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Castiel isn’t sure what he was expecting. The panic room looks the same way it did nearly a year ago — barren and gray and lifeless, save for the one heartbeat that drifts from the center of it. Almost instantly he notices that Sam’s wrists and ankles have already been cuffed, most likely to prevent Dean from worrying about the possibility of his younger brother being flung around the room.
He moves to stand next to Sam’s cot and Sam blinks up at him, his eyes hazy and hesitant. “Cas?” Sam doesn’t move, except to tilt his head slightly, his eyebrows drawing together. “What —” he clears his throat, but his voice remains scratchy from all his screaming, “what are you doing here?”
Castiel glances at the door — still closed — and he knows that there is nobody behind it — Dean is upstairs, drunk and close to sleep. “I am watching you.”
Sam sighs. “Right,” he says, and he sounds bone-tired. “I meant, what are you doing in here?”
“I was curious,” Castiel replies, and Sam looks away, towards the wall opposite Castiel. His fingers twitch in their restraints, tapping against each other. Castiel realizes the motions may be Sam's meager attempt at soothing himself, and he draws his own conclusion. “You would prefer it if Dean were here.”
“No,” Sam says, immediate. He winces, as if embarrassed, then continues, “I mean — I don’t know. Maybe. It's just —" Sam sighs again. "Yeah. Yeah, I want Dean here,” Sam’s lips lift that strange half-smile that he does, the one Castiel doesn’t quite understand. “But I also, y’know, want to — want to find the nearest demon so,” he pauses to look Castiel in the eyes, and looks away again, shaking his head. “So what I want doesn’t matter right now.”
Cas tucks his hands behind his back. “I suppose.” He thinks that Sam has a point. With the blood in his system, Sam is unreliable. That’s not him in there, he’d said to Dean, and he’d meant it.
But as he gazes down at him, Castiel can't help but admit that Sam just looks a lot like himself. There is no black in his eyes, or any malice, either. Just the same depth and stress that Cas has always seen. Briefly, almost startlingly, Castiel wonders what Sam's soul might feel like. If he’d be able to feel the demon blood dissipating and leaving his soul behind as it should be. Slightly damaged, but not overwhelmingly so.
There is a long moment of silence — Castiel staring at Sam, Sam staring at the wall — before he sees Sam’s forehead crease, his hands tightening into fists. Then, Sam’s lips tighten, a muscle in his jaw shifting, and he looks back at Castiel. “You should go,” he whispers.
Castiel nods. “If that’s what you want,” he says. And he means this, too, despite himself. Sam doesn't say anything — he just closes his eyes, turning his face further towards the mattress.
Castiel locks the door behind him, and it’s only when he slides the small window cover shut too that he begins to hear renewed, soft noises of Sam’s distress. He stays where he is, back to the door, as they grow in intensity, until it sounds as if there is no metal between them, and Castiel is standing right next to him as he screams. He wonders if Dean is truly able to sleep through this, but the man does not appear. Castiel already knows that he will not tell Dean about his visit. When Dean comes back, he will just tell him that Sam is fine, that the detox should be done in a day or so.
The memory of Sam’s face, lined with pain, comes into Castiel’s mind, but he pushes it away. Faith is not about what he can see. That’s not him in there. Not really. He believes it.