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The lights in the entryway are off when Castiel arrives back at the bunker in the waning depths of night. The air is still and quiet. Castiel investigates the kitchen and the library and finds them both dark and empty. Growing concerned, he touches his blade, cloaked in the fabric of his sleeve, and proceeds with caution into the lower levels, beginning with the living quarters.
Sam and Mary’s rooms are empty, but yellow light floods from the crack under Dean’s door. Castiel knocks softly before pushing the door open.
Dean is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the foot of his bed and white-knuckling a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He looks surprised to see Castiel.
“You came back.” The words are flat and hoarse. Dean’s eyes are glassy, shot through with red. From drink, perhaps. Castiel senses immediately that something is wrong.
“What happened?” The growl of protectiveness in his own voice surprises him.
Dean takes several breaths, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he gets the words out, cracked with grief. He doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze when he speaks. “Mom’s gone. Couldn’t stand looking at us and remembering her family anymore. Her kids. I guess.”
A surge of emotions sweeps through Castiel at once, tugging somewhere beneath his sternum, tangled and sharp and too human to possibly comprehend. He crouches down at the end of the bed, doesn’t miss the way Dean still won’t look at him, shies away from his touch when Castiel reaches out to him.
“Dean. Look at me.” Not for the first time, Castiel feels the urgent need to fix, to mend and heal wounds beyond the reach of his grace. “It isn’t your fault. You know how jarring it is to return from death; the disconnect from reality that accompanies it. She only needs time to heal.”
Dean blinks at him. Castiel doubts whether any of his words have gotten through the haze of loss and alcohol saturating his mind. For now, there are other pressing matters.
“Where is Sam?”
“Uh.” Dean casts his gaze around, as though noticing for the first time that Sam isn’t there, expecting to see him in any corner of the room, behind any door. “He went out. Said he needed some air.”
“How long ago?”
A panicked edge tints Dean’s voice when he stutters, “I don’t. I can’t.”
Castiel curses himself for not returning sooner. He stands. “I’m going to look for him.”
Dean struggles to his feet at Castiel’s side. “Wait. I’m coming.”
Castiel wants to protest, but Dean has left the liquor bottle on the ground and he finally looks awake, even though he’s stumbling slightly and clearly stiff from sitting on the floor. He waits until they reach the front room to stop and say, “Dean. You’re exhausted and probably dehydrated. I’ll be able to find Sam more quickly on my own.”
It becomes clear just how badly off Dean really is from the way he doesn’t get angry or even protest. He just looks down at the ground, swallows hard, nods a little convulsively. He looks utterly defeated.
Castiel sighs. He cups Dean’s chin in his hand and pulls his face up to make Dean look at him. “At least let me drive.”
+
Despite the deep shadows and thin moonlight, it doesn’t take them long to find Sam, shivering and stumbling in the wrong direction a little way down the road. He throws up a hand to shield his eyes when the headlights of Castiel’s truck sweep over him, shies away from the brightness like it causes him physical pain.
Dean opens his door and steps out of the truck before Castiel even has a chance to put it in park. He calls his brother’s name, moves toward him quickly and stops when Sam flinches and takes a jerky step backward. Dean looks helpless. His lips move rapidly but Castiel can’t make out the words.
Castiel cuts the engine and steps out of the vehicle. “Sam.”
Sam turns his face at the sound of his name, but his eyes are utterly blank, and Castiel sees no recognition in them. He’s pale. His breathing is shallow and too-quick, little sips of air that rattle in his throat, drag his shoulders in twitching circles, up-and-down.
Castiel takes a few careful steps forward, not entirely sure what Sam is seeing or how he will react to the movement. He speaks Sam’s name again, gently, firmly. Raises a hand in front of him, glowing faintly with the cool blue-white of his grace.
Sam blinks several times, as though peering through a dense fog. He tucks his right thumb into the meat of his left palm, presses hard, digging the nail in deep.
Dean says, “Hey. Sammy, stop.”
Eventually, Sam releases a shaking breath and eases up. There’s blood on his thumbnail, running in the lines of his heavily scarred palm. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.
“Cas?” His voice is soft, cracked with exhaustion and weary uncertainty. His whole body is shaking faintly with the effort of clawing his way out of his own mind, with the cold of standing out so long in the chilly autumn night. He isn’t even wearing a coat.
Castiel’s chest aches. “Yes,” he says, and closes the space between them, reaching out to take Sam’s injured hand in both of his. He cradles Sam’s wrist and the ridges of his knuckles, the sturdy tendons and soft hairs at the back of his hand. Castiel touches him as carefully as Sam handles the yellowed pages and cracking spines of old lorebooks, or tucks a blanket around Dean where he’s fallen asleep on the couch again. What Castiel knows of gentleness he has learned from Sam. “This is real.”
Sam shudders. Castiel can see all the raw frayed ends of him, the threads of reality that days of captivity and torture had plucked away at like the fine hairs of a worn bow. Yet Sam had still clung to them, desperately and with every ounce of his strength since he emerged from that basement, blinking into the sunlight with his long-dead mother at his back. For days Sam has hung suspended in the in-between place of reality and hallucination without speaking a word of it to anyone, because more than anything, Sam hates inconveniencing others.
Castiel vows to help where he can. He closes his eyes and focuses his energy. Tendrils of grace leech into Sam where their hands are joined, drawing out the worst of the cold. Sam leans into the touch.
When Castiel opens his eyes, Dean has moved forward and inserted himself firmly in Sam’s space, gripping his shirtsleeve and mumbling a litany of apologies, radiating warmth at Castiel’s side. Sam is staring wide-eyed at Dean, like the sight of his brother half-drunk and rambling and wrung-out in the stark headlights of Castiel’s truck is nothing short of a miracle.
“You’re alive. That’s real.”
“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is thick with emotion. “It’s real.”
Castiel doesn’t see who moves first but suddenly they’re embracing, clinging to each other white-knuckle tight and Castiel is drawn into it, still holding Sam’s injured hand. Sam sniffles into Dean’s shoulder and clings to Castiel, and Dean strokes his brother’s head, reaches down to join the clasp of their hands and hang on tight.
Castiel is vaguely uncomfortable, but he fears moving will disturb the moment of solace the brothers have found. Quietly, cautious of the toll it takes on his own body, still healing from Lucifer’s mistreatment, he uses the connection between them to ease the sharpest edges of their pain.
+
Sam sits between them on the short drive back to the bunker. He is quiet and pliant, nearly unblinking. His thigh is warm against Castiel’s on the bench seat.
Slowly, stumbling a little, Castiel gets them out of the car and into the bunker, down the long hallways to Sam’s room. He leaves them there and goes to the kitchen to make herbal tea, sweetened with a little honey how Sam likes.
When he returns to Sam’s room, the brothers are sitting on the floor together, leaning against the bed with their legs sprawled in front of them. Sam’s head is on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s hand is in his hair, fingers sifting absently through the soft strands.
“Mom left,” Sam says, voice still a little flat.
“Yeah. That one’s real too. She’s okay, though. She’s alive.”
Sam lifts his head, looking clearer than he has since they found him. “I know. I mean. We should call her. Make sure she made it somewhere safe for the night.”
Dean shakes his head and lets out a watery chuckle. “You’re a good kid, Sammy.”
“I’m thirty-three, jackass.” Sam yawns widely and puts his head back down.
Castiel clears his throat, announcing his presence before entering with two steaming mugs. He realizes he doesn’t know where to put them. “I, uh. I made tea.”
Sam smiles weakly and takes one of the mugs. “Thanks, Cas.”
Castiel holds the second mug out to Dean. “Drink it. It’s meant to assist liver function.”
Dean glares at him, but accepts the tea. “Smartass.”
“Do you need anything else?” Castiel asks.
Dean shakes his head. “Nah. We’re good.” Castiel makes to leave the room then, but Dean says, “Hey, wait. Sit down, Cas. We could use the company.”
Castiel removes his coat and settles in on Sam’s other side. Sam is clutching the hot mug of tea tightly in both hands, heedless of the intense heat. Castiel eases it from between his fingers and sets it on the floor, soothes the redness left on Sam’s skin, keeps Sam’s hand held safe in his.
“No more of that,” Castiel says.
Sam hums in response, sounding halfway to sleep.
Dean’s hand, slung across Sam’s shoulders, brushes the back of Castiel’s neck, kneads at the muscle there. Castiel wonders whether Dean is even aware he’s doing it. It’s unnecessary, but the sensation is pleasant and soothing. Soon, Castiel knows, he will stand and put on his coat and return to the search for Lucifer. Sam and Dean will stow away their grief and scars and take up the next hunt. Each of them will return to his place as warrior and protector, and Castiel may not see them for weeks or even months.
“You sticking around tonight, Cas?” Dean says, sleep slurring his words. Castiel can tell that his eyes are closed.
“I’ll be here when you wake,” Castiel vows. The only promise he can give them.
“Real,” Sam breathes quietly, fading fast. “That’s real.”