Bobby’s basement was cold, the gentle storm outside not playing into the damp feel of the room. Dean was chilled beyond weather’s grasp. He was chilled beyond Bobby’s hopeful and fake smile. He was immune to “Sam’s gonna be alright”. He was broken in ways that a ‘chin up’ talk could never help.

Sam started talking about an hour ago, maybe longer. Dean wasn’t exactly sure how long ago Sam had walked into the panic room by his own free will, giving Dean a weak thumbs up before Dean closed the door. The talking, asking if Dean was there, soon turned into yelling, and yelling to screaming and panicked cries. Dean kept himself from looking in the small window to the round room, knowing that if he saw his baby brother like that again, he would rush in.

As Sam called for Dean, over and over again, his voice shrieked and frightened, Dean’s eyes closed, his stomach churning. He felt sick. Sick to the point of throwing up because he didn’t know what else to do. He’d felt helplessness before but this day had brought him to a new low. That was his brother in there. The brother he’d been protecting and watching out for all his life and now…

Dean raised the bottle of alcohol to his lips, not bothering to turn when Cas appeared. His approach was silent, as if the angel had been there since this night began. “That’s not him in there,” Castiel stated as Dean swallowed hard, the liquid burning his empty stomach.

“Not really.”

Dean slowly opened his eyes. “I know.” He didn’t really. He knew that what was happening to Sam wasn’t really Sam, but the voice, the shrill screams and sobs of a young man being torn apart from the inside was Sam. Dean’s entire body trembled in response to the growing sickness.

“Dean,” Cas begins, his voice as close to sympathetic as it can. “Sam just needs to get it out of his system. Then he’ll be -“

“Listen, I just, uh…” Dean could feel himself losing the battle over his emotions. “I just need to get some air.” Sam’s tortured cries followed Dean as he walked up the stairs and out of Bobby’s house. He hoped that Cas would understand that he wanted to be alone. Half of him was surprised that the angel didn’t reply with something like ‘But, Dean, there’s oxygen all around you.’

Dean kept walking, his steps heavy and slow, until he came to the scrapyard. His legs became like rubber and he slumped against a car, vomit rising in his throat. He leaned toward the grass and coughed, spitting the remaining bile before straightening again. He pulled in a shaking breath, wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, and walked to the Impala, glancing back to make sure Castiel hadn’t followed.

He lifted the bottle again, but didn’t drink. Instead he looked at it, knowing full well that what was inside wouldn’t satisfy him. Nothing would. He lowered it and set it on the Impala’s hood. The dam he had worked hard to construct around his anger, his fear, his hatred, his sadness, his rage crumpled as his brother’s terrified screams echoed in his head.

Dean began to nod, almost without his doing so. He was giving in. Fine, you win, alright? If this was some sort of Heavenly test, those sons of bitches had won. His eyes drifted toward the sky, small raindrops leaving wet dots on his face and clothes. He was exhausted to the bone, broken in spirit, and desperate as hell. So he quietly called to Heaven.

“Please…” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for, but he was begging. Tears blurred his vision and his voice was thick. “I can’t…”

There weren’t words to explain what was happening. There was no place for this prayer in the titled bins of unanswered prayers that he imagined were left at Heaven’s doorstep.

Finally he considered the one thing that he could ask for. “I need some help.” It covered the bases.

No reply came, no flash of light and great revelation. Not even Cas showed up to give him a helpful reply. Nothing. Just more silence. Just more rain. Just more disappointment.

“Please?” He sounded like a child, a lost boy.