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Sam’s coffee had gone cold, but Dean’s beer had warmed up. There was a sort of equilibrium to that fact that Sam found soothing, which was his justification for why he’d been sitting at the table in the bunker for hours staring blankly at the mug in front of him and the bottle on the other side. Both drinks were actually from a few days ago, but Sam hadn’t found much to do since then that wasn’t just sitting there, thinking about room temperature liquids. It had been a full 24 hours since Sam had found the note Dean left, “SAMMY LET ME GO” scrawled in his signature chicken scratch, lying on the bed that was warm from where his brother’s cold body had been laid to rest. Temporarily. There had been heat transference there, too, Sam noted absentmindedly - one would assume Dean’s body temperature likely skyrocketed pretty quickly after whatever it was Crowley did to him. Not so much for ventilation in their bedrooms, and for the king of hell Crowley wore some cheap fucking cologne, so at least Sam knew where to start.
Sort of. In a manner of speaking. Sam knew Dean’s body went from cold to warm, and that Crowley had something to do with it, but the details beyond that had Sam stuck, and when he got stuck he thought about carrying Dean’s lifeless body back to the car, and driving Dean’s lifeless body back to the bunker, and carrying Dean’s lifeless body down to his room, so Sam was trying to avoid the trains of thought that lead him to get stuck. So he was just sitting at the table. Thinking about room temperature liquids.
Sam’s breath was coming in the shake-gasp-swallow pattern Sam associated with being a child, trying to calm down after a big cry, but he wasn’t crying. He hadn’t cried at all yet. He wasn’t sure it was appropriate anymore. Not crying over his dead brother, but crying over his missing one? What would Dean have to say about that, Sam idly thought, that he was worth more to Sam dead but with him, than alive but somewhere else? Shake-gasp-swallow. Dean was gone but his beer was still warm on the table, and Sam was still here but his coffee had gone cold. There was something about that, Sam thought. Two sides of the same coin, the Winchester brothers, like everything else. Hot and cold, good and evil, heaven and hell, Lucifer and Michael. The problem with being on two sides of the same coin is that even when you’re together, you can’t sit across from each other at the table, because one has to be on top facing up and the other has to have his face shoved into the floor, mouthful of gravel. Heads or tails, Sam thought, you call it this time, Dean. Shake-gasp-swallow.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, tentative. Sam would’ve jumped if he’d had it in him, but it was Castiel, so Sam’s lack of reflex didn’t matter. Sam looked up at him, and Cas looked down at him, and wasn’t that just the way it went. Sam cracked a joyless smile that barely flicked the corners of his mouth but made his lips hurt, and the miserable look on Cas’ face only deepened. Sam almost missed the days that Cas showed no emotion at all, back when he could pretend the stony expression meant that he was an angel who knew the plan and was never surprised, or confused, or stuck. “Hey, Cas,” Sam said in a voice that indicated exactly how long he’d been sitting there in silence staring at days old drinks.
“Sam,” Cas replied, and he didn’t sound much better. “The angels don’t know where he is.”
“They don’t know, or they won’t tell you?” Sam asked, and Cas’ mouth set in a grim line. Sam nodded, because that was basically what he’d figured. The only person who seemed to gain and lose and beg for scraps of respect more than he did was Castiel.
“He’s with Crowley, and Crowley is ostentatious. We’ll know where he is soon enough,” Cas said, grave like a promise.
Sam worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “Soon enough,” he repeated softly, thinking about how long it takes for liquids to hit room temperature and how long Dean was dead for until he wasn’t. Who knew when soon enough was? Maybe it was already too late. Maybe the coffee was already cold. Maybe the beer had started to boil. Sam tasted copper and let go of his lip.
“You should get some sleep,” Castiel said gingerly. Don’t spook the deer, Sam thought. “I will wake you if anything comes up.”
For a second, Sam was hit with the sort of glorious temptation only afforded to toddlers - the urge to throw a tantrum, stomp his feet, throw himself onto the ground and yell until his throat was raw that he didn’t want to go to sleep, that he wanted to stay up til his brother got home. No, no, no, I don’t wanna, the rallying cry of his entire childhood - maybe most of his adult life too. He barely gave in to that temptation when he was young, learning quickly that John wasn’t very susceptible to that kind of reaction and that it was better to just find a way to get what he wanted and get yelled at later. Regardless, it was tempting now.
Castiel was looking at him with concern, and it struck somewhere deep inside Sam that this wasn’t just concern for Dean’s whereabouts, but concern for Sam. Already he was a distraction from the cause. They were already down one in their little trio and here Sam was, splitting Castiel’s already thin abilities that should be entirely dedicated to finding Dean into taking care of him instead. Maybe, Sam thought, he should throw a tantrum if he was going to act so childish anyway. Maybe he should kick the table until the drinks fell off, the mug and bottle both shattering against the floor, Dean’s glass and Sam’s ceramic. They always were made of different stuff, Sam thought, but he’d always assumed Dean’s was a little sturdier. Sam thought briefly about something he’d heard once, about a culture who used gold glue to piece together broken pots, where the gold jagged lines denoting where it had shattered were considered beautiful, part of its story. Sam wondered if Crowley had used gold glue when he’d put Dean back together again. Sam wondered if he would be able to see the beauty in the jagged lines.
“Sam?” Castiel said, but it wasn’t really a question. “Is everything okay?” he said, and Sam knew what he was really saying was everything needs to be okay with you. It has to be about Dean right now. I can't handle both.
It’s a privilege, Sam knew, to be able to think of him and Dean separately at all. “I’m fine, Cas,” he said, and stood up from the table.
He grabbed the beer on his way to his room, and Cas said nothing as Sam downed it in one long swallow, grimacing tightly at taste. He wouldn’t know that long after he fell asleep, Castiel would return to the table, and tentatively raise the cold coffee to his lips. He wouldn’t know that Castiel only tasted molecules, but that the beer had been drunk, and he thought the coffee should be too. Sam wouldn’t know there was an equilibrium to that that Castiel found soothing, too.
Sam wouldn’t know that Castiel wanted to throw a temper tantrum, too, until it was too late to do anything about it.