn't like looking at himself in the mirror, but he was on the road to recovery. He reminded himself of that when he saw his hipbones jutting out, or when his stomach growled but he couldn't find it in himself to eat. He drank a lot of water, juice, tea, soda… anything to take the edge off the hunger without making him chew and digest and function.

It was a slow process, but when the world was one month in the clear, Sam actually found himself… hopeful… encouraged… alive…

…and, apparently, willing to take some risks.

"It started at Stanford."

Sam stared down at the bowl in front of him, idly stirring his beef vegetable soup with his heart in his throat. Crap. He hadn't really planned to open his mouth and spit out some random truth about his mental health, it just sort of happened. He had the thought, and he was in the early stages of debating the pros and cons when his brain said, 'Screw it, I'm depressed; I'm not figuring this out,' and out it came.

"What did?" Dean barely glanced up from his own dish, already on his second helping.

Sam wet his lips and stirred his soup a little more. "My depression." He lifted his spoon a little but then dropped it, glancing across the table at Dean before looking down again. "I was about… halfway through my first semester, and…" He swallowed hard, hands shaking slightly. "I had no idea what was happening to me. Jess did, though. Her, uh… her sister had depression, so she… recognized the signs."

Nobody said anything, and all action in the kitchen had stopped, Castiel sitting in silence on Sam's right while Bobby lingered by the fridge.

Sam sucked in a breath and ducked his head a little more, pressing his lips together. Crap. He stared endlessly at his soup, starving and nauseous at the same time. I hate this. Why did I do this? He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself down.

"Why did you lie?" Dean spoke softly, and there was nothing accusatory in his voice, even though there was every right for it to be there.

Sam snorted softly. "Because I don't like it." Because I'm weak. "Because it's embarrassing." Because I don't want you to know how pathetic I am.

Dean stirred his own soup and shrugged as he took a bite, trying to keep up the façade of casual, dinnertime talk. "You've got nothing to be embarrassed about."

"No?" Sam laughed bitterly, tears springing up in his eyes before he blinked them away. "You were in Hell, Bobby lost the love of his life twice and got paralyzed from the waist down, Castiel has been killed and exiled and de-angeled, and you're all getting by." He pulled his head up and looked at Dean, incredulous and angry with himself, heat rising in his cheeks. "I have a drug withdrawal or get into a five-minute fight with my brother, and I can't get out of bed for three weeks? It's ridiculous—I'm ridiculous."

Dean was too surprised to speak right away, but Sam could clearly see the cogs turning in Dean's head, composing a reply.

Sam looked back down at his food with a sigh. "I didn't want any of you to know that… my first episode wasn't because of some time-loop trauma or somebody dying." Sam dragged his hands into his lap and scratched idly at the fabric of his sweatpants. "I was just… stressed out and homesick and struggling to figure out how to act like a normal person instead of a hunter."

"Sam," Castiel started quietly, blue eyes creasing in the corners. "You can't choose how your body reacts to different circumstances. Dean and Bobby and myself not reacting the same way you do is just the lucky draw."

"Luck of the draw," Dean corrected.

"It's just the luck of the draw," Castiel amended with a solemn nod.

Bobby leaned back against the kitchen counter with a nod, folding his arms over his chest. "We won the genetic roulette, and not because of anything we did or you didn't do."

Sam lifted a hand to scratch his brow and then dropped it back down.

Bobby pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on his arm.

Castiel watched Sam, idly stirring the spoon in his soup.

Dean cleared his throat. "So. Jess recognized the signs. Did you get some help?"

Sam nodded once, raising his head just enough to look at Dean. "Yeah." He couldn't maintain eye contact without finding it hard to breathe. "Jess made me go to the doctor after—" after he took a bottle of painkillers and cut his wrists, "—uh, whatever you wanna call it when I can't get out of bed for days." He smiled weakly and stirred his soup again. "I was put on an antidepressant, and I got better. It only lasted for… I don't know, three months."

Castiel leaned forward slightly, looking at Sam with curious eyes. "Did your suicidal thoughts begin then, too?"

Sam pressed his lips together, holding his breath, and nodded.

Castiel nodded back, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Castiel's eyes told Sam to tell Dean and Bobby about the panic attacks and anxiety.

Sam's eyes answered with a refusal and a threat.

"Thanks for telling us." Dean smiled at Sam for a second and then went back to eating, uncharacteristically calm about the whole conversation. "It's good to know. Getting a better idea of the big picture and all that."

"Yeah…" Sam said slowly, sipping some broth only to find it lukewarm. "I… shouldn't have lied in the first place." He looked at Dean for a moment and then looked back down at his soup. "Uh, Bobby, could you reheat this?"

Bobby nodded and approached the table, reaching across. "Sure."

Sam pulled out his spoon and handed the bowl over. "Thanks." He set the spoon down and kept his attention on the table, heart still thudding against his ribcage.

Well, that happened.

But no one was pressing him for more details, and no one was questioning the other things he had told them. Nobody was yelling, and there was no fighting, and nothing had exploded or burst into flames. What that meant, exactly, Sam didn't know, but he knew it meant it was safe to try again.

Not too many times, because if he kept revealing the truth about himself, he would quickly reach the limit of their patience and understanding. But… he could tell the truth a few more times… he just had to be careful about how he did it.

Cool.

"We should talk about Heaven."

Sam's head snapped over to look at Dean, eyes wide and heart momentarily stopped. "Uh…" That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. Talking about Heaven would go nowhere good. "Yeah. Yeah, we should." Because clearly Dean wanted to, and after everything Sam had done, Dean deserved to have whatever he wanted from Sam.

"So…" Dean tilted his bottle and took a swig, leaning back against the windshield of the Impala. "Did, uh… did Dad or I do something to make you… not want any memories with us?"

Sam wet his lips and looked back up at the sky, folding his arms over his stomach. "I…" He sucked his lip between his teeth and chewed on it for a moment. "Will you promise not to interrupt or say anything?"

Dean thought about that for a moment, and then he nodded. "Yeah. I can do that."

Sam inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Good. Because, uh, you're gonna—you're gonna want to correct me, because that's your job, but it's just—it's frustrating, and—" He took another deep breath and pressed down on his stomach, calming himself. "I… didn't… don't… like myself."

Sam waited to see if Dean would keep his promise.

Surprisingly, Dean did.

"Uh, at all." Sam cleared his throat and kept his breathing steady. "I, uh… I was a burden. You and Dad were always taking care of me, trying to keep me from finding out about hunting, jumping through all these hoops for my sake…" He wet his lips. "I fought with Dad all the time, and… I'm pretty I was the only thing you and Dad ever fought about. I was—I am—a conflict magnet. I was annoying… and selfish… and I didn't really… you know, contribute anything to make up for that. You and Dad didn't really need me. I wasn't that much better of a hunter."

Sam took a deep breath and then decided to take another, swallowing his panic around the lump in his throat. He didn't dare look at Dean, afraid of what he would see. "Then, uh, in recent years, we found out… that I'm the reason Mom was killed… and I'm the reason we were chased by demons. I'm—I'm the reason you and Dad couldn't have a normal, happy life."

Sam brought his arms up a little higher, folding them over his chest in a protective gesture, fingers curling slightly to scrape and tug at the fabric of his shirt. "I, uh, I think about growing up… and I think about how I ruined everything." He breathed through the pain in his chest, eyes locked on the sky. "I think about how I held you back, and I think about how much better off you would have been if I hadn't been there. I mean, even in your Heaven, you know, there was this memory of you taking care of Mom after she fought with Dad, and I couldn't help but think to myself that… there was already so much going on, and there were already so many issues without me there. You know, I just… I just added to the mess, and I made things worse, and…"

Sam swallowed hard, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It wasn't new information, it just hurt to say out loud, and he wanted to keep his emotions under control for Dean's sake. Dean deserved that much.

Sam cleared his throat. "Even if Azazel had just killed me or taken me when I was a baby, it would have been better. Sure, there still would have been hunting and monsters, but you wouldn't have been trained to take care of me, and you would take better care of yourself, and you could have spent more time with Dad. You know, you and him, driving across the country, spending all your time together. You could have—"

Sam screeched to a halt when Dean suddenly sat up with one hand pressed over his mouth. For a moment, Sam thought Dean was going to be sick, but Dean just stayed there, hunched over and holding his mouth shut, breathing carefully.

"Dean?"

Dean shuddered and inhaled slowly, lifting his eyes skyward.

Sam realized Dean was crying, and he immediately felt guilt wash over him.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

Dean shook his head, wiping his eyes and breathing slowly. He looked down at his lap, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

Sam looked away, trying to offer privacy, and silently berated himself for going so far. I should have lied. He gripped his own sleeves and resisted the urge to curl up. Selfish.

"So, when you… think about me and dad…" Dean spoke slowly, his voice coming out stiffly controlled and choppy, "…and you think about us being happy… it's not with you?"

Sam slowly looked over at Dean with a cautious and apologetic look. "I'm not… I'm not good for you, Dean. I mean, you sold your soul for me. That's not… a good thing."

Dean pressed his lips together tightly, breathing in through his nose. "So, all those years ago, when we started hunting together, and Meg said I treated you like luggage…"

"You didn't." Sam looked at Dean with as much sincerity in his eyes at he could muster. "That's how it felt, but that's my fault, that's… my brain and how it works. That's not because of you. That's—that's my fault."

Dean didn't seem comforted by that at all. "That doesn't mean—" He stopped and took a deep breath. "I mean, from what I'm starting to learn about the way your brain works, you're telling me that—that you spent all that time thinking I was, what, trying to passive-aggressively punish you for existing? You thought I was being unfair, and you insisted it was your fault because, what, you deserved it?"

Sam flinched away, dropping his eyes to the hood of the Impala. "I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know how else to make right all his brain had screwed up.

"You're—" Dean huffed and reached up to wipe at his face again, though Sam couldn't see exactly where. "Can we—" Dean blinked a few times and shook himself. "Uh, can we try this again some other time?"

Sam looked back at him and nodded. "We don't ever have to talk about it. Not if you don't want to." Honestly, the rules of the game had changed so much, Sam wasn't sure if the offer would make things worse or better.

"No, I…" Dean shook his head. "I want to hear this, I just… wasn't ready."

Sam smiled comfortingly, hoping that was the right thing to do. "That's okay." He paused, chewing on his lip. "You, uh… you wanna be alone?"

Dean shook his head again, harder, and took a huge gulp of beer before easing himself back onto the windshield. "Let's just lay here for a while."

Sam barely kept the smile from his face.

Dean didn't want him to leave. Dean wanted him to stay.

"That sounds good." Sam looked back up at the sky.

They fell into silence, watching the sky darken shade by shade, not so much as looking in each other's general direction. It started to get cold, but they didn't make any moves to get up. They just moved a little closer, and Dean grabbed onto Sam's hand.

They watched the sky some more.

Sam didn't know exactly what to feel when he found the stash of Supernatural books under Dean's bed. That confusion only increased when he started leafing through the collection and found several sections highlighted with notes in the margins.

Kept in touch with college friends; because they knew he was depressed?

Should have listened. Shouldn't have shut him down. Probably thought I would yell at him for being depressed, too. Could be why he lies so much.

Shouldn't have left him, should've listened. Was he in a hurry to kill Azazel because he wanted to kill himself after? Or was he just trying to get the job done before his depression got worse and kept him in bed?

Shouldn't have been so ready to die. Sam probably thought I didn't care how he would feel when I was gone. Then I did it again, and I really left that time.

It took a little while, but Sam found the book Dean had yet to start reading. He grabbed it and shoved the rest back under the bed, rushing over to the door and looking both ways before darting across to his room and locking himself in. He grabbed a pen and sat down, taking a deep breath before he began to read.

It was the fourteenth book in the series, titled 'Nightmare,' and the second Sam started reading, he recognized the scenario. He wet his lips and put his pen to the page, underlining and drawing arrows to indicate what text went where.

I know you were just trying to make me feel better, but I felt like you didn't see or understand how upset I was.

Don't make it weird, but I like it when I'm upset and you touch me. Hand on my shoulder, pat on the back, or grabbing me by the arms like you did here. Maybe we could do that more?

Again, I know you were trying to help, but… I don't always need you to have it together. Sometimes, I just need you to be not okay with me. Admitting my visions freaked you out wouldn't have made me more scared, it would have made me feel less like I was going crazy. Less like I was the only one fighting.

Sam considered the paragraph for a moment, lips pursed against the top of his pen, and then he started writing directly under it.

I never think less of you for being scared. I can stop teasing you about your fear of flying, if that helps. But you being scared doesn't make you weak. Not in my eyes. It's easy to keep going when you aren't afraid… but when you're scared out of your mind, and you still do what it takes to keep this family together? That's what makes you extraordinary. That's what makes you the bravest man I've ever known.

Sam smiled a little, satisfied, and moved on to the next page.

You should use stupid comebacks like this more often—they always make me smile and help when I'm feeling down.

When you were ready to kill Max… that kind of scared me. I know Lenore and her vampire nest weren't in this book, but that incident scared me, too. I don't always tell you things because… the world is so black and white to you. And I'm afraid someday I'll tell you about one of my gray spots, and it'll be too gray, and you won't… want me anymore.

Sam rushed onto the next page as fast as he could, willing his heart to stop pounding, forcing himself not to go back and scribble it all out. He just kept reading, kept putting his pen to the pages.

You said you would follow my lead, but you didn't. You do that a lot. I wish you didn't. I know after the whole demon blood thing, I don't really deserve your trust, but… this is definitely one of the reasons I lie all the time. I know it's not an excuse. I'm sorry.

I know you can't actually promise nothing bad will ever happen to me, but it makes me feel good when you say it. I could start saying it back, if you want. I always think it, but I figure you'll tell me it's not my job or tell me not to have a chick-flick moment…

Sam spent about an hour and a half reading and adding notes, trying to encourage Dean as well as tell him the truth about different things he had done. Sam got to the end and scrawled another message on the back.

Maybe we could read these together? I can tell you what helps and what doesn't… and maybe you could tell me some things, too. I know you feel bad, and I don't want you to, I just want us to be better. I want to stop hurting you, too. Let me know what you think. I love you.

- Sam.

Sam gave the message another read and then smiled to himself, closing the book and sneaking back toward Dean's room. He got on the floor and put the book back exactly as it had been, wondering what Dean's reaction might be when he found the first note several pages in.

He might be mad. I went into his room and went through his things. I should have respected his privacy. Maybe he doesn't want me to know about how he's handling this emotionally.

Sam swallowed hard, feeling sick to his stomach, but he couldn't exactly take it back, could he? Maybe that was good. Maybe it was best to cross a few lines and finally get it all out in the open so they stopped line-crossing in the future.

I don't know.

But Sam didn't know much of anything. He just knew he wanted to feel better, and he knew he didn't want to go back to the way it was before. That left him with the option of something new. New was terrifying, and new was dangerous, but new was the only option he had left.

It was the only option they had left.

Bring it on, I guess.

"Well, you finally decided not to be a stranger." Sam let out a little chuckle and poured a second cup of tea. "For a while there, I thought maybe you forgot about us."

Castiel glanced away, hands flexing at his sides, shoulders tensing as he tried to figure out what a human body was supposed to do with discomfort. "I apologize. That… was not my intention."

Sam carried both cups over to the kitchen table and sat one across the table from him before sitting down with his own. "It's alright, Cas. I was just teasing. It makes sense that once you got your strength back you would see how things are in Heaven." He gestured to the chair, encouraging Castiel to sit. "How have you been?"

Castiel considered the steaming cup for a moment and then slowly eased himself into the chair across from Sam. He looked at the cup for another second or two, and then he brought the beverage to his lips, taking a sip, completely unbothered by the scalding temperature.

Sam winced anyway.

"Thank you for asking… but I'm fine." Castiel slowly lowered the mug to the table. "It is me who should be asking you how you are."

Sam pursed his lips slightly and cocked his head to the side, giving Castiel a slightly judgmental look. "You realize you're trying to lie about emotions to the master of emotional lying, right?"

Castiel looked at Sam, affronted, and huffed out a reply, "I have successfully deceived both you and Dean before. Don't presume to know whether or not I'm telling the truth."

Sam arched a brow and sipped his own beverage, burning his tongue just a bit. "You lied about orders and facts and situations. Not about emotions. You can't lie to me about emotions."

Castiel narrowed his gaze, but the expression didn't last long. "Why… did you lie about your emotions?" He wet his lips, looking at his cup with intense focus. "And do you still lie about them?"

Sam was somewhat surprised by the questions, but he tried to answer as honestly as he could, because Castiel seemed to be looking for… something, though Sam wasn't quite sure what.

"Uh, well…" Sam shrugged his shoulders. "There's a lot of reasons. Um, gender is one. It's just… not considered masculine to talk about your feelings. Like when Dean talks about chick-flick moments, you know?"

Castiel nodded. He had been around them long enough to be familiar with the phrase.

"Well, that makes it harder to be honest. Maybe you're afraid people will laugh at you or use it against you… not take you seriously…" Sam trailed off and shrugged; there were a lot of ways that reason could go. "Um, another reason is… not wanting to be a burden. In my case, especially with our lifestyle, there was never really a… good time to be honest, I guess." Sam took a drink and smacked his lips, thinking for a few moments before continuing. "I guess… if I had to pick the biggest one… it's being afraid of the reaction. Like, what if you're honest with someone you care about and they get mad at you? Or laugh at you? Or cut you off? Or…" He gestured vaguely with a hand, indicating there were many, many ways to finish that sentence.

Castiel thought about the answer he had been given, nodding to himself as he sipped his tea. He placed his cup back on the table and turned it until the handle was all the way to the right, and then he shifted it closer to himself.

Sam cleared his throat. "You, uh… you're afraid one day you're going to be honest, and what you share is going to be too much. You'll scare someone away… disgust them… make them hate you… and you won't be able to fix things or undo them. You'll lose someone to something you could have kept to yourself if you hadn't been so…" needy, selfish, weak, "…trusting."

Castiel drummed his fingers on the table and then slid his hands into his lap with a quiet inhale. "Have you ever… scared someone away? Or… made them hate you?"

Sam took a breath and tilted his head with a shrug. "I don't know. I've never been completely honest with anyone, and I'm sure there were some people I met in passing who… thought some pretty unsavory things about me." He smiled a bit then. "But Dean doesn't hate me yet. I don't think. Or Bobby. Or you." He stopped then, smile fading. "I mean, I—I didn't mean to assume."

Castiel frowned slightly. "It is always safe to assume I don't hate you, Sam. I happen to be very fond of you."

Sam blinked a few times and nodded, looking down at his tea. "R—right. Thanks." He couldn't deny the little ball of warmth that nestled into his chest at that. "Um…" He was completely distracted by the kind words, and he had to shake himself to get back to reality. "So, uh, anyway. To date, I don't think I've ever made anyone hate me by being emotionally honest." He shrugged. "Started a lot of fights, though. Got hurt a lot. Got confused." He shrugged again. "I don't know. I'm still figuring it out."

Castiel nodded thoughtfully, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and understanding, all the while bearing something heavier and darker underneath. "So, do you think you will get better at being honest?" He made an odd face. "That is to say… do you think the lack of hateful reactions is an anomaly, or do you think it is wise to continue exposing yourself?"

Sam stopped with his cup halfway to his mouth, face twisting with concern. "Castiel… what's wrong?"

Castiel stared down at his tea. "Nothing is really… wrong, per se… but things have gotten… difficult… in Heaven. Everyone is struggling to get used to things without Michael… without the old plan…" His mouth hung open for a moment, like he wanted to go on, but then he shook his head. "I am… concerned for my brothers and sisters. I suppose that's weighing on my mind."

Okay, but that doesn't explain why you want to know about people hating people. Sam just nodded understandingly and gave his tea another sip. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

Castiel looked away, a guilty expression flashing across his features. "Heaven is not your responsibility."

"No, but it's one of your responsibilities, and you're family." Sam tilted his head and tried to catch Castiel's eyes. "We don't mind. You know, even if there's just something we can do to support you… help you get what you need, give you a place to get away from the stress… we'll do what we can. We don't have to interact with Heaven, but… you know, we're here." Sam flashed a weak but genuine smile.

Castiel looked at Sam for a long moment and then his gaze dropped down to his lap. "I… will keep that in mind. I'm… not very good with…" He inhaled slowly and then let it out, looking up with a small smile of his own. "Thank you, Sam."

"You're welcome."

Sam was still worried about Castiel, but at least a door had been opened up. If Sam could keep picking away at Castiel's resistance, pulling out a little at a time, then maybe he could figure out what was really bothering the angel.

"Well, I should probably return to Heaven. Thank you for—"

"Oh." Sam put a disappointed look on his face.

Castiel blinked. "What is it?"

Sam, who felt just the tiniest bit guilty about lying, idly ran his finger around the rim of his cup. "No, it's okay, I just…" He shrugged. "Dean's on a hunt, and Bobby's in town, and I wanted to take a walk, but… I'm kinda worried I'll get halfway where I'm going and then be too tired to walk back." He laughed softly. "Or worse yet, I'll pass out in the middle of the woods."

Castiel glanced out the window with a contemplative expression. "Oh… well… I can take a walk with you."

"No, no, no." Sam took a drink and waved it off. "It's fine. I wouldn't want to bother you. If you gotta go, you gotta go. I get it."

Castiel frowned at the window for a moment, and then he looked back at Sam. "No, it's alright. I'll take a walk with you." He looked down at his drink. "Perhaps we could… make another cup before we go and bring it with us?"

Sam smiled softly. "That sounds like a great idea." Maybe he couldn't get Castiel to admit what was wrong, but he could at least force the angel to accept some quality time.

Baby steps, Winchester.

For all of them.

"I'm not better," Sam blurted suddenly, interrupting Dean's attempt at small talk.

Dean froze mid-word and looked at Sam with confused, worried, almost hurt eyes. "No, I—I know you're not."

Sam swallowed nervously. "I'm okay enough to be out here, to be with you, but… I'm not okay enough to talk and listen and interact." Sam wet his lips, scratching at his jeans. "I want to be with you, but I—I don't want to be with you. I know—I know that doesn't make sense. I can leave, if that's better, I just—"

"No, no, it's cool." Dean waved it off like it was no big deal. Like it was simple. "I'm glad you said something." Like it was acceptable. Like he wasn't angry or annoyed. "We need a, uh, a thing. An armband or bandana or something so I know when you're good to talk and not."

Sam's mouth moved silently for a few moments, and then he wet his lips. "Uh… well…" His hand wandered to his jean pocket and idly massaged at the bundle of wires there. "I was thinking maybe… if I have red headphones in instead of black ones or none at all…"

"Works for me." Dean shrugged. "Red means stop. Easy to remember, and easy to see." He gave Sam a thumbs up. "We'll let Bobby and Cas know, and you'll be set."

Sam blinked and nodded slightly, heart pounding wildly in his chest. He blinked a few more times and pulled out his red earbuds, switching them out with his black ones. He put them in, watching Dean mess around on his computer out of the corner of his eye. He laid down on the couch, curled up tight more for the comfort it brought than the size limitations of the furniture.

Dean just sat on his end of the couch, eyes on his screen, apparently relaxed and unbothered and unhurt by the stipulation Sam had asked for.

Nothing went wrong. Sam let out a slow breath and eased into the cushions, his heart still pounding but steadily slowing down. I didn't hurt him. He didn't laugh. Or think it was stupid. Or tell me to leave. Sam gradually inhaled and exhaled again, a small smile pulling on the corner of his mouth.

Nothing went wrong.

"So, are you gonna say it, or do I have to?"

Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "He's your angel."

"He's our angel," Dean snapped, both hands on the wheel and eyes focused almost too intensely on the road in front of him. "But it's not just me, right? You knew who I was talking about right away."

Sam snorted and shook his head. "No, it's definitely not just you." He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "I knew something was up with him… and now with him torturing that little kid just for information on Moses' Staff—"

"Yeah, and letting Balthazar go after that," Dean interjected.

Sam nodded. "And this civil war he keeps vaguely referencing." Sam made various hand gestures for the word 'vaguely,' and then he made a face. "I don't like it, Dean."

Dean exhaled slowly. "You and me both." He shook his head, clearly unhappy, and then he glanced away from the road to look at Sam. "On the bright side, you just finished your first hunt since this latest episode began."

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, leaning against the window. "This wasn't a hunt. We interviewed, like, one guy, and Castiel pretty much did the rest."

"Who cares?" Dean held one hand up in a questioning gesture to match his words. "You got dressed and ready, drove halfway across the country with me, interviewed someone—" he held a finger up, "—and we both banished angels in that fight." He put his hand back on the wheel and shook his head with a smile. "You hunted, Sammy. You're getting better."

Sam smiled a little himself, and with a little shrug and eyes on the floor, he conceded, "Yeah, I guess you're right." His smiled faded. "But I'm so tired now. That's not—"

"Again, who cares?" Dean reached out and gave Sam a slight shove on the arm. "Getting better doesn't mean being at your best. It just means not as bad as you were before. Okay?" Dean smirked. "You and I both know you're still the second-best hunter in the world. Maybe you aren't at the top of your game right now, but that title's still yours. You know? You earned it. You don't have to prove anything to anybody."

Sam bit his bottom lip and glanced over at Dean. "Even you?"

"Especially me." Dean didn't miss a beat. "I, of all people, know how awesome you are."

Sam ducked his head with a little laugh, feeling a slight heat in his cheeks. He had always been so bad with compliments. "Yeah, well…"

"You don't have to prove anything to yourself, either, Sammy." Dean pursed his lips and shook his head, glancing at Sam before looking back at the road. "You're already a survivor. You've made it this far. You did that." He poked Sam's shoulder. "You." His hand fell to his lap, and he shrugged. "And if you forget, I'll remind you."

Sam felt his throat tighten up briefly, but his eyes stayed dry. He leaned into the corner between the seat and the window, sitting at a bit of an angle and settling down into the crease. "Thanks, Dean…"

"Sure."

Sam folded his arms over his stomach, shifting his weight a few more times until he felt like he could sleep for a few hours and wake up without unbearable pain. "You know I love you, right? Like, more than anything?"

"Yeah, I know." Dean flashed a dazzling grin and then looked at Sam, arching a brow. "You gonna make me say it, too?"

Sam laughed softly and shook his head. "You don't have to tell me. I already know."

Sam gently closed his eyes, letting out a sigh and easing into the cranny he had tucked himself into. It would be several hours before they were back in Sioux Falls, and Sam wasn't exactly happy with his need to sleep for most of that, but he wasn't as guilty and miserable about it as he could have been. Thanks to Dean.

"I love you, Sammy. More than anything."

"Saw you cleaned up the garage a little. Thanks. I know you ain't feeling up for it, but you did it anyway. It's appreciated."

Sam looked up from the book he had been reading, pleasantly surprised by the praise Bobby offered. "Oh, I…" He smiled, feeling a little heat go into his cheeks. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby nodded his head with a smile of his own, touching the side of his hat as if to tip it. "You hungry at all?"

Sam looked down. "Uh, not really…" He was pretty much never hungry.

"That's alright. I'll heat up some leftovers, and if you feel like eating tomorrow, maybe I'll cook something new then." Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, humming to himself.

Sam looked back at his book and curled up a little more, smiling to himself.

"Love you, Bobby."

"Love you, too. Idjit."

Sam smiled wider.

Sam was happy to be hunting again. Well, he wasn't exactly happy, but he was encouraged by his slowly returning ability to get things done. It felt good to contribute, and while he felt guilty about how much his mental health had derailed his family, it also felt good to fix some of that. For example, getting Bobby's soul back, which Sam was certain would have been handled sooner if Sam hadn't been so pathetic.

Sick. If Sam hadn't been so sick.

They took a break after Dean almost got turned into a vampire, and Sam confided in both Dean and Bobby that he would never forgive himself if someone got hurt because he wasn't healthy enough. Dean said they would take bigger breaks in between and try to avoid riskier hunts.

Sam did not confide that same truth in Castiel, because Castiel was never around, which concerned all of them.

When Sam came across a case of suspicious suicides in Calumet City, Illinois, both Bobby and Dean vetoed the idea to take it on. Sam hung his head and admitted it probably wasn't smart, but he also said he didn't want Dean going alone. Bobby said he would assign someone else, and after some minor pushback from Sam, it was Dean who put his foot down.

"Sammy, that's like a vampire trying to stay clean in a blood bank. Or an alcoholic trying to be sober in a bar. If you had to take this case, I know you could, but you don't have to. Don't torture yourself trying to prove you can handle something you shouldn't have to handle in the first place."

It wasn't long after that that Castiel approached them with a case, asking them to look into it, which was weird for a number of reasons. First, Castiel rarely spoke with them, and when he gave them the case, he did only that and then disappeared. Second, the case had nothing to do with the civil war in Heaven; it looked like a normal werewolf case, and then later turned out to be skinwalkers. Sure, there was an Alpha Monster involved, but none of those things were helpful for Castiel.

"Should we try to talk to him? I mean, I kind of did, but… maybe we need to push a little more."

In the end, they put the Castiel Situation™ on hold and went after aliens instead. Sam was pretty sure it was as close to lighthearted as a case had ever gone, and when all was said and done, Sam asked Dean if they could go out and celebrate. He actually wasn't exhausted for once. He felt kind of… alive.

Then they got kidnapped by Meg, which was less than fun, and it took every ounce of strength Sam had to keep playing the part of… well, himself. To not stare off into the middle distance, to not blink sluggishly, to make snappy comebacks and facial expressions and—

It was a nightmare.

And they didn't even have the information Meg wanted.

"Look, we got Bobby's soul back from Crowley, like, I don't know, two months ago? We haven't seen him since then."

Meg insisted there was no way the Winchester's hadn't kept tabs on the King of Hell, and while they couldn't convince her otherwise, they really had no problems helping her find and end him. So, they agreed to work together, called Castiel, and did what they did best.

And then they talked.

Or at least, they tried.

"Thanks, Cas. If it hadn't been for you—"

"Crowley was right. It's not going well for me upstairs."

Sam glanced in Dean's direction, exchanging the barest of glances before offering Castiel a small smile. "Well, you know, if there's anything we can do to—"

"There isn't." Castiel said it so adamantly. He wanted them to believe it, but there was something off… something in his eyes that gave him away. "I wish circumstances were different. Much of the time, I'd rather be here."

Dean pressed his lips together and put his hands on his hips, going for a casual dismissal. "Hey, you know, we miss you, but… it is what it is. We're your friends. You know, we understand, we just want to help."

"You can't." Castiel was entirely monotonous.

Sam didn't like it, and his lips twitched into a faint frown. "Maybe we can't help in Heaven, but… I told you before, Cas, we can help you. If you need to take a break or—"

"That's unnecessary. I will handle things in Heaven, and I'll return once they're taken care of." Castiel nodded sharply in Sam's direction. "How have you been?"

Sam exchanged another look with Dean, and then Sam cautiously approached an answer, trying to push the conversation back toward Castiel. "I, uh, I'm doing a lot better. But Cas—"

"I'm glad to hear that." Castiel looked between both of them, and then his eyes wandered to the building nearby. "I'll take care of the monsters before I return to Heaven. Until we meet again."

"Cas, wait—" Dean extended a hand to grab Castiel's arm, but Castiel disappeared.

Sam turned in a circle, just to be sure, but Castiel was definitely gone.

"What the heck?" Dean ran both hands through his hair and let out a heavy sigh. "What is he not telling us?"

Sam furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I'm more concerned about why he isn't telling us. What could he be worried about?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "We're already on the bad side of Heaven and Hell… he has to know we would help him do… whatever it is he's doing."

Unless he's doing something bad. Sam continued to frown as he slowly lowered himself to the ground. "Maybe we need to look into these Alpha Monsters." He wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned forward, using himself as something to rest again. "I know it seems weird, but… Castiel gave us a job that wound up leading to the Alpha Skinwalker, and Crowley had a bunch of Alpha Monsters in there… maybe it's more significant than we realized."

"Sammy? You okay?"

Sam lifted his head. "Huh?" He immediately realized what Dean was asking about, at which point he internally smacked himself and answered. "Yeah. I just needed to sit down, and…" he shrugged, realizing how stupid his answer was, "…so I did."

Dean pursed his lips and shrugged. "Sounds legit." He plopped down in front of Sam and sat cross-legged on the ground, putting his hands on his knees. "So, we think these Alpha Monsters might help us figure out what's up with Cas?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "It's something. I don't know what else to do. We can barely get him down here, and when we have a moment to talk, he cuts us off and vanishes. Maybe we need to force his hand a little. Alpha Monsters is about the only thing I can think of other than a ring of holy oil and interrogation."

Dean made an unhappy face. "Yeah, well, here's hoping it doesn't come to that."

Sam nodded, silent for a few moments, and then he smiled. "Thanks, Dean."

"For what?" Dean asked, genuinely confused.

"For sitting on the ground with me. For making me feel less…" He almost said 'freakish,' but Dean had been cracking down on the negative self-talk—they all had—so that probably wasn't a good idea. "I don't know. It just makes me feel better. So thanks."

"Sure thing, Sam."

Sam peered out from his bundle of blankets when he heard the door creak. He saw Dean's head poke in, and Sam tried to give Dean a smile, but he couldn't quite manage.

"Hey," Dean said softly, letting himself in and walking over to the bed. "It's almost two in the afternoon. You okay?"

Sam shook his head. "I can't get out of bed… and I don't know why." His throat closed up just saying the words. "It's a bad day." And I don't know why. "I woke up… I don't know, five hours ago… and I could feel it." But I don't know why.

"Okay." Dean nodded understandingly, hands on his hips. "Is this a stay-in-bed day, or is this a drag-me-out-of-bed-because-I-think-I-can-do-this-with-a-push day?"

Sam snorted out a weak laugh. "Stay-in-bed day."

"Okay, well…" Dean shrugged his shoulders. "You're entitled to bad days."

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head, eyes burning. "I hate this."

"I know you do." Dean knelt down by the bed, trying to get level with Sam's eyes. "You're gonna get better. You are getting better. Okay? This isn't forever."

Sam screwed his eyes shut, an unexpected sob bursting between his lips. "I don't care, Dean. I don't want it at all. I know it's not forever, but—but I don't know if I can handle a week. I don't know if I can take a day, or another hour, and I don't—"

"Woah, woah, hey, shh." Dean rubbed Sam's shoulders, periodically moving his hand to brush Sam's hair back before returning. "Can you do it for five minutes?"

Sam swallowed hard but nodded weakly. "Yeah." He nodded a little more. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. That's all you have to do. Do this for five minutes, and when five minutes are up, we'll figure out what you can handle next." Dean kept rubbing Sam's back, shifting his weight slightly to get more comfortable on the floor. "Do you want me to stay in bed with you?"

Sam shook his head. "No…" He wanted to be alone. Except he didn't. And he didn't know how to explain that, so he just left it at 'no' and waited to see what Dean would do.

"Okay." Dean nodded a few times. "I'm gonna make myself a cup of coffee. You want any?"

Sam shook his head. It wouldn't do any good.

"Okay." Dean got to his feet and gave Sam one last pat on the back. "I'll be back in five minutes. Five minutes, Sammy. You got this."

Sam looked at the clock with bleary eyes. Five minutes… He could do that. He could do almost anything for five minutes. Five minutes. Just five more minutes. That's, what, a big musical number? Half the cook time for spaghetti? I can survive that long. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Five minutes.

"Sammy… I need you to be honest with me."

Sam tensed up on the couch, slowly lifting his eyes from his book without moving his head. He forced a little smile as he met Dean's eyes, cold dread curling through his gut. "Okay?"

Dean walked over to the couch and sat down, resting his hands on his knees and taking a deep breath. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and then he turned his head to meet Sam's eyes. "Sam, I need you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth. And no matter what that is, it's gonna be okay. But I need to know."

Sam grew progressively more concerned, his brain running down fifty different tracks in a desperate scramble to figure out where Dean was going.

"Sammy…" Dean looked into Sam's eyes for a long moment. "Have you ever tried to kill yourself?"

Sam exhaled sharply, the air punching out of his lungs like he had been hit in the gut. What? That wasn't right. Dean wasn't supposed to ask questions like that. Where did this come from? Sam had expected some kind of question about depression, but he didn't expect Dean to keep digging when Sam had already given Dean the answer he wanted to hear. What do I do?

"Sam?" Dean watched Sam carefully, brow creasing.

"Sorry, you just surprised me." Sam flashed a quick, fake smile. "No, I've never tried. I know I lied about when the suicidal thoughts started, but…" He trailed off with a shrug. "That's different, you know?"

Dean nodded a few times and looked at the floor, bracing his arms on his thighs and tapping his fingertips together. He took a breath like he was going to say something, and then he stopped, pressing his lips together tightly.

"Dean?" Sam leaned a little closer and nudged Dean on the shoulder. "You're not losing me. I'm… I'm getting better. You said the same thing yourself." Sam forced another smile. "I think this new medication is working. I mean, it's slow going, but… it's going."

Dean wet his lips and then bit down on them, bouncing his leg a few times, almost fidgeting in his seat. He reached up to rub at his eyes and then turned his head to look at the empty kitchen.

Sam's heart started to beat a little faster. What was wrong? Why couldn't he reassure Dean? Why wouldn't Dean look at him? Had Sam done something wrong recently? Was it the Heaven discussion? Or the Supernatural books? Or Sam's recent setback? Maybe Dean had been hoping Sam would say yes to the suicide question. Maybe he was looking for a reason to cut Sam off. Maybe Sam and his problems—and Sam had a lot of problems—were getting to be too much. Maybe Dean didn't want him anymore. Maybe—

"I'm seeing a therapist."

Sam blinked. He blinked again. He blinked a third time.

"Have been for about three months." Dean cleared his throat, still looking at the kitchen. "Twice a week." He reached up to scratch at his cheek, and after a few seconds passed, he huffed out a small laugh. "Come on, Sam, say something."

Sam wet his lips and slowly closed the book in his lap, setting it aside. "I thought if I stayed quiet, maybe you would tell me more about it." He turned so he was facing Dean, pulling his feet up on the couch and watching the back of Dean's head. "What made you decide to see a therapist?"

Dean actually flinched at the phrase. "I…" He rubbed his forehead. "When you… said what you did in the panic room… I kept… I kept trying to see if from your side. And… I couldn't." He scratched his ear and then put his arm back on his thigh. "There was too much… stuff… that I never dealt with, and… I was mad… and I didn't want to be, but it was like…"

Sam waited patiently as Dean made disjointed noises that weren't quite words. He scratched at the fabric of his jeans, watching the way Dean shifted in place, heart aching at how hard it was for Dean to do something so healthy and normal and good for himself.

"It was like…" He moved his hands around slightly, struggling with himself. "All I could think about was… making sure you were wrong. Not… because…" His hands moved a little more, stopped, and then moved again, fingers curling and wrists twisting slightly, as if he were grabbing the words out of the air and rearranging them. "Not because… you have to be wrong, or I… want you to be wrong, but because… if you're… right… then…"

You have more ammunition to hate yourself with. But Sam wasn't going to say that out loud, even if he was completely sure he was right, because Dean needed the space to find his own words in his own timing.

"I don't… want to fight… every time we try to talk about Dad or Heaven or the past or…" Dean looked at the floor for a second, but he was quick to look at the kitchen again. "And, uh, and ignoring it wasn't working… and trying to sort some of this out… I think I'm starting to get that… that you aren't… mad at me… you just want me to understand." He looked at Sam suddenly, eyes wide and slightly misted. "Right? You're—you're not mad?"

Sam shook his head emphatically. "No. No, you got it exactly right. I'm not mad about the past…" except maybe a few things he was still struggling to let go of, but that was on him, "…and we can't fix what either of us did… but if we can understand why we did it, and if we can find out what it is we keep doing to hurt each other…" because Sam knew he wasn't blameless, "…then maybe we can have a better future."

Dean nodded a few times and immediately looked back at the kitchen. "Right. Exactly." He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, and then cleared his throat again. "That's what I want. And I…" He shifted in place and tapped his fingertips together again. "And I d… I de…" He rocked back and forth slightly, like he wanted to bolt out of the seat, and took a deep breath. "I deserve to—to feel better about some stuff." He cleared his throat. "I deserve to… to be able to be a good brother without making myself miserable."

Sam closed his eyes, swallowing the sensation of pain. Oh, Dean... What kind of mess are we? But Sam didn't want to make Dean feel any more embarrassed or exposed than he already did, so Sam quickly opened his eyes, keeping his expression neutral and his pressing cautious.

"Dean… I think this is great. It's more than great, it's…" Sam shook his head, at a loss for words, a soft smile pulling on his mouth. "Seriously. I mean, I know this isn't your thing, but Dean…"

Dean ducked his head down slightly, still staring into the kitchen. He didn't say anything, and he still wouldn't—or maybe couldn't—look at Sam.

Sam reached out and tapped Dean on the arm, resting his hand on the space between them afterward. "Dean… if the only thing that could make you decide to see a therapist… was my depression and… issues… then I'm glad I am where I am."

Dean looked at the floor, shaking his head with a soft sigh. "Don't say that, Sam."

"No, I mean it." Sam swallowed, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. "If this was the only way, I would do it again in a heartbeat. You seeing a therapist and working through some of the absolute crap you've been through… feeling better about yourself… it's worth it." Sam let out an incredulous, little huff. "It's a good thing, Dean. It's a really good thing."

Dean clenched his jaw and glared at the floor. "It doesn't feel like a good thing." He shook his head. "It feels like losing."

"I know." Sam inhaled slowly. "Dean… our brains lie to us. Mine tells me that… everyone hates me and I'm better off dead… and yours tells you that it's not okay to take care of yourself." He lifted his hand from the cushion and put it on Dean's arm, giving it a little squeeze. "We're screwed up, but we're screwed up together."

Dean snorted out a laugh. "Yeah, what else is new?" He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. "Why do I feel like it was easier to stop Satan than it is to deal with…" He gestured to both of their heads in lieu of words.

Sam smiled softly. "I don't know."

Dean nodded a few times and opened his eyes, staring at the floor. He turned his head toward Sam just slightly, his eyes lingering down by Sam's knees. "Have you tried to kill yourself, Sam?"

Sam let his hand slide down Dean's arm to the couch cushions, hazel eyes dropping to his lap. "Yes," he whispered. Dean deserved an honest answer.

Dean nodded but didn't say anything.

"Um… I said that back at Stanford… I had an episode where I couldn't get out of bed… and that was when Jess took me to the doctor." Sam pressed his lips together, scratching at his own hands. "What actually happened was… Jess found me passed out in the bathtub. I…" Sam swallowed hard—come on, he told you he's seeing a therapist, he's trying, you can trust him, he won't hurt you—and put his hands in his lap to hide the shaking. "I had taken a bottle of ibuprofen and cut my wrists."

Dean inhaled sharply, but he didn't say anything, forcing a stiff nod instead.

"I… made some other attempts… I don't really want to talk about them now." He didn't know if he would ever want to talk about them with Dean. "But I never… used very reliable methods. I would always… make the attempt and then chicken out." He winced at his own words. Maybe that wasn't the best term.

Dean nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful but also eerily blank.

Sam wet his lips and took a breath.

"Do you—"

"I'm really—"

They both stopped, and then Dean waved a hand.

Sam took another breath. "I'm really sorry, Dean."

Dean's brow creased slightly, and he looked at Sam's face for the first time since he decided to mention therapy. "Why are you sorry?"

Sam shrugged, trying to look at Dean but finding he couldn't quite manage it. "I tried to leave. I tried to bail. I knew it was going to hurt you, but I didn't… I didn't care. I just wanted…" He swallowed hard, and it was his turn to struggle with eye contact. "Don't—" He dropped his gaze to the floor. "Don't be ashamed of me. Please."

"Sam." Dean sighed and wrapped an arm around the back of Sam's neck, pulling until Sam drooped against him. "Are you ashamed of yourself?"

Sam nodded against Dean's shoulder, not quite able to cry but still feeling the tightening burn in his throat.

"I'm not ashamed of you, Sammy." Dean sighed, reaching up to run a hand through Sam's hair. "It scares me. I don't understand it, and I don't want to lose you to it. But it doesn't make me ashamed of you."

Sam took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, breathing in Dean's scent and trying to recreate the nostalgia of simpler times. "We're… we're gonna be okay, right? We'll both get help, and we'll figure things out. And… we're gonna mess up, and I'm gonna let you down, but it's gonna be okay, right?"

"Hey," Dean chided. "I'm gonna let you down, too. We're both gonna make mistakes. We're good at that." He kissed Sam's temple and let out a soft sigh. "But it's gonna be okay, Sammy."

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. "Don't…" He dropped his head on Dean's shoulder. "Don't tell Bobby or Cas that I tried. Please?"

"Only if you don't tell them about the therapist," was Dean's rumbled reply.

Sam shook his head. "I won't say anything." He was still and silent for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. "Is the therapist good?"

Dean leaned back into the couch and kept his arm around Sam. "Heck if I know." He rested his head on the back of the couch. "I think he is. Not that I'm the best judge, but… I feel like I understand you better. And… you know, I'm understanding some other… stuff."

Sam wet his lips and nodded. "You don't have to tell me."

"I will." Dean sighed. "But not today."

"You're entitled to that."

Dean tensed up briefly.

"You are," Sam insisted.

Dean relaxed, but didn't say anything.

That was fine with Sam. They shared a lot in their silent moments together, and the more they were learning about the way each other's brains worked, the less uncertain and anxiety-ridden those silences were. Less wondering what was wrong and more knowing everything was okay. Less waiting for the boot to drop and more knowing everything would be okay if and when it did.

"Love you, Dean."

"Love you, Sammy."

Dragons happened about a week after that. Dragons.

They all took a couple days to process that, and then it was back to the daily grind. They picked up a case that got Baby wounded, but fixing her gave Dean something to do for a week or two; which subsequently meant Sam had an excuse to take it easy for a week or two.

Not that he couldn't just tell Dean he needed a break, but… Sam was still learning how to do the whole 'honesty' thing. He was still trying to get his tongue to actually form the words, torturing himself every time with the question of whether or not the anxiety of telling the truth was worth the benefits.

They wound up on a Supernatural set about a week after that, and after what felt like the world's most realistic LSD trip, Castiel promised to tell them more about the civil war in Heaven. They weren't convinced, but Sam was honestly too overwhelmed by the thought of trying to sort Castiel out to press, so he decided to have some fun instead.

Sam grabbed a tablet and a pen and tried to think back through the cases of their past and write down the funniest ones. He got Bobby and Dean to help him, and the trio stayed up until two in the morning drinking Coke and laughing until they cried over odd and unforgettable witnesses, monsters, situations, fellow hunters—anything.

They had fun. Sam had fun. He was exhausted the next day, and it was hard to fall back down after spending several hours so high, but he survived.

Then they hit a rough patch. Dean was possessed by the Khan Worm and shot a civilian. Bobby was possessed by the same thing and killed Rufus. They were made aware of the Eve, Mother of Monsters. Everything about the case was jarring—emotionally, physically, and mentally—and Sam didn't stay in bed, but he didn't say more than ten words a day for a week, either. He just listened to music and wandered around the scrapyard and stared at the wall. Sometimes he managed to do a puzzle or two.

Bobby needed space for longer than a week, and Sam and Dean both understood. They started looking into some strange deaths, hoping for something resembling normalcy and ending up with more angels—namely Balthazar—the Fates, and another crushing example of Bobby's inability to get a happy ending.

They took another week off.

They got some leads on how they might be able to deal with Eve, and with Castiel's help, they traveled back to the Wild, Wild West. They got the ashes of a Phoenix, and Castiel was gone in a matter of minutes. Bobby said Castiel touched his soul while they were gone; apparently Castiel was more run-down and de-powered than he was letting them think. Not that he had to do much to keep them from knowing how he was; he was never around.

They all called Castiel multiple times over the next few days for multiple things. He didn't respond to any of them. So, Sam started making a habit of praying in more of a text message format.

Hey, Cas… I don't know if you have your ears on, but I wanted you to know we're all thinking about you. Hope you're having a good day.

Hey, Cas! Did you cause that crazy thunderstorm last night? Father Jim used to tell us thunder was angels bowling. You weren't bowling without us, were you? Have you ever been bowling? We're totally taking you bowling.

Hey, Cas, if you want a cup of tea, I'm making some right now. You don't have to stay if you're busy, you know, you could just grab it and go. I'll put it in a to-go cup.

Occasionally, if Sam was very lucky, Castiel would take him up on the tea. But the conversations were sharp and short, and Sam always walked away feeling worse than he had when he reached out.

Then, as if he hadn't been missing for a good two weeks, Castiel showed up again with an old, familiar face in tow. Lenore, a non-violent vampire from days gone by, gave them what information on Eve she could, and then Castiel smote her with less emotion than a statue.

Sam and Dean and Bobby exchanged multiple concerned looks throughout the entire ordeal.

Then they got a break. They went to Grants Pass, Oregon, and Castiel was cut off from his powers. Dean said that made him a baby in a trench coat. Bobby said it was a bad sign.

Sam said it made Castiel incapable of disappearing while they tried to talk to him and was a perfect opportunity to confront him.

Sam took a deep breath. "Castiel, we need to talk."

Castiel looked at them, his visual scan of the town grinding to a halt. "What is it? Do you see something?" He started looking around again, that time searching for whatever it was he thought Sam saw.

"We, uh…" Sam glanced at Dean and Bobby. "We don't want to gang up on you, but… we've all noticed you aren't quite yourself."

"I'm myself," Castiel replied immediately, looking from Sam to Dean to Bobby and then back to Sam. "We should focus on finding Eve."

"We are," Bobby said, holding out a hand in a placating gesture. "We're just focused on figuring out what's up with you, too."

"There is nothing 'up' with me." Castiel looked at Bobby, and then he put his eyes on Dean, no doubt knowing he had the most pull there. "We can talk about this later if you're that concerned."

Dean spread his arms. "When? You don't answer our calls, and when we finally manage to get you down here, you say five words and disappear again."

Castiel exhaled harshly, almost huffing at them, and his hands flexed at his sides. "Because I have already given you an answer, and you won't accept it." He glared. "Things are difficult in Heaven, but they are manageable. I am under a great amount of pressure, but I am fine."

"Cas, you're not fine," Dean tried, his voice almost pleading. "You're not—"

"You said I could come to you for help." Castiel looked at them with accusation in his eyes. "Eve and the potential opening of Purgatory brings a new dimension to this war; one I don't think I can handle." Castiel pressed his lips together, brows canting upward slightly. "If you don't want to help, I understand. It's not your responsibility. But don't lie to me. Now, more than ever, I need to know who I can trust."

Dean heaved a sigh and pressed both palms to his eyes.

Bobby lifted his hat and scratched his head before putting it back.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed softly.

Dean gestured to the bar. "Let's go see if we can find something on Eve."

Sam wanted to object, but in the end, he let out a sigh and went along with it. Maybe Dean should have tried a little harder—or let Sam and Bobby try a little harder—but it looked like Castiel wasn't going to hear it no matter who it came from.

He's a several-millennia-old angel. If he needs help, he knows how to ask.

Sam worried his lip as he followed his family into the bar.

Right?

It wasn't long after that Sam got his answer.

"Dean." Sam cautiously placed a hand on his brother's shoulder before sinking down to sit beside him on the front porch steps. "I have something to tell you."

Dean snorted and threw back two fingers of whiskey before reaching for the bottle. "Sam, now is really not the best time." He put another two fingers in the glass and lifted it up as if to toast. "In case you can't tell."

Sam wet his lips and swallowed, nodding slowly. He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, still wondering whether he was doing the right thing or just being selfish. He didn't think he was trying to use the situation as an excuse to vent, but it was often hard to tell, especially when his brain always insisted he was doing it for despicable reasons.

"I… I think it'll help." Sam wet his lips. Right after Castiel came to Bobby's just to argue with him some more? Sam swallowed. "I… think."

Dean looked over at Sam for a moment, eyes tired and face long, but he eventually nodded. "Go for it."

"Uh, well, I… mental disorders usually come… with other mental disorders. It's called co-morbidity." Sam took a breath, shifting in place and tilting his head back to look up at the night sky. "So, um, with my depression, I have anxiety." He choked on the word, which only made him more embarrassed, and he was quick to clear his throat and press on. "So, I—I was thinking about Castiel, and…" Sam sucked down another breath and looked at Dean. "You haven't interrupted yet. So, I'm—I'm not making it worse?"

Dean didn't say anything, and his eyes were less than alert, but he shook his head.

"Okay." Sam let the air out and looked back at the stars. "I know Cas betrayed us… and lied… and he is so far off the reservation we can't see him anymore, but… what if he's scared?"

Dean frowned, but that had definitely gotten his attention. "What?"

Sam rubbed his hands on his thighs, scratching at the denim. He was amazed Dean let him get this far; though, he supposed, with how much Dean had been changing, maybe he shouldn't have been.

"Well… I was thinking about myself. You know, I… I've known about my depression and anxiety for a long time. And it was…" Sam moved his hands, trying to grab the words he wanted out of the air. "I lied about a lot. I lied about big things. And I know it's different, because he's trying to open a portal to Monster Hell, but…" He dropped his hands back to his knees and heaved a sigh. "I lied because I was ashamed of what I had done and afraid of how you would react… and every time I did something, it got harder. You know, my… my first attempt was one thing, and it was like… I would argue with myself about telling someone or not… but then I tried again, and it was like, 'maybe they could have forgiven one time, but two?' But I… I knew lying wasn't going to go anywhere good, and over time I would start to change my mind, but then I tried again, and, 'maybe they could forgive two times, but three?' And it was, 'maybe they'll understand two weeks in bed, but two months?' and it was, 'maybe they can tolerate depression, but anxiety, too?' and it's just…" Sam reached up and ran his hands through his hair, interlocking his fingers behind his neck and sighing. "It's just this constant… it's like… it's—"

"It's like you're in a dark room, blindfolded, and you have no idea how big the room is, but you know all the walls are covered in razor-sharp spikes and the exit is small." Dean threw back the whiskey and set his glass aside with a heavy thud, looking out at the scrapyard with thoughtful eyes. "So, every time you take a step, your heart feels like it's coming out of your chest because what if this is the step that gets you skewered? And maybe you make yourself take a step, but then what if the next step is the one that gets you skewered? And sure, the best thing would be to find the exit and get out, but what are the chances of getting out of that room alive, let alone unhurt?"

Sam nodded dumbly, wide eyes trained on Dean's face.

Dean just kept looking out at the scrapyard, a faint smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth. "Ryan said that was why you kept things from me."

Ryan? Oh.

Ryan must have been Dean's therapist.

That was so weird to even think.

"He said it's not my job to get you out of the room… it's just my job to take the blindfold off so you can find your own way out." Dean cleared his throat. "You know, boundaries and assurances and… stuff… so it's easier to see the spikes."

It took a moment for Sam to find his voice. "I've… never heard it put that way before," he said softly. "That's really accurate." And it came from Dean, and it was so surreal in the best of ways, because Sam never in a million years would have thought Dean would help Sam find the words to explain anxiety.

"So, you think Cas is in the Spiky Room of Death?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, a faint smile pulling on his lips. "I think I would be if I spent thousands of years following strict orders and then one day rebelled and had no new guidelines to replace the ones I lost. It's… kinda like setting a kid loose in a candy store and not telling him too much sugar is going to cause a stomachache. He's just… making this up as he goes, doing what feels right in the moment. I mean, you heard what he said. 'It sounds so simple when you put it that way.' Because it is simple. He's just… too confused and overwhelmed to think that far ahead. It makes him feel good, and it makes him feel powerful, and that feeds his ego, and being egotistical is a lot more fun than being afraid." Sam looked down at his feet, shifting his boots in the gravel. "And after spending his entire life with a family unit that was entirely dependent on obedience and compliance…" He shook his head slightly. "Castiel's brothers and sisters would kill him for rebelling against Heaven, and he's known them for how long? He's only known us for a couple years, and we never really sat him down and told him what being human is. We just told him what it wasn't, and that's not the same. Dean, I… I think he's scared to death. I really do."

Dean thought about that for a moment, lips pursing, and then he began to nod. "Okay."

"Okay?" Sam asked, watching a veil of determination cross Dean's features.

Dean looked at Sam and nodded. "Let's bring him home, Sammy. Whether he likes it or not."

Sam took a second to process the reply, and then he smiled. "Yeah." He got to his feet and dusted off the seat of his pants. "Let's do it."

Dean nodded and grabbed the whiskey and his empty glass, standing up and turning toward the door. He reached out to grab the handle, but Sam snagged his arm, waiting until they made eye contact to speak.

"Dean… are you okay?"

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, his gaze wandering down to the hand on his arm. "No." He snorted out a bitter laugh. "Not at all."

Sam wet his lips and nodded, not letting go. "What can I do to help?"

Dean shook his head and tried to wave it off, pushing against Sam's arm in the process. "You got your own stuff to worry about, man." He made a not-as-subtle-as-he-thought attempt to push Sam's hand off.

Sam wouldn't let go. "How can I help, Dean?"

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment and then heaved a sigh, turning his head to look at the empty porch. "I, uh… I don't know. I just know I don't want to do this alone. And that everything sucks right now." He shrugged his shoulders.

Sam still held on, waiting patiently for Dean to navigate his own mind.

"I mean, you kind of already did help. I think… I'll be able to take it a lot better if Cas lied because he was confused or scared." Dean cleared his throat then, looking toward their feet before looking back into the distance. "Because what I've been thinking is that… he planned this from the start."

Sam frowned, brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." Dean looked at Sam then, and there was such a profound ache in his eyes that Sam knew whatever was about to come out of Dean's mouth, Dean had been believing it with his whole heart. "Cas switched sides at the last minute, and his change of heart didn't stop the Apocalypse from starting, did it? Then Cas sticks with us, 'cause we're his best shot at beating Lucifer and Michael, and we do just that." Dean spread his arms wide, Sam's arm moving with him, the bottle and glass in his hand clinking together. "Now, all he has to do is get the power from Purgatory, overthrow the last archangel up there, and he's in charge of everything."

Sam almost spoke, but he saw the expression on Dean's face change from anger and hurt to hurt and something resembling hope. Sam kept his mouth shut and waited.

"It just…" Dean shook his head and sighed, looking away again. "It can't be that. After everything we did together, stopping the Apocalypse, him hovering over you like a freakin' mother hen when you couldn't get out of bed, him being almost human and having actual feelings—that can't be fake. It can't be." He shook his head again. "I don't know how to handle it if it is. If he's been playing us this whole time…" He let out a sigh and looked at the ground, screwing his eyes shut.

"Dean," Sam started softly, squeezing the arm he had never once let go of. "I really don't think it's that. I… I really, truly don't. I mean, Raphael killed Castiel way back when he first rebelled—if it was all part of some elaborate plan, it was a pretty crappy plan, because if it weren't for his mysterious resurrection, he wouldn't have made it two feet out of the gate."

Dean exhaled sharply and shook his head. "What if he faked it somehow?"

"I don't think Raphael would have helped him with that, Dean." Sam slowly shook his head. "And we've seen firsthand that Raphael doesn't like Castiel. That wasn't just hearsay."

"If that was Raphael, and not somebody in cahoots with Cas!"

Sam wet his lips and swallowed, squeezing Dean's arm again. "I know… it's really hard to trust anything having to do with Cas right now… but no matter what anybody planned, we're going after him because we care, and if it turns out he doesn't, then…" Sam struggled for a moment. "Then we say 'screw you, and thanks for the good times,' and we appreciate what we had and then…" He struggled again. "I don't know, Dean. And I know everything I'm saying sounds so much easier than it is, but… I… I don't know. I'm trying."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, but then he turned to Sam with a faint grin and a little more light in his eyes than before. "Yeah, well… you're doing a bad job." He reached out to poke Sam with the hand of the arm Sam was still holding, and Sam finally let go. "But you're trying… and it's not like I really know what I need, so… let's call it a win and go get our boy."

Sam smiled. "I can get with that."

Dean smiled back.

Sam lost count of the number of demons they burned through over the next two weeks. Question, torture, kill. Question, torture, kill. Sam felt like a serial killer. Forget BTK, they were QTK, and they wouldn't stop until they had Crowley or Cas or both in their sights.

Dean expressed a bittersweet gratitude that he had never pursued Lisa. It hadn't really been a conscious decision, but between Sam's depression and the Apocalypse… any notion of romance got swept under the rug.

Apparently, it had all been for the best, because they both shuddered when Dean pointed out the benefit to his bachelorhood.

"Can you imagine what Crowley would do to Lisa and Ben just to get to me?"

Sam and Dean contacted Balthazar, and he was flippant at first, but he returned hours later and agreed to be their double agent. Whatever Castiel had said had alerted even his long-time friend to the fact that he wasn't okay.

If that wasn't proof, Sam didn't know what was.

Bobby had been tracking a human lead during their more spiritual pursuits—apparently, H.P. Lovecraft had some interesting hobbies—and it took some time, but he eventually interrupted their torture trade-offs with a break in the Castiel Situation™.

Balthazar 'tricked out,' as Dean put it, the panic room. He covered it in sigils, some of which were visible and some of which weren't, all of which were connected to a larger sigil on the door to the room. It was designed specifically for Castiel, capable of keeping him out or in, hardwired to burn him if he tried to touch the sigils or remove them. All they had to do was get Castiel inside and slam the door; once the door was shut, all the lines would be connected, and the warding would activate. If they could get him into the room before he did anything stupid, they actually stood a chance of saving him.

Castiel beat them to the punch.

"I wish it hadn't come to this."

Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his mind flooded with doubts about Castiel's mental state.

"Rest assured, when this is all over, I will save Sam, but only if you stand down."

Maybe it wasn't fear. Maybe Castiel was really just that cold and detached. Maybe Castiel had never cared at all.

"Save Sam from what?"

Castiel disappeared.

Sam whirled on the spot and grabbed Castiel's wrist with both hands just before the fingers made contact. "Give them back," he grunted, fighting against the angelic strength as he played the only card he could think of.

Castiel pushed forward, and there was no way Sam could compete, so Sam backed up and kept holding the wrist.

"Right now." Sam turned as he backed up, trying to get himself backed up against a wall so Dean and Bobby could get Castiel from behind. "Before you do whatever it is you're going to do, give them back."

"Give what back?" Castiel growled angrily, still pushing, forcing Sam down the alleyway while Dean and Bobby tried to hold him back.

"All those cuts on my hands." Sam looked into Castiel's eyes, and he could still see a flicker of his friend there, but it was growing fainter with every passing second.

Castiel's head tilted slightly. He was clearly confused, but that didn't stop him from pressing Sam up against the wall.

Sam gripped Castiel's wrist a little tighter, and he prayed the memory would mean as much to Castiel as it did to Sam. "From the bathroom mirror. I had a panic attack, and the only way to feel better was to punch broken glass until my knuckles were skinless, and I let you near me." Sam almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw hesitance on Castiel's otherwise cold features. "You're the only person I ever let near me during a panic attack."

Castiel came to a complete stop, emotions warring on his face.

"Even Jess…" Sam wet his lips. "I loved her with all my heart. I was gonna marry her. But I would lock myself in the bathroom until it was over." Sam squeezed Castiel's wrist, searching the torn, blue eyes for some sign he was getting through. "I let you help me."

Castiel glanced away, lowering his arm slightly. "Sam…"

"I was at my—my weakest, most vulnerable, terrified point," Sam bit his lip and blinked back tears, realizing he was holding his breath between words, "and I let you help me." He took a steady breath. "You healed my hands, and you told me it was okay, so whatever you're gonna do now…" Sam shook his head. "Give me back the cuts on my hands first. I want them back."

Castiel looked conflicted, but he hadn't dropped his arm all the way, and he wasn't backing up. He clenched his jaw, looked to the side, and then met Sam's eyes with passion that rivaled the hurricane Sam was feeling inside.

"I need to do this, and I can't make you understand. You—"

Sam shook his head rapidly. "You don't need to do this, Cas. You don't. When we first confronted you, you admitted that you know this is wrong."

"Right or wrong, I don't have a choice. If I don't do this, Raphael will—"

"Be stopped," Sam said, trying to find a balance between gentleness and passion. "We'll find a way, Cas. It doesn't have to be like this."

"I'm so close, Sam." Castiel narrowed his eyes, but he didn't seem necessarily angry. He just seemed confused and distressed and… something else Sam couldn't quite put his finger on. "Just let me do this, and it will be all over, and things can go back to normal."

"Things can go back to normal now, Cas!" Sam tensed up when he felt Castiel pushing forward again. "Listen—"

Castiel pushed harder, trying to reach Sam's head. "I am sorry none of you understand why I have to do this, but—"

"I know exactly why you have to do this!" Sam ducked to the side, and with Dean hanging on Castiel's arm, Sam managed to avoid the attack. "Because you think the only way you can be forgiven is if you succeed."

Castiel stopped at that, a cautious confusion going into his eyes.

"You think the only way we'll take you back is if you fix all our problems and make everyone happy in the end. Because if you let us talk you out of doing this now, then all you've managed to do is disappoint us—"

Castiel snarled at him. "Enough." He shrugged Dean off and glared angrily when Dean just grabbed on again. "I won't hurt you. I'll just detain you until I've taken care of things, and none of you will be harmed."

"Cas, please, listen to me," Sam tried. "Just for a second, okay? I know you're scared—"

"I don't want Raphael to win, but I'm hardly scared." Castiel glared at Sam. "This plan is going to work, and when it does, everything will be right in Heaven again."

Sam almost rebutted against the infallibility of the plan, but then he reminded himself to stay on mission. "Cas, think back. Think back to when this all started." He paused briefly, watching shades of blue turn thoughtful behind squinted eyelids. "Why didn't you just ask for help?"

"I told you, it wasn't—and isn't—your responsibility."

"So?" Sam shot back. He pulled down on Castiel's wrist a little and managed to get the hand more toward his chest than his face. "The Apocalypse wasn't Bobby's responsibility, and he still helped us. Because family helps family, Cas, so why didn't you ask your family for help?"

Castiel flinched almost imperceptibly at the phrase 'your family,' but he remained unmoved. "You couldn't have done anything, Sam. None of you could have."

Sam shook his head. "No, that's not why. You didn't ask because you didn't want us to be mad." He watched Castiel's features as the words sank in, watched the automatic resistance and confusion interwoven with surprise and contemplation. "You didn't come to us for help because you were afraid. Because we've helped you before, and what if this was too much? And you're family, but I'm really family, and I was sick, so would we really have time for you? Would we care enough to make time?"

Castiel averted his eyes, and for the first time since the confrontation began, he shifted backwards. "I don't…" He didn't take a step, but he leaned, and his arm started to pull away from Sam and Dean rather than push against them. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Which meant Sam was hitting the nail on the head. He had to keep going.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Because then you started working with Crowley, and it got even worse. Because what if this was the one thing we couldn't forgive? What if this was the one thing you took too far? What if we hated you? What if we didn't want you anymore?" Sam shook his head, an overwhelming ache cutting into his chest as his heart bled for a friend he was afraid he was too late to reach.

No. Castiel was listening. Sam could reach him.

"You knew it was wrong, and you knew lying would only make it worse, but you would rather be guilty than unwanted—" Castiel actually flinched at that, but Sam kept going, "—so you tried to handle it yourself. You tried to do everything, helping us when you could, because useful people are wanted and adored and loved, and that's what you want. That's all you want."

Castiel took a step back, a mixture of horror and hate bathed in fear slowly crawling up from the ground. "No, wait." He shook his head, caught off-guard and not knowing what to do.

"And I'm sorry, Cas, because we should have helped you figure that stuff out. You gave up your security to help us, and we didn't teach you how the free will you got in exchange works. We left you to figure it out on your own." Sam sighed and pushed Castiel's hand a little lower, rubbing the exposed skin of his wrist. "And now you feel like you can't stop until you make everything right. Because if you stop now, and you let us help you, you think we won't forgive you. You think we're going to spend the entire time wishing you weren't around."

Sam altered his voice slightly, making it a little lower and rougher than usual. "'He's an angel, why can't he clean up his own messes?' 'Doesn't he have anyone else he can bother?' 'Do you think if we do this for him, he'll finally leave us alone?'"

Castiel shook his head vehemently, and it broke Sam's heart to see just how hard Castiel was trying to deny the truth in Sam's words. "You don't know what you're talking about. I don't—I wasn't—" He flexed his hand, searching for words, disoriented. He was so lost.

Sam squeezed Castiel's wrist. "It never stops, does it? It just builds and shifts to fit new situations. Every slight, every sarcastic comment, every inside joke or slang word you don't understand makes you wonder if we're trying to tell you to leave. But you can't leave, because you rebelled for us and you have nowhere else to go. But what if that's not enough for us? What if we don't care? What if we don't think you're worth the trouble you cause?"

Sam reached out with one hand and held Castiel's wrist with the other. Castiel leaned back to get away and pulled on his other arm, trying to get it away from Dean, and while he could pick Dean up and move him with ease, he couldn't get Dean to actually let go.

"Not happening, Cas," Dean grunted, gripping onto Castiel's jacket sleeve.

Bobby kept quiet, but he had a good hold on Castiel's jacket, and the jacket could do very little to throw him off; Castiel certainly couldn't do anything to him when Sam was captivating his attention.

"Get—get off me! Now!"

Sam jumped forward and managed to get his hand around the back of Castiel's skull, immediately pulling Castiel in. Castiel resisted, but he used a human level of strength, so Sam pulled harder. If Castiel really wanted to get away, he could fly.

"Stop it!"

"Oh, Cas…" Sam got Castiel's head against his chest and held it there, wrapping his other arm around Castiel's shoulder to rub his back. "We love you so much."

Castiel jerked back, tearing away from Sam and throwing Dean into the nearest wall. "Enough!" He did a half-turn and shoved Bobby away, sending the older man sprawling backward onto the asphalt.

"Cas—" Sam tried, and he heard Dean's voice overlapping his own.

Castiel was gone before either of them could say anything.

Sam let out a huge sigh and looked at Dean, shaking his head. "We were so close. We can do this, Dean. He's still in there. He's still Cas."

Dean got to his feet with a pained grunt, rubbing the back of his head while Sam went to give Bobby a hand. "If we can get him in the panic room… lock him in… he won't be able to fly away. Maybe you can pick up where you left off… make him hear you."

Bobby dusted himself off. "If we can't get him in that room, it ain't happening. Dean and I were pulling as hard we could, but if you hadn't talked him into stopping, he would've… done whatever it was he planned to do." Bobby planted his fists on his hips and shook his head. "He's too strong."

"Then let's do it," Dean muttered, looking torn between anger and defeat. "It's Cas. We have to at least try."

Sam nodded. If he could talk to Castiel again, he could get through. He was certain of it.

Sam flew down the steps two at a time, Dean all but pushing him off the flight trying to go just as fast. Sam took in the scene as he got to the bottom, looking from Raphael and Crowley to Castiel, who was standing across from them with a jar of blood in his hands.

"Cas!" Dean passed where Sam had stopped to approach Castiel with a hand outstretched. "Whatever you're doing, don't. Okay?"

"Eloquent," Crowley commented dryly, lifting his hand in a little wave a second later. "Hello, Bobby. Long time, no see. I've missed you terribly."

Sam pointed at Crowley and snapped, "You shut up. We just want Castiel."

Behind him, Bobby tossed two middle fingers to the King of Hell.

Crowley gave them both an unimpressed look and gestured with a sweep of his arm. "By all means, take him. Just make sure he leaves the strawberry jam. We're having toast."

Castiel glared at the group as a whole and then zeroed in on Dean. "I am not going anywhere," he snarled, fingers gripping the jar of blood they could only assume was Elanor's.

They all heard the flutter of wings, and then Balthazar was standing behind Castiel, chewing on his lip and giving his friend a half-sheepish, half-told-you-so look. "Sorry, mate, but you're off the trolley-track. Toss the blood to somebody else, alright?"

Raphael smirked, lighting a fire in Sam's veins, and folded his—her?—arms over his chest. "If you can't even get your followers to respect your authority, how did you ever intend to beat me in battle?"

"Hey!" Dean whirled on the spot and pointed an accusatory finger at Raphael. "We would do more for Cas than any of your goons would for you, including getting between him and the King of Hell and an archangel, so shut your pie hole."

"Come on, Cas," Sam urged, moving a little closer to where Dean was. "Hand the blood over, and let's leave before someone gets hurt."

"It's too late for that," Castiel growled, looking away from Sam to stare at Raphael.

Raphael lifted his hand, fingers poised to snap. "I completely agree."

Sam cursed, Dean was reaching out to shield Sam, Crowley was in the process of opening his mouth, and Castiel was halfway through shouting Raphael's name when a blade burst from the archangel's chest, light exploding in every direction.

Sam shielded his eyes and crouched somewhat, Dean's hand still on his arm, and when the light faded, Sam blinked away the floaters and found himself staring at an old, familiar, mixed-feelings-inducing face.

Gabriel looked at them with a knowing smile and greeted, "Hiya, Castiel."

Sam blinked in surprise and immediately looked to Castiel to see what impact Gabriel's presence would have.

Castiel seemed just as shocked as everyone else, but he had gone from holding the jar of blood with one hand to holding it with two. He wasn't giving up yet.

Sam almost cursed again.

Gabriel turned his head slightly and smiled at Crowley. "Hey, Crowley."

Crowley tilted his head back slightly, raising an elegant brow. "Uh-huh." He nodded once. "I can be accused of many things, but not knowing when I've been beaten isn't one of them." With that, he was gone, and with Raphael dead on the floor, everyone in the room was on the same side.

Or at least, Sam really hoped they were.

"I… thought you were dead." That was Dean.

Sam's head snapped over to look at his brother. "What?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated."

"You never told me he was dead!" Sam shouted.

Dean looked between Sam and Gabriel, holding up his hands. "Well, at first, I was worried it might make you, I don't know, relapse, but then with the Apocalypse and Cas and everything—"

Gabriel let out a theatrical sigh, twirling a twisted angel blade in his hand. "You forgot about my noble sacrifice so quickly, Dean. I'm wounded."

Balthazar cleared his throat. "Good to see you, mate, but what are you doing here?"

Gabriel gestured to Castiel with a disapproving purse to his lips. "Maybe you should take that one, little brother."

Castiel swallowed, looking down at the blood in his hands, and Sam could practically see the idea to fly away light up in Castiel's eyes.

"Don't you dare!" Dean yelled, apparently seeing the same thing. "It's over, Cas. Raphael is dead, nobody's bringing the Apocalypse back, so just let Purgatory go."

"If you can," Gabriel commented, words and eyes accusatory. "Or are you finally going to admit this has been more of a power trip than anything for the last, oh, three weeks or so?"

"It's not a power trip!" Castiel replied so adamantly and so automatically it couldn't be anything but a lie; one he was desperate to make everyone, including himself, believe. "It's… it's complicated."

"It's really not," Dean countered, taking a step forward with the intent to grab the blood.

Castiel almost took a step back before spying Balthazar and sidestepping instead.

Sam looked at Balthazar and nodded slightly. Balthazar did the same in return.

"Sorry, mate."

"What?"

Balthazar appeared behind Castiel, wrapped both arms around him, and then disappeared.

Gabriel arched a brow and looked at the brothers. "I hope you have a contingency plan for him."

"Yeah." Dean wiped his hands on his jeans and turned away from where Castiel had been. "Balthazar warded the crap out of the panic room." He let out a sigh. "So… how long have you been following us?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Pretty much since I got killed by Lucifer." He held up the blade in his hand and waved it around a little. "This is an archangel blade. It's the only thing that can kill an archangel, and it has to be wielded by another archangel in order to work."

Dean frowned and pointed to the weapon in question. "You're saying Lucifer didn't use one of those?"

Gabriel shook his head. "Nope. He used a regular angel blade."

Sam frowned, too. "So… he knew you weren't dead?"

Gabriel shrugged again. "That would be my guess. By playing dead, I promised him I wasn't going to fight back or continue helping the two of you, and… despite everything, we were… are… brothers." He looked at the body on the ground. "Raphael or Michael would have killed me without a second thought, but… Lucifer and I were always the emotional ones. It's what makes him so hateful, but it's also what gives you a leg up, if you know how to use it against him."

Nobody said anything for a moment, and while Sam couldn't speak for the others, he knew he kept his own peace out of respect for the fact that Gabriel had just killed his brother and become the last archangel to be both alive and topside.

Gabriel heaved a sigh and tossed his blade over his shoulder, but it never hit the ground, no doubt disappearing into one of his pocket universes. "Well, it looks like you've got Castiel, and Sam's back on his feet again, so—"

"You're just gonna leave?" Sam asked incredulously, spreading his hands slightly. "Castiel's your brother, too, you know."

Gabriel pressed his lips into a tight smile and nodded. "Yeah, he is. And I failed him, and all the other angels, big time when I bailed."

"So, you're bailing again?" Bobby questioned, seeming unimpressed.

Gabriel glanced at Bobby. "I'm putting him up for adoption." He looked back at Dean. "You've been a better brother for him than I have." He looked at Sam. "You have, too." Back to Dean. "You haven't given up on him, and I'll be honest, with this latest stunt, I thought for sure you would. But you didn't. He needs you, and you need him." He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "So, this is me stepping back. I'm washing my hands, running off to find some porn stars, and leaving all the dirty work and its rewards to you."

Dean snorted, but the lingering smile on his lips said he preferred Gabriel leaving Castiel to them.

Sam wasn't as convinced. "What about Heaven?"

Gabriel held up a finger. "Ah. Yes." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of glowing, bluish-white light. "That's a little dose of archangel Grace. It won't make Castiel an archangel, but it'll give him back the power he had before he fell along with a little booster." He looked at the two of them, losing his smirk and usual tone of banter. "When he earns it—when you can trust him again—give him that. And only then. Heaven will learn to survive without a leader until then." He tilted his head back and heaved a weary sigh. "Maybe it'll do them some good to be on their own for a while."

"I doubt it," Bobby muttered.

No one commented, but Sam offered a small nod to indicate he agreed.

"Well, I guess that means I'm bailing again." Gabriel was back to flippance and nonchalance. "If you need anything—and I mean really need it—shoot a prayer my way. Other than that, good luck, and good riddance." Gabriel gave a mock salute, and he was gone before anyone could think of anything to say that might stop him.

Dean swore under his breath. "I mean, I guess that turned out good?"

"Good?" Bobby echoed. "Compared to being bloodstains on the wall, yeah, I'd say so!"

Sam offered a small smile, but it didn't last. He could feel himself growing tired, and under that, worry was gnawing on the pit of his stomach. "Now we just have to get Cas back with us…"

Dean swore again, rubbing his face, and Bobby sighed loudly.

Yeah. My thoughts exactly.

Sam tilted slightly and quickly grabbed his balance, barely managing not to spill the cup of hot tea in his hands. He used one hand to wave over his shoulder, a silent thanks to Balthazar for sending him into the warded room. They couldn't exactly open the door without risking Castiel flying out, so… Angel Air it was.

It didn't take Sam long to spot Castiel sitting against the wall, cross-legged on the floor, rolling his jar of blood back and forth between his hands.

"Castiel?" Sam tried softly.

Castiel stopped rolling the jar, but he didn't look up.

"I, uh, I made you some tea." Sam slowly approached, crouching down and setting the tea well within Castiel's reach. "We had to drive pretty far, so… we just got back."

Castiel kept looking at the floor, saying nothing, hands still dangling off his knees where they had been when he was rolling the jar.

Sam eased himself into a sitting position and crossed his legs, mirroring Castiel and resting his wrists on his knees so his hands dangled. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I've made a terrible mistake, Sam," Castiel whispered.

Sam closed his mouth, sadness tugging on his shoulders.

Castiel started to shake his head almost absently. "And I can't fix it."

"Sure you can," Sam countered, waving it off.

Castiel lifted his head, and when he met Sam's eyes, there was a thin sheen of tears in his own. "How?"

Sam picked up the tea and the jar and set them both aside. "Here, I'll show you." He got to his feet with a little grunt and waved Castiel up. "Come on."

Castiel hesitated, started to get up, hesitated again, and then slid onto his feet. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes immediately drawn back to the floor, and he really did seem ashamed of himself.

Sam stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him into a warm hug and squeezing him tight. "See?" He reached up and buried a hand in Castiel's hair, tucking the angel's head against his shoulder. "I feel better already. Don't you?"

Castiel was stiff for a moment, and then he melted in Sam's arms with a silent, shuddering sob. His shoulders trembled as he pressed his face against Sam's neck, shaking his head slightly. "Sam…" he whispered, "…this is kind, but it won't fix anything. You know that."

"This fixes everything, Cas. There are things that aggravated the situation that we have to talk about, but what you did? Lying and Crowley and Purgatory? You just fixed it."

Castiel shuddered and shook his head a little harder, keeping his body tucked into Sam's. "Dean will not agree." He clenched and unclenched his fists, at a loss for what to do with his hands. "I—I don't know if I'll ever redeem myself to him. Not completely, not truly."

Sam let out a little sigh and rubbed Castiel's back. "Cas… you know we're crazy about you, right?" He felt Castiel tense in his arms, and he kept up the gentle back-rubbing. "We miss you when you're gone, and we talk about you. We talk about good times we've had together, things we like about you, things we'd like to do with you in the future."

Castiel's hands slowly wandered up to the small of Sam's back and laid flat, not confident enough to go any higher and not comfortable enough to cling.

"We don't care that you're awkward and different; we just like it when you're around. We'd rather have you here than not. We don't tolerate you because you're useful, we just like you because you're you." Sam thumbed the ridge of Castiel's spine, holding on tight.

Castiel let out a confused sort of noise that reminded Sam of a frightened animal; some kind of growl that faltered into a whimper at the end, anger tapering into confusion and fear as Castiel realized how much it was going to hurt to hear the truth and finally break under it.

"And I know there's a little voice in your head telling you I'm lying; telling you I'm only saying this to make you feel better. That you aren't really forgiven, and that we really are mad, and we just don't want to deal with explaining why you're wrong. It tells you there's no way we could love or want you, for better or worse." Sam tucked his chin over the top of Castiel's head, feeling the heat of Castiel's forehead against his throat. "But we do."

Castiel's fingers dug into Sam's back, his body trembling as he struggled to keep his sobs silent, a few quiet gasps escaping despite his every attempt to keep them in. "But I've made so many mistakes." Castiel took a careful breath, fighting with his voice to keep it steady. "You told me it was wrong countless times, and I ignored you, and I disobeyed, and I—I killed Elanor, and I lied—"

"And you're sorry. And we love you. And we forgive you." Sam squeezed him tight. "And we still want you, flaws and broken pieces and mistakes and all." He let out a little sigh and held Castiel even tighter. "Always, Cas."

"Sam, you're not well," Castiel objected, his voice hitching slightly. "You need to take care of your own health—and Dean and Bobby as well—not waste time worrying about me. You should focus on getting better."

"I am. I'm just focused on getting you better, too." Sam laughed softly. "I can focus on more than one thing at a time. And you're worth it."

Castiel didn't say anything for a moment, his hands sliding up until they were in the middle of Sam's back, fingers curling through the flannel and hanging on for dear life. "Sam," Castiel whispered, tears thick in his voice. "Would it be alright if I…" He exhaled sharply and sucked down a shuddering breath. "Could I possibly… that is, could you help me…"

"Yeah, Cas." Sam glanced over his shoulder, but the room was just as sealed as before, and the slat on the door was still closed. "Go ahead, Cas. We're alone."

Castiel shook violently, but it took a moment for his cries to gain enough volume for Sam to hear. Castiel held on tight, air hissing between his clenched teeth, forehead rubbing against Sam's collarbone.

Sam felt hot tears soaking into his shirt, and all he could do was rub Castiel's back a little more and murmur under his breath. "It's okay, Cas. It's okay."

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Castiel breathed, sobbing through the last word.

"I know, and it's okay. I forgive you. Dean forgives you. It's okay."

"I love you, Sam. I love Dean, too." Castiel adjusted his arms, trying to pull Sam in closer, if that was even possible. "I don't really understand it, but I—I like being a part of your family. I want to stay." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I want to stay, Sam."

Sam chuckled softly. "Well, good, 'cause you're stuck with us." He hesitated for a brief second, and then he turned his head and tilted it down, pressing a chaste kiss to Castiel's temple. "It really is okay, Cas. We've got you. Okay? We've got you. It's okay."

Castiel only wept.

Sam smiled to himself and trailed his fingers through Castiel's hair again, letting his hand run as far down Castiel's spine as it could go before reaching up and turning the page of his book. He adjusted his fingers to hold the book exactly how he wanted it, and then he started to play with Castiel's hair again. It was a bit awkward, trying to read while an angel was laying on—and thoroughly weighing down—his lower half, but he was making it work.

"How is he?"

Sam looked up and saw Dean standing in the doorway.

"Exhausted," Sam replied with a small smile.

Dean folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. "It looks like you were right about him being scared."

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded, but he didn't say anything.

He didn't really need to. Castiel had made it very clear when he burst into tears hours after his first crying session from a single sentence from Dean.

"Cas, if the only way to meet you and have you in our lives was for me to go to Hell, then I'm glad I did, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Sam suspected Castiel's reaction had much to do with the fact that only Castiel and Dean really knew what Dean had gone through in Hell, and it held a special meaning for them. But regardless, it had been an emotionally charged day for everyone, and while Sam could feel himself fading, Castiel had already been sucker punched into unconsciousness by the strain.

"How are you?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, dog-earing his page and setting the book on the nightstand. "Meh. I can't complain."

Dean arched his brow and gave Sam a disapproving look. "No, really."

Sam huffed out a quiet, defeated laugh and looked down at Castiel, avoiding eye contact by paying careful attention to the paths his hand took across the angel's scalp. "I… I really am doing okay. I'm just… I feel like I've been doing the same level of okay for a while now… and I'm worried this is as good as it's going to get."

Castiel inhaled deeply and mumbled a few incoherent phrases before smooshing his face against Sam's stomach and letting the air back out in a long, contented stream.

Sam smiled slightly and trailed his fingers through Castiel's hair once again. "I'm afraid you guys are going to forget I'm sick… or worse, I'm going to forget I'm sick… and I'll push myself right back to where I was before." He swallowed hard and shook his head. I can't do that. He looked up at Dean then, hoping his next words wouldn't make Dean upset. "I'm worried if I'm not in a bad place, then… you're not going to be so open. We'll go back to 'no chick-flick moments' and… and how it used to be, and I don't want that."

Dean pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully for a few seconds before pushing off the doorframe, dropping his arms to his sides and shuffling over to the bed. He crawled onto the mattress, taking a moment to tousle Castiel's hair, and then he laid down on his side facing Sam.

"Listen to me, Sammy."

Sam looked at Dean and nodded.

"That's never going to happen. Okay?" Dean shook his head. "Never. We aren't gonna unlearn the things we've learned, and with what we know, we can't go back."

Sam wet his lips and blinked. "You promise?"

"Yeah, I promise." Dean pushed himself up on one arm and leaned in, planting a quick kiss on Sam's forehead. "We're gonna keep getting better. Both of us." He glanced down at Castiel. "Well, all three of us."

Sam smiled and scooted down as much as Castiel's weight allowed, settling into the mattress. "We'll survive," he said softly. "I mean, we made it this far, right?"

"Exactly." Dean yawned and fluffed up one of the pillows Sam wasn't using. "No matter what happens next, we've got better tools to work with than we did before. We can handle it."

Sam yawned, too, covering his mouth before returning to the hair-stroking that had become automatic. "I love you, Dean," Sam murmured, eyes slowly drifting shut.

Dean gave Sam a sleepy smile and replied, "I love you, too, Sammy."

Fourteen minutes later, Sam tumbled into unconsciousness. The last thing he was aware of was someone placing a large blanket over the three of them and muttering.

"Idjits."

"Tell me that I'm still breathing.
Tell me that I'm not fading out;
I'm not fading out.

Tell me that I'm not crazy.
Help me to make sense of it all;
To make sense of it all."

- Bring to Life, We As Human