Sam made the briefest of eye contact with the sometimes friendly angel before he disappeared in a ruffle of wings and a puff of air. A surge of anger cut through Sam like a knife. Castiel had no business being anywhere near his brother. It was his fault that Dean was in the shape he was in, his fault that Sam had to see tubes coming from his brother's mouth and nose, his fault his brother's right eye was so swollen that the doctors had feared that it may be damaged, it was his fault that his brother looked so vulnerable, and so worn, and so ready to die. If it hadn't been for the damned angel Dean wouldn't have had to suffer at the hands of the torturer from hell, the master of all torture masters, the teacher of the innocent---the maker of demons. If Castiel had been paying attention to his work, to his job, he would have known that the demons were getting their prince out of his prison.

Sam took a breath and tried not calm his body, because when he was angry the demon blood raged within him and it manifested in some of the most creative ways, and he didn't think that his brother needed to see or know about some of those ways only a few days after he woke up.

"Hey Dean, and I brought you some contraband." He said holding up a bag from a fast food restaurant. Dean didn't respond. Sam, confused, moved closer to his brother, and for a moment he thought Dean was asleep, but small hitch in his breath told him that his brother was far from sleeping, he was crying.


"Go away Sam," Dean said in a thin strained voice. It was a voice of a child, not of the man who had gone to hell for him.

"What's wrong Dean?"

"Go away Sam." He repeated in a voice a bit stronger.


"I said go away Sam!" He yelled with all of the voice he had left. Sam took a step back. What in the hell had Castiel done to him while he was gone? What had that son of a bitch said to his brother to make him go from being functional, having a bit of his usual spunk, to crying and so distressed he didn't want Sam in the room.

Sam obeyed his brother's command, but he didn't obey to the letter. Instead he went into the hallway and he sat down on the floor just outside his brother's room, playing sentinel against all comers, angel or demon.

Each day Sam went in his brother's room, and tried to get him to talk. If he was lucky, Dean said to go away, or to leave him alone, if he wasn't so lucky, Dean was comatose with his eyes open, tears leaking out of the corners and dampening his pillows to the point of needing changed.

Sam hadn't known anyone was capable of as many tears as his brother shed in his days at the hospital, but the evidence was clear to anyone who came and visited, nurses and doctors asked Sam what they could do, and Sam had no answer. For the first time in his life, he didn't have an answer as to how to help his brother. He knew the basics, what Dean was allergic to, what medications mad him go out of his mind, and which ones did the best for his pain, but he couldn't answer the doctors when they asked how to repair his brother's damaged psyche. Words like trauma, psych ward, depression all circled around his brother. Sam knew it wouldn't matter what they did for Dean, nothing was going to help him, short of a certain angel being murdered. And Sam knew exactly who wouldn't mind getting some angel blood on his hands---him. And what did it matter? he was already going to hell, he might as well seal the deal. Dean had done hit for him, and he was sure as hell going to do whatever he could to help his brother, and if that meant a trip downstairs for him, with no return ticket, that was fine with him. Dean deserved better.

It was the second week, and he was still spending most of his days sitting outside of Dean's door, when the doctor came by and said that there wasn't anything further they could do to aid his brother's physical wounds and that Sam could take him home.

There was no home for them aside from the car, and Sam was fairly certain that Dean's broken and battered body needed a bed, not the back seat of a muscle car. He pulled his cell out of his coat pocket and called Bobby.


"Sam? Where in the hell have you two been?"

"I'm at the hospital."

"You hurt?"

"No. Dean was beat almost to death by Alistair." There was silence on the other end.

"Why didn't you call sooner boy? You didn't do anything stupid did you?"


"Sam. What did you do?"

"Nothing Bobby."

"Sam. You sound guilty."

"I'm guilty."

"Of what?"

"This whole mess. It was all my fault Bobby. It's my fault he's in there, it's my fault he went to hell, it's my fault he's so messed up." Sam yelled into the phone.

"Son. Things happen…."

"That's what you say when you lose your job. Not when you are the sole responsible party for having your brother thrown into hell."

"Sam. Listen to me." he heard Sam's breathing on the other end go from frantic to measured to even and then he began to speak again. "Sam. Your brother made choices, same as you. He's responsible for some as well. You need to just take a breath and come here. Both of you boys need to come here and rest for a bit."

"Okay. Thanks Bobby."

"I'll see you soon." Bobby hung up. Sam slipped his phone back into his pocket, sighed, straightened his 6'4 frame and went into the room. Dean was sitting on the bed, fully clothed starring at the wall.

"Dean?" His older brother didn't move. Sam came to stand in front of Dean. Dean's lackluster green eyes didn't budge from the wall. Sam knelt down in front of him. "Dean. We need to go." No reaction. "We need to head to Bobby's." The tears started afresh, and Sam's head hung. He didn't know what to do.