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Kneeling on the carpet of grimy motel rooms to pray has never really been Sam’s favorite thing to do, but when Castiel dies and Dean stops speaking to him, it’s the only thing he can really do.
They do work. The work doesn’t go away, it’s never done, but everything else comes to a halt. Dean’s four hours of sleep becomes two, three beers turn into six and Lucifer is loving every second of it. His mouth runs like a broken record 24/7, filling Sam’s ears with the most inane commentary on useless things like the shotgun rattling in the backseat, that they might be out of salt, how guarded Dean’s face was one morning when Cass’ trenchcoat fell out of its usual hiding place. Since he’s been back, Sam won’t admit it but it’s been less lonely. Lucifer talks his ear off, filling the empty space in the Impala with his distinct need to say something about everything and loud singing and for a second, Sam almost forgets that he hasn’t heard Dean’s voice for the last one hundred miles.
It comes with its consequences, however. Lucifer’s favorite thing to do is waking Sam up in the middle of the night.
“He’s up, he’s up, he’s up.” Lucifer whispers into Sam’s ear. His voice is loud and grating, making Sam rouse from his sleep as he turns to lay on his side. He pointedly ignores Lucifer, but in his peripheral vision, Sam can see him. Lucifer is grinning, perched at the edge of Dean’s bed as he points to where Dean is clearly missing in action. “Let’s play Find the Older Brother.”
Sam’s eyes burn with exhaustion and it takes them a few seconds to adjust in the darkness that floods the motel room. The lack of moonlight makes it difficult for Sam to see the time, but thankfully, he’s got Santa’s little helper harping away in his ear.
“It’s three in the morning.” Lucifer says, as he crawls into Dean’s bed and lies down. “Where’s Dean?”
Sam rolls out of his bed, walking across the room to look out the window. The Impala stands in solidarity, not having moved an inch away from where they last left her. At least Dean didn’t take off in the middle of the night. (Again.)
“Uh oh. This isn’t looking good.” Lucifer says, before he starts whistling. The sound bounces off the walls of the motel room and the blood rushing through Sam’s veins chills until it almost slows to a halt.
The door to the bathroom is closed, and Sam approaches it gingerly. He tries the knob. The door is locked. No, no, no. Sam shallowly breathes, heart pounding in his chest and the sleep has abandoned his body, filling the cavities with fear and terror and Sam is about to knock when he hears it.
“I hate you. I fucking hate you.” Dean is saying, voice barely louder than a whisper, but Sam hears him, loud and clear. “Had to just go and fucking — get yourself killed, how dare you?”
Sam takes a step back. He wasn’t supposed to hear this, any of this. But there’s a part of him, a tiny part, that wants to know how Dean is coping with Castiel’s death. Dean is never going to tell him, anyway.
“This is your only chance.” Lucifer voices out, and Sam leans in, pressing his ear against the door.
Now, he hears it. The shaky breaths, the loose exhales, the watery words. Dean isn’t crying but he’s seconds away from it. A pang of guilt knocks against Sam’s ribcage but there’s nothing he can do.
“There’s nothing you can do.” Lucifer repeats.
“You should’ve told me. Whatever you were thinking of doing, you should’ve told me.” Dean says, breaking into a cough. “Don’t you think I would’ve helped you?”
Lucifer leaps out of the bed, as he comes to stand a few steps behind Sam. “They were very close, huh, Sammy? I mean, you really know how to pick ‘em.” Lucifer laughs, loud, loud, louder. Sam feels the bile crawling up his throat as Dean sobs real quiet, muffled by his sleeve.
“I bet it would shatter his damaged soul into pretty little pieces if he ever found out about you.”
Sam backs away. Every inch of Sam’s body wants to walk over to Lucifer and throttle him, bludgeon him to death with his fists because when Lucifer dies this time, Sam wants to feel it. But of course, Lucifer is a figment of his imagination. Not any more realer than the conversation his brother just had with Castiel.
Dean clears his throat and Sam takes that as an indication to get back into bed. He settles in under the blanket, whatever warmth was remaining having left the bed now, and Lucifer is singing some AC/DC song that sounds painfully familiar. Dean would know it, Sam thinks. Sam listens to the sounds of Dean shuffling around for another two hours and it’s obvious that they’re not going to get any sleep tonight. Sam watches splices of yellow enter the room through the half-opened window and when Dean comes over to wake him up, Sam pretends like he doesn’t see the dark bags under Dean’s eyes.
⚭
[He won’t tell me what’s wrong. I asked him if he got any sleep — twice, I asked him twice — and he lied straight to my face. I mean. Can’t say I’m surprised. You know Dean, when the fuck has he ever given me a straight answer? Let’s just add this to the never-ending list of bullshit he’s tried to feed me, huh?
Sometimes, I think that it was better when you were around. He would talk. At least. And now it’s all — fucking slamming doors and throwing keys and I have no idea what to do. Cass. Where the hell are you? Just… I’ve been doing this for a few days now. Answer me. Please. If you don’t want to, answer Dean. It’s fine. I’ll understand. Just let me — let us know you’re okay.]
⚭
The fries are stale. The burger tastes like cardboard. Every bite is worse than the last and Sam pushes the tray away, choosing to fill his stomach with the vanilla milkshake instead.
Dean, Sam and Lucifer are the only three people in the restaurant. The waitresses have all left for a smoke break, now that Sam and Dean have been served, and Sam can hear the cooks in the kitchen switch the stoves off, talking about which bar to hit tonight.
Lucifer is sitting in the seat beside Dean, fingers knotted and placed on the table. He looks so goddamn ridiculous that Sam has to fight the urge to say something about it to Dean.
“Go on. Say something to him.” Lucifer grins, nudging towards Dean with his chin. “Tell him that his baby brother is seeing the devil while he’s still mourning his boyfriend. Go on. Let’s see how well Dean Winchester takes that news.”
Sam painfully gulps down the last sip of his drink. He looks at Dean for a second too long and Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” Sam mutters, choosing to look past Dean’s shoulder at the waitress outside the restaurant, who’s been trying to make eye contact with him for the last fifteen minutes. She smiles, blonde hair flying gracefully in the wind, raising her hand to give him a tiny wave. Sam politely smiles, nodding his head to acknowledge her.
“What if she slips you her number?” Lucifer asks. I fucking hope she doesn’t.
Sam almost doesn’t notice that Dean has been looking at him all this while. “What the hell are you doing?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t wait for a reply, quickly choosing to turn in his seat. The waitress is still there, cigarette half-smoked and Dean turns back to face Sam, a mischievous grin on his face. “You sly son of a bitch.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.” Dean and Lucifer say in unison. Sam dips his head in response.
She does slip him her number. The Jungle @ 7.30. Hope 2 C U there. Sam takes one last look at the note before he tosses it.
⚭
[It’s getting worse. Lucifer is so loud and he’s singing all the time or talking all the time and I’m losing my goddamn mind here. Think it’s been… maybe two days since I slept. But that’s not even the worst part. Dean only ever talks about cases now. Isn’t it insane to think that — the person I talk to all day is the devil?
And I mean. You too. It’s just… it’s been very long. I’m worried about you. I know you’re out there, something in my soul knows you’re alive. Find your way back to me. Please.
I — we — both need you. Please, Cass. Respond. I just wanna know you’re okay.]
⚭
“Have you been sleeping?”
It’s been five days. Every word that comes out of Dean’s mouth grates on Sam’s nerves. He’s starting to see things. A swarm of locusts flying right to the Impala. A woman on the side of the road, peeling her skin off, bit by bit, piece by piece. Mary Winchester, blonde and young and going up in flames. Sam watches her get engulfed by flames again and he wants to die.
Sam groans, using his wrists to rub his eyes. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.”
“Excuse me?” Dean says, cocking an eyebrow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Sam mutters.
There’s an avalanche of pain cascading around in his brain, knocking against his temples and his eyeballs burn like they’ve been set on fire. The Impala jostles as it hits a speed bump and Lucifer clicks his tongue in the backseat, fixing his shirt.
“I wonder how long a person can live without sleep.” Lucifer says.
The silence in the Impala stretches thin but it doesn’t last long. Lucifer is in the backseat, trying to reach over and fiddle with the radio. Sam watches him in the rearview mirror with poorly hidden disdain. “You’ve got a shit ton of cassettes.” Lucifer says, before he gets busy sticking his head out the window. Sam can only hope it gets cut off.
Sam turns his attention over to Dean at the steering wheel. His knuckles are clenched white as he takes the next right turn.
“I’m fine.” Sam reiterates.
“You look like a truck ran over you.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Where’s he now?” Dean asks, and Sam glances at Lucifer.
“Backseat.”
“Fuck.” Dean mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Damn, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Lucifer asks, before he gasps, covering his mouth with his hand. “I mean, whoops. My bad, Sammy.”
Sam can feel the flames of rage being fanned inside him. He wants to complain, tell Dean that it feels like his soul is being torn apart by Lucifer’s nails, but he takes one look at Dean, tired and exhausted and weary and sad and Sam lets it go.
⚭
[It’s been… days? Weeks? Months? Since I last slept and I want to die. I want this to be over. Castiel, where the fuck are you? Where? Come back. Come back quickly. I need you.]
⚭
When Castiel bursts through the hospital door, Sam is surely hallucinating. Everything he’s been seeing for the past few days has been a lie. And of course, the next thing his brain chooses to come up with after Ruby, is Castiel. Of course it’s him. He has four pairs of eyes trained on him. Dean, Lucifer, Meg, Castiel. Yet Sam can’t seem to hide the absolute relief he feels when he sees Castiel.
“Sam, Sam, Sammy, I’m so sorry.” Castiel says, as he makes it over to Sam’s bedside. Sam stares at him, then at Lucifer, then at Dean, who’s as pale as a white sheet. He’s leaning against the wall, like he’s trying to stay still. The last time Sam saw Dean look so fucking terrified, Castiel walked into the lake and never came back up.
“Look at me.” Cass says, and Sam does. Where’s the trenchcoat, Sam wants to ask, as if that’s important. Why do you look like you’re about to go golfing? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I —“
“What? What?” Sam mutters. Castiel’s face is exactly like Sam’s last memory of him. The day in the park, the ice-cream at the corner of his mouth, the sunlight streaming through the brown strands of his hair. He looks pure, untouched, no longer corrupted by endless power and even though Castiel is the one who did this to him, all Sam wants to say is:
“Cass, you heard my prayers.”
In his peripheral vision, Sam sees Dean visibly shift.
Lucifer laughs. “You can never get rid of me, Sam.”
Castiel smiles and it reaches his eyes. Sam has dreamed of this face — when he could still dream with his eyes closed — and it feels like a burst of oxygen, shot straight into Sam’s lungs. “Of course. I didn’t know it was you, but I heard every single one.”
“Uh, Cass. You better hurry up.” Meg says, and Castiel nods.
“What? What’s going on?” Sam asks and Lucifer is belting out music at the top of his lungs.
“I’m sorry I ever hurt you, Sam.” Castiel says, as he grabs Sam’s arm and curls his fingers around Sam’s elbow. “Trust me when I say that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”
Before Sam can reply, something happens. Castiel speaks. Red lines snake down Sam’s arm into Castiel’s veins and it burns. It burns so bad. Sam can taste blood flooding his mouth and he screams, so loud that if there was glass anywhere in this psych ward, it would’ve shattered.
Castiel falls back, clutching his arm in pain and with the next blink of Sam’s eyes, Lucifer is gone. He disappears in a puff of smoke. Sam’s chest starts to hurt as Castiel sits by the edge of his bed, eyes suddenly sunken in. Meg moves, grabbing Castiel before he leans back further.
“Dean. Dean?” Sam says, and his brother is already by his side. Dean helps him up, putting Sam’s arm around his shoulders. Meg opens the door to the room, almost as if she’s eager to get rid of them and Sam freezes, with one foot out the door.
Lucifer is gone. Sam knows that much. He turns on his heel to get a glance at Cass, who looks like he’s met death. The blue from his eyes has melted into pools of grey, the shine having left his skin. Meg is saying something to him, but Castiel doesn’t even nod.
“We can’t leave him here,” Sam says. “There’s no fucking way I’m leaving him here.”
There’s something unreadable in Dean’s eyes. It’s etched all over his face, but Sam can’t quite put his finger on what it actually is. For a second, Sam feels hot and naked under his brother’s gaze, the panic settling in. Oh fuck, he knows, he knows, he knows. All this time Sam spent trying to make sure he’ll never know has gone down the drain. But in a flash, it’s gone.
Dean shakes his head. “We’ll come back for him. I promise.”
⚭
“Hey. You’re up. How you feeling?” Dean says, and Sam lifts his head to glance at him. Dean’s at the table, Dad’s notebook propped open and Sam’s laptop turned on. Dean smiles at him, albeit hesitantly and Sam sits up, feeling his feet hit the ground.
“Brain feels like mush. But I’ll live. Mostly.”
Dean clicks his tongue. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Right, sorry.” Sam feels his stomach growl. “Is there something to eat?”
Dean snaps his fingers, like an aha moment, and he gets up. His bottom lip curls in disappointment as he opens the fridge door. He looks up at Sam, embarrassed. “A cold burrito.”
Sam could eat a horse now. Raw. It’s so lovely here without Lucifer. No AC/DC. No laughing. No comments about Dean and Castiel. Pure, utter silence. “That’s right up my alley.” Dean nods, tossing the aluminium foil wrapped burrito at Sam, who catches it with ease. Either Sam is insane or this burrito is the best thing he’s ever eaten.
Dean goes back to his table to scribble away in his notebook. Sam takes the moment to glance at Dean. At least he looks like he’s slept for more than two hours, but he’s not quite there yet.
Sam clears his throat. “So.”
Dean looks up. “So.”
“What about Cass?”
Dean takes a beat, then answers. Sam can’t read him. “Meg will look after him.”
“Aren’t you… worried about him?”
“Look, after everything that he’s done, I think some time alone could be good for him.”
Sam’s heart pounds in his chest, and he unconsciously grits his teeth. “How could you say that? I mean, it’s… it’s Cass.”
“So? That doesn’t change anything.” Dean scoffs.
“Not even for you?”
Dean looks visibly uncomfortable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A flash of anger shoots up Sam’s side and he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “What? You think I didn’t know?”
“Know what?” Dean asks, blinking once.
Sam scoffs. If Lucifer was here, he would’ve had a field day with this. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. He closes the laptop, then the notebook, chewing on the inside of his cheek as if he’s deep in thought. He must be thinking about where he slipped up, where he messed up that caused Sam to find out, but what Sam won’t ever tell him is that all Sam needed to know was one glance at the two of them. It wasn’t rocket science.
“How’d you find out?”
“I used my super-sharp detective skills, of course.” Dean scoffs. “I overheard you guys talk.”
“So you were spying on us.”
“I was pretending to be asleep and you weren’t trying to be subtle.”
Dean coughs into a fist, looking anywhere but at Sam. “Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. You were never much of a talker anyway.”
Dean takes a pause. “Is that why you didn’t tell me you were praying to him?”
“We don’t talk about that kinda stuff.”
“Of course we do. We talk about everything.” Dean says, eyebrows furrowed and lips curled in the anger at the accusation.
“Yeah, right. Like you told me about how you felt when Cass died? Or that you couldn’t sleep either? Or that you woke up around the clock to pray to him, just like I did? Doesn’t everything include this as well?”
Dean meets his eyes. “I… You had your own shit to deal with, Sammy.”
Sam sighs, leaning back on the bed. He keeps his eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling. “Then forgive me for not fucking oversharing.”
The silence falls upon them like a thick dusting of snow, and Sam no longer has the appetite to finish his burrito.
“Sammy.”
“What?”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Sam hears it in Dean’s tone and he knows exactly what Dean is talking about. His heart is heavy underneath the cage of his ribs. When Sam closes his eyes, he sees Cass, smiling and grinning and saying Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.
“No.” Sam lies. “Everything’s fine.”
⚭