Work Text:
It had been three days since they had returned to the bunker. Three long, miserable days. The longer Dean went without sleep, the more miserable he became. Twice now, Sam had swept away broken glass after Dean had lost his temper in a whiskey rage. For his part, though, Sam had remained largely silent. Each and every previous attempt at consoling Dean, every offer of hope, had been met with bitter sarcasm or breathtaking fury.
On their fourth morning home, Sam shuffled into the library, expecting to find Dean surrounded by books and whiskey, his eyes sunken, his unwashed clothes waxy and hanging loose on his tacky skin - just as he had so many times before. To his great surprise, he was met with an empty room. There were books and there was whiskey, but there was no Dean.
His first stop was the garage, feeling relief when he found the Impala nestled safely in her designated spot. Dean was in no condition to be driving anywhere, but at this point, Sam certainly wouldn't put it past him to try.
Next, he checked the kitchen, half expecting to find Dean slumped over a cup of coffee. Again, he was a confronted by an empty room. A quick glance at the heaping pile of empty bottles in the trash etched a note into his mind to take care of them later. Right now, his task was Dean.
He made his way down the hall to the barracks, listening for a moment... No shower was running. He made another mental note to shove Dean in there later.
When he arrived at Dean's room, he found the door ajar. He pushed it open and breathed out slowly. Dean lay on his side, one arm clutching a pillow to his chest, his headphones slightly askew. He was snoring quietly, letting Sam know he was alive, at the very least.
Sam took a step back to leave him be when something caught his eye. On the floor beside the bed, beneath Dean's out-stretched hand, lay a photo. Making his way to the bed, Sam knelt to pick it up. When he turned it over, his breath caught in his throat.
It was Cas. He closed his eyes for a moment, the memory flooding back to him. He remembered taking the picture for Dean. At the time, of course, he had thought nothing of it. It was the one night Dean always said was as close to perfect as they'd ever get. Dean always referred to it as The Last Good Day. Pizza. Beer. Cas's grace restored. Charlie.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as he stared down at the photo: Dean's arm wrapped around Cas's shoulders, a bright, infectious smile on his face with his eyes fixed on Cas. Sam could see now his expression was nothing if not pure love and happiness. Cas, looking as comfortable and casual as Sam had ever seen him (having tossed aside the trench coat), was leaning into Dean, beaming at the camera. Blurry in the background sat Charlie, taking an endearing and unflatteringly huge bite of pizza.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Sam inhaled sharply and looked up at his brother. It was then that he realized Dean had been crying. His cheeks glistened; his pillowcase water-stained.
He stood, setting the photo on Dean's nightstand, and left Dean to sleep in peace, quietly closing the door behind him. He had to do something. Anything. Waiting around for signs and clues to drop into their laps wasn't working and the weight of it the weight of all the quiet things Dean had never let people know; all of those unspoken feelings for Cas... They were killing Dean. And for everything Dean had ever done for him; for the world, he deserved better than that. Sam knew he had to do something. One way or another, he was getting Cas back. He was getting Dean his happy ending; his out. Even if it killed him to do so.