Chapter Text

"Dean, when I go in there," Sam squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating only on gathering strength, "When I go in there...what am I going to find?"

TWO HOUR EARLIER

Sam had never been more content to listen to old mullet rock in the passenger seat of the Impala. If he'd believe in that sort of thing, he'd be thanking God every chance he got. Instead, he promised himself never to take Dean for granted again. He could put up with Kansas and his brother's awful singing if it meant having a brother at all.

The open road, his brother, the car...This was home. This was all he needed. He was too blissed out to let anything ruin it. Except. He hadn't heard from Cas in a while. It was probably nothing. The angel had a habit of taking off. But he wasn't answering his calls, and Sam hadn't heard from him in months. Curing Dean fell to Sam, Charlie, and Crowley, no matter how many times they tried calling Cas and no matter how desperate those calls became. Through it all, Sam ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach, reminding himself that the priority was Dean. Cas would want it that way. And then, when Dean was cured, they would see what was up with Cas.

Then the cure worked and Sam didn't want to bring up anything heavy. Nothing heavier than a routine salt and burn. Dean had been through enough. If Sam had the choice, he'd put off asking about Cas forever. Cas was fine, Cas was always fine, one way or the other. Sam would ignore the possibility that he wasn't.

The probability. The probability that Cas was alone, in trouble, sick, suffering...

Sam lowered the volume on the radio. He would have to broach this as delicately as possible. No cause for alarm, he reminded himself. Casual.

"Um, Dean? Have you heard from Cas lately?"

No matter how casual Sam could have said it, it couldn't get a good response. Dean's smile, which seconds before had been vibrant, melted into a look both horrified and blank.

"Dean?"

If there was a car on the road, they would have crashed. Sam almost grabbed the wheel, but Dean regained his senses enough to to slam on the accelerator in a screeching u-turn.

"What's going on?"

For two hours, Dean wouldn't respond. He barely even blinked, and when he did, small tears squeezed from his eyes and down his cheeks. All the good health from his brother's face had drained. Sam was certain he was trying to find the right cliff to drive off.

Dean barreled down several Nebraska side streets, not slowing down even when they were off the highway. They had several close calls with mailboxes. It was three in the morning, fortunately pedestrians in the street, because Sam was sure Dean would have run them over without batting an eye.

Eventually, the suburbs became rural, deserted and eerie. Dean stopped in front of a shack. His chest was heaving as if he had just run the distance instead of driving it.

"What is this?" Sam asked. "Where are we?"

Dean didn't respond. He just stared straight ahead, haunted.

"Dean, when I go in there," Sam squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating only on gathering strength, "When I go in there...what am I going to find?"

"Get him for me, Sammy. Please. He-" Dean closed his eyes, unable to say more. Sam had a million questions, but the most important one was already answered: Cas was in there. He couldn't waste another thing.

Sam pushed open the door, his hand twitching at the unpleasant softness. The wood didn't feel like it could last another week. Inside was worse; everything smelled of rot and mildew. And death. It smells of death. Sam pushed that thought down. Through the darkness, Sam could make out the vague outlines of shattered tables, broken lamps strewn about the floor.

He should have brought a flashlight. Glass crunched beneath his feet as he walked into the only other room. This was supposed to be a bedroom, if the cot in the corner was supposed to be a bed. It was smaller than a prison cot and looked harder too. Other than the screwdrivers, hammers, and other tools laid across it, it was empty. All that broken furniture, maybe Dean intended to repair some of it. The cot was stained, although that could have been a trick of the dim light. Sam would rather have slept on the floor, or even the large trunk against the wall. The only other thing in the room was a rusted toilet. If Cas was anywhere, he would be in here. There was nowhere else to go.

"Cas?"He should have brought a stupid flashlight. He could go back outside, but seeing Dean was the last thing he wanted to do. "Cas? Buddy? Look, I don't know-"

Sam took three deep breaths. There was a cot. The cot was empty. The cot was stained. Maybe Cas escaped. That had to be it. If he wasn't on the cot, then he probably escaped a while ago. It would be difficult, but Cas had made it on his own before, alone and human.

The only other thing was the trunk.

No. The trunk was barely big enough to fit an adult man's body. Barely big enough, which was still big enough, especially if he was scrunched in there, or tied up and dumped, or taken apart...

Sam couldn't breathe. Dean, no matter how much control the Mark had over him, would never do that to Cas. The haunted look on Dean's face when he brought up Cas, as if the memories came back, that look could have meant anything. Cas wasn't in the trunk.

Sam immediately dropped to his knees and fiddled with the latch. He would open the trunk and Cas wouldn't be in there, and then he and Dean would look for their friend, their brother...

The trunk wouldn't open. Sam screamed and took a screw driver from the bed, bashing it against the lock over and over. Cas couldn't be in there, so it wouldn't matter how much he screamed or how violently he broke it open.

Finally, he heard the satisfying metal thud as the lock hit the floor. Sam flung the lid open and peered in. Cas wouldn't be in there...

But he was. He was curled up, almost like a sleeping child-a child stuffed a coffin, Sam thought, his heart pounding. He's more skeleton than body. Sam wanted to throw up. He reached in and to pulled Cas out of the box. He was even lighter than he looked, even if he was all dead weight.

"Cas, Cas," Sam whispered, as Cas's head lolled grotesquely over his arm. Sam brushed the dark, crusted hair back from Cas's forehead. This couldn't be as bad as it looked. All he needed to do was wake Cas up and the angel would realize he needed to heal himself. Once Cas knew he was safe, he would be OK. "Cas." Sam moved his hand to Castiel's cheek, but all it did was push his head against Sam's shoulder. "You're not dead. Please don't be dead."

But Cas seemed dead. Sam put his hand in front of Cas's mouth, and when he didn't instantly feel the soft puff of breath, the tears came. Cas was dead. His friend was dead and-

Sam hadn't even been able to process the thought until now: Dean had killed him. Tortured him by the looks of it, and poor, devoted Cas, ancient warrior Cas, died in a cramped box in a cold decaying building.

Sam pressed his face into Cas's hair. He would never be able to look at Dean after this. Just like that, the last two weeks vanished. The two weeks of beer, bonding, being a family again...Sam would waste away in this shack clutching Cas's body before he ever went back to Dean.

The tears became a silent stream instead of shoulder-wracking sobs.

I'm so sorry, Cas. Things were supposed to be different.

Something in the house creaked and rattled. It could have been anything. Everything in the house was rusted and rotting. Was Dean coming in to check on what he had done? Sam shifted Cas even closer.

"He won't hurt you anymore," Sam promised his friend. "Nothing will hurt you anymore."

The rattling sound came again, louder, right next to Sam's ear. It wasn't the house. It was Cas. Sam pressed to fingers to Cas's neck. A pulse. Weak, but there. He cupped a grateful hand against Cas's cold, clammy cheek.

"I knew it. I knew you wouldn't let me down."