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Sam wakes up on his side in the dirt, shivering. It’s dark, and the damp sand under him is leaching through his clothes, chilling him to his bones. There’s a sharp pain in his neck, bent awkwardly against the ground. His back aches fiercely.
Dean is on his knees crouching over him. His hand is on Sam’s shoulder and he’s speaking in that increasingly urgent tone that means he’s been trying to get Sam to wake up for a while now. “Come on, Sammy. Open your eyes. Sam!”
“What happened?” Sam says, and it comes out more whispery than he intends.
Dean exhales in visible relief. “Cas took off with Kelly. We gotta go after them, come on.”
He extends a hand to Sam. Sam grasps it, hoists himself, but the upward movement wrenches something in his abdomen and he winds up on his knees instead, vomiting onto the ground.
“Whoa!” Dean steps back quickly but keeps a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
The retching hurts Sam’s back and stomach so badly it feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside. He’s vaguely surprised he doesn’t vomit blood. When it finally stops, he stays on the ground while he catches his breath, wipes hurriedly at his eyes, then struggles to his feet.
Dean is watching him warily, hanging onto Sam’s elbow like he thinks he might keel over again. “You okay? You don’t look so hot.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, still panting. “Fine. Just a little dizzy. Getting zapped by Cas always turns my stomach.”
“Right,” Dean says, hesitant. Luckily, he’s distracted enough about Cas that he doesn’t press Sam any further.
On their way through the park back to the car they find Cas’s phone discarded in the grass. It might have fallen from his pocket while he was getting tossed around by Dagon, or it might have been intentional. Either way, it’s useless now. They have no way of even contacting Cas, much less tracking him down.
Dean kicks up a piece of turf with the toe of his boot and swears loudly. “Shit.”
You have to just trust me, Cas had said, eyes lit up manic.
Trust, like Cas stealing the Colt and Sam installing a tracking app on his phone. A wave of sick guilt rolls through Sam. He thinks he might vomit again. He leans against a park bench and tries to breathe normally.
“All right,” Dean says, and pockets the phone. “It’s back to square one. Let’s head back to the bunker, see if we can get a trace on his truck.”
As it turns out, folding himself into the car manages to be even worse than standing. Bending at the waist makes little spots dance and spark behind Sam’s eyes, made worse by the pressure put on his back from sitting upright and resting against the seat. He must have bruised a couple of ribs when Dagon threw him into that bench.
“What about a tracking spell?” Sam suggests, after several miles of tense silence from Dean.
Dean shakes his head sharply. “If you think I’m gonna consider bringing Rowena into this, you’re wrong. You know we can’t trust her.”
“No,” Sam says. It’s hard to think clearly. “Not Rowena. The twins. Max and Alicia. We could call them up, see if they can help us out.”
He’s panting again by the time he finishes speaking, every breath a knife twisting between his ribs. Dean is watching him sidelong across the bench, clearly concerned.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Dean says cautiously. “We can look them up when we get home. Now why don’t you try and get some sleep, huh? You’ve been running on fumes for days.”
Leaning his head against the window relieves some of the pressure on his back, so Sam closes his eyes and tries to sleep. When he eventually falls into a fitful doze, Cas is there, eyes liquid-gold and burning with holy wrath. Nothing is worth losing you, he says, gentle, and then his face warps and twists into Lucifer’s ugly grin and his fingertips are reaching for Sam’s chest, alight with heavenly fire. Sam gives up on sleep, after that.
He starts shivering again a couple hours out from the bunker, when dawn is just turning the edges of the horizon grey, can’t stop even when Dean turns the heat up high enough that he’s sweating in the driver’s seat. Dean keeps glancing at him with that alarmed, dismayed expression when he thinks Sam won’t notice, so Sam bites his lip bloody to make himself shut up.
Getting out of the car after several hours spent sitting in one position is already getting to be more of a challenge as Sam ages. Today standing feels like climbing up a sheer cliff face, all the Earth’s gravity doing its best to drag him to the ground. The pain in his torso is nauseating. Maybe those ribs are broken after all.
Somehow, he manages to get upright and shuffle inside and down the stairs without keeling over. When they get downstairs, he leans against the map table and says, “Okay, I’m gonna go see if I can track Cas’s car. Then I’ll give Max and Alicia a call.” His knees feel unsteady, so he keeps a hand on the table as he turns to make his way toward the library.
“Hey, wait,” Dean says. “When’s the last time you ate? You look awful.”
The thought of food turns Sam’s stomach. He shakes his head, tries to keep walking away but his knees buckle alarmingly under him and he can’t stop the groan that wrenches up from his chest when the motion jars his back.
“Okay, take it easy!” Dean barks. He pulls a chair up, guides Sam down into it. “Sit.” He feels Sam’s forehead with the back of his palm, then sighs. “You’ve got a fever. Where are you hurt?”
“My back,” Sam says, hoarse. “Think I hurt my ribs. When Dagon threw me.”
“Let me see,” Dean says, softer now. He helps Sam lean forward, pulls up the back of his shirt with gentle fingers. As careful as he is, the light touch is painful enough that Sam hisses in discomfort.
“Holy shit, Sam,” Dean says, startled. “Your entire back is purple. We’re looking at more than just ribs here. Bruised kidneys, at the very least, which would explain the fever.” He releases Sam’s shirt. “Sorry, kiddo. No more research today. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Dean,” Sam mumbles.
“It’s either bed or urgent care, Sam. Your choice.”
Sam sighs. This is one argument he knows he’s not currently coherent enough to win.
Dean gets him standing, helps him shuffle slowly to the living quarters as best he can without putting pressure on Sam’s back. Sam gets his shirt off and unbuttons his jeans, but doesn’t have the range of motion to bend down, so Dean pulls them the rest of the way off. He helps Sam lie on his stomach, covers him with a blanket, then brings him some ibuprofen and a glass of water.
“If these don’t bring your fever down today we’ll need to go into town, get you checked out at urgent care,” he says, smoothing a hand over Sam’s hair. He sounds apologetic.
Sam nods. “S’okay.”
“Get some sleep,” Dean says. “I’ll take care of finding Cas. I’m right down the hall if you need anything.”
Dean leaves the bedside lamp on but shuts the door on his way out. Even the low light is enough to hurt Sam’s eyes. He shuts them, dizzy and exhausted.
There’s an engine rumbling under him, steady and growing stronger. As familiar as it is, something’s not right. Sam struggles to move, to open his eyes, but he’s heavy with sleep, can’t quite get his limbs to work.
Then there’s a hand on his forehead, broad and cool. “Sam.”
Cas.
Sam gets his eyes open and he’s looking up at the slant of Cas’s jaw, the curve of his ear and the dark sweep of his hair. They’re in the backseat of a vehicle. From the angle, Sam can tell that his head is in Cas’s lap.
Cas looks down at him. His eyes have returned to their normal blue, the gold drained away. “I’m sorry,” he says, grave.
Beyond Cas’s shoulder, Sam can see out the window. A yellow hill. Above that, a sliver of sky, rolling white clouds and endless blue.
“I should have noticed you were hurt,” Cas says. “I was distracted.”
Sam tries to speak, but the words stick in his throat, die there.
“I heard you, earlier,” Cas continues. That peculiar manic tone from earlier is still in his voice. “You prayed to me. I only realized then that Dagon had wounded you. I could feel the pain.” His thumb strokes Sam’s forehead. “I have been allowed to heal you, in order to prevent further distraction.”
No, Sam tries to say. Cas.
“Please, don’t look for me,” Cas says. For a moment, he looks ancient, and so sad. “All will be revealed in time.” He begins to glow around the edges, a soft haze that encompasses Sam’s field of view.
Then Sam is blinking into the semi-darkness of his bedroom. Cas is gone. He can move again. When he looks around, he finds that the door is still closed, the warding sigils intact.
Sam rolls over, sits up easily. The pain is gone.