The angels are falling. There’s a stinging wash over Sam’s eyes that makes him squint, and the light of their burning grace hurts to watch. It hurts even when he closes his eyes, something in him that’s still, whatever, resonating, and he can feel it somewhere deep under his diaphragm, like someone’s stuck their hand in and is tearing. The angels are falling, and it hurts. His skin feels too tight, hypersensitive with the fever he’s had for weeks, and the angels are falling, and Crowley’s chained up to a chair in that church half-cured, and they’ve failed. Sam’s failed, again.

The wet gravel is cold under his ass, and he can do nothing but huddle into Dean’s side and stare up at the sky, tears leaking hot from his eyes. He feels young and stupid, and he hates Dean for being right again, even as some part of him wishes that he could be eight years old again and cry into his brother’s shoulder and not feel like he doesn't deserve it. Somewhere nearby, the ground shakes with impact, and Sam convulses, and blacks out.

When he wakes up, bleary, sick and dizzy, it’s to the familiar sound and motion of the Impala, his own cheek stuck to the window. He groans, blinking over at Dean. ‘What--?’

‘You passed out,’ Dean says. His voice is curt and his jaw tight, but his eyes are wet. ‘I had to haul your giant ass into the car by myself.’

Sam’s brain is either too far ahead or behind the rest of him, he can’t tell which, and he shakes his head, sniffing wetly. ‘What about-- what’d you do with Crowley?’ he croaks, and clenches his hands. He can still feel the bursting, glowing sensation of magic in his fists and forearms, like his blood had turned to embers, and he presses his fingertips into his palms, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Let it go, Dean had said. Let it go.

From the back seat, an unusually subdued voice murmurs, ‘Moose’, and Sam jerks around as quickly as he’s able to see Crowley slumped there, still in his collar and cuffs, eyes overbright and face bloody.

‘Didn’t know what the hell else to do with him,’ comes Dean’s voice roughly from next to him. ‘Half cured demon; I don’t know what the hell he is now. But I figure,’ and that’s him putting on his leadership voice, Sam can hear it, ‘we head back to the Batcave, lock him up in the dungeon, and focus on getting you better. Then we can--’ he shakes his head, ‘figure him the fuck out, and -- find Cas, and--’

His voice cracks, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut tight, leaning his head back against the seat. The hysterical thought occurs to him that it’s no wonder Dean loves Cas as much as he does; he’s just the same as Sam; trying so hard to fix things and he only fucks them up worse than before. ‘Sorry,’ Sam murmurs, whispers; barely a breath. He doesn’t look over to see if Dean’s heard him, instead slipping back into fuzzed half-consciousness.

He’s lucid enough to get himself into his bed, when they arrive back at the Men of Letters’ bunker. Kevin is there, panicked, babbling about alarms, but Sam’s too tired, and he hurts too much, feels feverish and too hollow to talk to the kid right now. He falls into bed, and ends up pulling off half his clothes in his sleep. He slides in and out of dreams and waking the next few days; at least he thinks it’s the next few days. Dean comes in occasionally and force-feeds him soup or water. Sometimes they talk; sometimes Dean just talks at him as Sam dozes.

It’s been two or three days, he thinks, when he wakes up suddenly, with the sickening hypnic jerk sensation of not knowing where he is. The first thing he registers is cold, and not just the cold of a fever, actual cold, with snow soaking through his clothes, numb and wet. His clothes, because he is wearing clothes, jeans and his jacket, and he can feel the familiar, comforting weight of Ruby's knife in the inner pocket, even though he's pretty sure he fell asleep in nothing but boxers and a t-shirt.

Above him looms a bronze statue of... a little girl on a mushroom? Fucking... Alice in Wonderland. He slits his eyes against the too-bright sun, his head swimming as he weakly pushes himself up, and for a moment, he bows in half to press his forehead to his knees, unable to shake the immediate, initial reaction of despairing irritation, of wishing, just for once, he could be allowed time to rest. He doesn’t have the energy for this right now.