Mercy Comes With the Morning - Continued 2/4...

[elise_509]

The days are stretching longer now, just slightly. Castiel appreciates the extra minutes of sunlight, even if the night usually brings promises of Sam’s lithe body pressed against his.

It’s the fact that he is beginning to see Sam more and more in the waking hours that has changed his mind. For awhile he despised the sun for rising and pulling Sam from his arms, returning him to Dean before Dean could even realize he was gone, but now Sam comes to him during the day. Things are quite different when four motel room walls do not enclose them and they’re not hidden in shadows.

Sam’s hazel eyes change color in sunlight - more green than brown - and his smile shines. With his mind trained on matters besides Dean, he seems less sad, less haunted. Castiel treasures each of those fleeting moments, tries to remember them when Sam’s grin fades and his eyes turn flat and lifeless.

On the occasions that Sam is out alone, growing with more frequency every passing day, Castiel has taken to accompanying him. Sam seems to appreciate his assistance, most specifically his gift with languages. Translations of ancient texts are made astonishingly simple with Castiel’s presence, for Castiel remembers the meanings of the glyphs and letters like they were only written yesterday. Castiel knows legends and myths from the truth, knows what is fact and what is fiction, for he was there to witness it.

At first Sam was uneasy about Castiel taking a place beside him - Castiel felt the sideways glances and saw the way Sam shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat when he climbed into the Impala - but it’s slowly becoming second nature. Sam driving, him riding shotgun; a case to be solved and someone to save. The same old formula with a temporary substitution: x, for the time being, equaling y.

Castiel doesn’t fool himself into thinking that this is permanent. Something will give, something will break and Dean will either come around or they’ll all be lost. Whatever he is to Sam, he’s not his brother and sooner or later, Sam will figure out how to get Dean back.

Still, given the circumstances, he’s not surprised when Sam turns toward the local dive instead of the local library and doesn’t offer a word of explanation until he’s swilled down half a pint of lager.

“It’s my birthday today.”

“Your birthday?” Castiel knows humans place great importance on those days, though it had never occurred to him to ask Sam which day was his. “Is this how you would like to celebrate?”

“Two years ago today, Dean went to hell. For me.”

“Sam.”

The rest of Sam’s beer is gone and he’s asking for another.

“There’s nothing to celebrate.” He mumbles, his gaze unfocused as the bartender fills a new glass. “Months and months of watching him slide downhill, Cas. I can’t believe that I ever thought that this was going to be okay. He seemed okay, for so damn long…”

“The mind is a powerful thing, Sam. It protects a person from what is too great a burden to bear. But it can’t keep up those barriers forever; they break down. This needs to happen. Dean needs to make his peace with what occurred.” Castiel sets a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder and half expects Sam to angrily shove off his touch, but he does not.

“And what if he can’t. What if this destroys him.”

“It won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I have faith.”

Sam takes his newly full glass and runs his thumb up and down the cold slant of its side, swiping through condensation and staring down into the golden liquid.

“Faith,” he snorts. “Right. Four months you waited to pull him out. Four months. Was that all part of God’s plan too, to let him be torn apart down there?”

Castiel regards Sam carefully, trying to figure out whether or not Sam is lashing out at him or at his Father, and who is going to bear the brunt of it at present.

“I understand your anger. But there was a plan. There was a reason.”

Sam glances at him.

“What reason?” He asks, but then his face twists into a cynical smile. “Forget I asked. You don’t know.”

Sam takes a slower sip of his beer, not draining the glass at desperate speed as he had the first.

“Tell me this, then. Can you make him forget? Can you take it all away?”

Castiel shakes his head slowly.

“Sam, you know I can’t. Everyday I am closer and closer to earth, farther from heaven. I’m barely connected to my brethren any longer. My heart beats the same as yours.” Castiel edges his hand closer to Sam’s on the bar top, fingers brushing ever so slightly, and tries not to let his hurt show when Sam withdraws his touch.

“And all because of me.” Sam frowns more deeply. “I ruin everything. Everyone.”

“Samuel, that is not-“

“Uriel was right about that,” Sam chuckles ruefully. “Samael, the great destroyer.”

“It was my choice. And I would do it again.” Castiel takes Sam’s hand forcibly now, hanging on tightly when Sam sharply tries to pull away. “I would do it again.” He repeats, staring hard at Sam and willing him to meet his gaze. “For you.”

“What kind of God throws you from heaven for this?” Sam squeezes Castiel’s hand in emphasis, a grip so unintentionally but desperately tight it makes Castiel’s fingers twinge in pain.

“He could have cast me into hell as he did in response to the arrogance of Lucifer and his band of brothers who rose up against him, or the many others who have fallen from grace since. Instead he simply let me go and has let me fade. I believe it’s something that he needed me to do, or else he never would have placed me so firmly in your path even as he promised punishment for our possible entanglement.”

“You honestly believe that.”

“I believe I’m here for a reason.” Castiel states simply and Sam shakes his head in disbelief. Castiel presses on, voice calm and steady, completely assured. “I’m meant to be human, and I am meant to be by your side. I know this.”

Sam pushes back from the bar, spins on his stool, and then stands up. Without a word, he heads for the door, the bar bursting with an assault of bright sunlight when he pushes outside.

Castiel starts to follow him but is stopped with a sharp warning from the bartender. He pulls out the wallet that had belonged to his vessel, the wallet he’s just barely begun to put to use, and places a couple of bills down to cover Sam’s tab.

He finds Sam a few steps out the door, shoulders hunched and his body tight in anger.

“Sam,” he says soothingly, lovingly, and it seems to set something off within Sam, violently, like pulling the pin on a grenade.

“Why the fuck am I worth all this?” Sam shouts, whirling around to face Castiel. “I’m not. You fell for me, Castiel - fell from heaven. Lost everything. Ruby went against all of hell to help me and got killed for it, and Dean, well all Dean can do is drink away the terror. He can’t even function anymore, because of that stupid deal. And for what?”

“For you.” Castiel replies quietly. “No matter what you may believe, Sam, you are worth all of this.” He moves toward Sam cautiously but with an assured, even step. “This world - everyone in it - needs you. Lilith’s silence, now, is more dangerous than anything that has come before. The quiet is troubling and it promises only the worst of all things. Terrible events loom on the horizon with almost absolute certainty and you are the only one who possesses the power to end it all.”

“I don’t believe that. I can’t even save my own brother, much less the world.”

“No one could save your brother.”

“You did.”

Castiel pauses, considering.

“I did not save him. I rescued him. I see the difference, now.”

Sam regards him silently for a long moment and then casts guilty, troubled eyes down to the pavement by Castiel’s feet.

“I don’t think I can be who you want me to be.”

“Sam.” Castiel looks at him, his body so large and powerful yet somehow seeming so small and weak in this moment. His face is crumpled in sadness, his hair hanging in his eyes like it wants to obscure the pain brimming over the pools of hazel. “Sam, you already are exactly who I want you to be.”

Castiel touches the side of Sam’s face and something clears in Sam’s vision; he can see the shift in his expression like rays of the sun breaking through the clouds on an overcast day.

He offers no resistance as Sam backs him against the dirty brick wall of the bar, Sam moving him as if he weighed nothing at all.

“Make me forget,” Sam whispers against his lips, silencing Castiel’s protest with a kiss. “Please, just make me forget.”

“I can’t-“

“You can.”

Sam’s mouth gives him the answer, the desperation in his kiss telegraphing what precisely Sam means. Castiel could provide Sam with, if nothing else, a few blissful moments free of all that weighs him down.

He doesn’t think twice about the daylight. He doesn’t think twice about the cars driving by or the chance that someone could walk past. He doesn’t think at all.

Doing this with Sam is always when he feels closest to heaven again. Everything within him circles in and charges up, divinity sparking in his heart. He flares hot and sears a kiss along Sam’s throat as his fingers deftly and hastily unzip Sam’s jeans.

His mouth distracts Sam until he can turn Sam’s back against the wall and circle his hand around Sam’s hard shaft. He grips and strokes roughly within the confines of Sam’s boxers, the elastic of the waistband harsh and irritating against his forearm. Sam grunts and pushes eagerly into Castiel’s tight fist, gasping against their kiss and pleading for a harder, faster pace. His hips buck upward and he arches his neck, throwing his head backward as a surge of pleasure sweeps through him, then drops his head forward. His body is electric and his pulse pounding out of control; Castiel can feel Sam’s heartbeat racing underneath each press of his lips.

“I love you, Sam.” Castiel murmurs breathlessly, resting their foreheads together, both looking down as he shoves the restrictive denim and cotton down over Sam’s sharp hips and thighs until his fingers are free to move over the entire length of Sam’s thick, long cock. “You must know that. I love you.”

He keeps repeating the words in time with the tug of his hand, turning his head and placing haphazard kiss after kiss over Sam’s face. He wants Sam to hear him, to believe him, to feel it with every inch of his being. He’s worth this. He’s worth everything.

Castiel drops to his knees reverently and worships Sam with his tongue, his lips. He takes him in deep and urges Sam to go even further, hands on Sam’s hips willing him to thrust and to take and never to apologize for wanting it. The taste of him is exquisite, a bitter, salty tang that’s human and real; Sam is full and hard and thick against his tongue. Castiel’s mouth stretches wide and easy around his length, needing Sam just as much as Sam needs him.

Sam cries out and seizes as his body is wracked with spasms. He comes in a warm flood, spilling down Castiel’s throat, filling his mouth. Castiel stares openly as the shocks subside, waiting a long time before he slowly draws off, tongue desperately seeking one last taste and his hand stroking Sam as he goes soft.

He studies Sam’s face for some sign that he’s succeeded in giving Sam what was needed. Even with all he knows of Sam, sometimes he finds himself unsure, unable to read him correctly.

Sam’s eyes are glassy and glazed, his mouth lax and open, his body loose. The worry lines around his mouth, the creases of consternation on his forehead, the rigid line of his grinding jaw - they’re all gone, erased, as is the tension that had snapped Sam taut before. Castiel feels like he and the wall behind Sam are the only things keeping Sam upright; Sam himself is playing no role in his stance on his two feet.

“I love you,” Castiel tells him again as he stands up and pushes sweaty strands of Sam’s hair back from his forehead. Sam slumps against the rough wall bonelessly, eyelids drooping for a moment before flickering back open, fighting to stay awake in the moment. Sam stays still, pliant, as Castiel cleans his hand of the last remnants of Sam’s come on the inside of his own dark green t-shirt, then fixes Sam’s clothes carefully, his touch lingering on Sam’s waistline after closing the button on his jeans.

Castiel hesitates before pulling his hand away, reluctant to break contact. He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore how his body screams out for a release of his own. He hadn’t been able to control his arousal even when he lived in this body with the powers of an angel at his disposal; as an indivisible part of it now, he has even less hope of stopping the feeling from overwhelming him.

Sam slowly reaches out and runs a hand aimlessly down the side of Castiel’s body, from his shoulder, down his arm, fingers playing at his hip. Castiel adores the dazed look on Sam’s face and leans in, placing his hands on the wall on either side of Sam’s head, careful to keep his excited body from pressing urgently and demandingly against Sam’s the way that he so desires to.

Sam’s hand finds him anyway, an insistent push of his palm, dig of the heel of his hand, once, twice, three times and then Castiel is groaning against Sam’s mouth. He falls over the edge with no resistance, willingly letting it take him lightning fast.

The smile that Sam gives him then is lazy and sated, briefly but completely happy.

“I don’t suppose angels have birthdays.” He sighs, the comment a bit unexpected but Castiel somehow understands the track his train of thought had ridden.

“No, we don’t.”

Sam’s hand slinks into his back pocket and pulls out the wallet that belonged to one Alexander Wright, long since gone and replaced with Castiel’s fading light.

“August 15th.” Sam reads from the license in the front fold and then lets the wallet fall closed. “I can’t think of anything terrible that happened on that day.”

Castiel smiles slightly and takes the wallet back from Sam’s grasp. Reality is setting back in; he can feel the tension pulling at Sam’s body once more. His smile is fading fast.

“Let us keep it that way.” He promises and Sam nods, though they both should know much better than to make such promises to anyone.

*******

It never occurred to Sam that Dean would care. Maybe before - before Cold Oak, before the deal, before hell, before Lilith - he would’ve expected Dean to worry if he’d disappeared for a few hours. Sam never would’ve stayed out all night without any word left as to where he went, not unless he wanted his ass handed to him the second he got back.

But things are different now. Dean’s nights are spent who knows where and their supposedly shared motel room only grew lonelier, grew quieter, until the walls started closing in.

Castiel is an escape from the prison of endless hours without Dean. Castiel can never erase Dean from his thoughts entirely, but when Castiel is by his side, Sam feels Dean’s absence a little less sharply. Castiel’s kiss is a salve on an open wound. Castiel’s touch holds the pieces of his heart together with delicate, fragile care.

Today he’d stayed in Castiel’s bed, in Castiel’s arms, for hours past dawn. It’s the only place he can find some semblance of peace and he’s well past questioning it. He used to lie awake wondering what the hell he was doing - him, a man with demon blood shooting through his veins, sleeping with a fallen angel.

Sam couldn’t understand how this had become his life and he still doesn’t, but now he realizes the how or why doesn’t matter.

How and why won’t give him his brother back. How and why won’t save his soul, or redeem Castiel. He can only look forward, even if he’s barely outrunning the rolling avalanche of the past. It wants to swallow him whole and bury him deep but he keeps on going.

He needs to keep on going.

And if trading a deserted motel room with two empty beds for Castiel’s inviting room and a shared king is what it takes to keep him focused on the horizon, then Sam can’t deny that’s exactly what he wants.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

But Dean’s unexpected anger suddenly makes Sam feel guilty for making that choice.

Sam itches under Dean’s fiery glare, dropping his keys onto the small table just inside the motel room door and taking a moment to gather his wits.

“Good morning to you too, Dean.” Sam steps all the way inside and closes the door slowly. “Didn’t expect you up this early…or even here, to be honest.”

“So, what, that makes it okay?” Dean gets up from where he sits on the edge of the armrest on the nearby chair, agitated and wired. “I come back here and you’re nowhere to be found. You’re not answering your cell phone, Impala’s out in the parking lot…guy at the front office says he saw you get back - but you clearly didn’t come here, so where’d you go?”

“Out for a walk.”

“For the past five hours.”

“Sure.” Sam peels off his flannel shirt, tossing it in the general direction of his bag, and then steps toward his bed, toeing off his shoes. “I like to walk.”

“Bull crap.” Dean snipes. Sam pulls back the worn comforter and thin sheets and climbs in, tossing his head against the pillow and then punching it once with his fist to plump it up. “Were you on a hunt?”

“No.”

“What did you kill this time without me?”

“Dean, I wasn’t on a hunt.”

“You slinking around with some girl?” Dean tries another theory on for size like a drunken man throwing darts at a board, hoping something with stick. He sits down on his own bed, feet planted firmly on the floor.

“No.”

“Another skanky demon then, one of Ruby’s converts?”

Sam throws the covers back and sits up, glaring vehemently at his brother.

“Don’t you dare talk about Ruby after what you did-“

“So it is another demon then. Man, Sam, what is it with you? Once you get a taste, you can’t go back? Hellfire fever?”

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam says, dangerously low. “And I’m not with any demon. About the farthest thing from it.”

Dean falls silent and they both stew in their rage, letting it simmer and boil in the two feet of space between their beds.

“What’s with the wrists, Sammy.” Dean finally asks, flat and obstinate, a small lift of the eyebrow and nod downward to where Sam’s hands are clutched tightfisted in his blankets.

Sam glances down and notices the faint red tinge circled around his wrists. A brief memory of Castiel pinning his arms above his head, being kissed and held down, flashes through his mind. Unconsciously he fingers one of the light burns, so faint now that they’re barely anything.

Sam doesn’t reply and Dean climbs from his bed, reaches out and tries to grab one of Sam’s hands. Sam pulls away quickly.

“Leave it, Dean,” he warns.

“Is there something I need to know here, Sam?” For an instant he seems just like the brother he used to be, stern, honest concern pressing his features. But instead of relief or hope at seeing something so long lost and familiar come over Dean, Sam’s gut twists in rage.

“Now you care.” Sam snorts and throws his hands down in his lap, wrists on display. “I’ve been walking around for six months, banged and bruised and broken, and I barely mark up my wrists and that you notice.”

“Hard not to. Looks like someone tied you up.” Dean ignores the vitriol dripping from Sam’s tone and watches him closely; Sam knows he’s trying to get a read on the truth between the lies, but Sam refuses to let him see anything easily.

“No one tied me up. No one - nothing - hurt me. I’m fine.” He shoves his hands underneath the sheets, out of sight.

“Next hunt you have, I’m goin’, Sam.” Dean states gruffly. “No more of this sittin’ on the sidelines crap.”

Sam turns onto his side, giving his brother only the flat of his back to talk to. This is all he’s wanted for so long - Dean awake, Dean giving a damn - but it’s too little too late and for all the wrong reasons.

He knows he should probably be giving Dean encouragement in this moment, that he should grasp onto the faintest glimmer of Dean showing interest in anything besides self-hatred and despair, but Sam can’t bring himself to hope. Can’t try anymore, can’t pretend that Dean’s the only one who has changed irrevocably.

“You benched yourself, Dean. You were out of the game long before I told you to leave it. You want back in, that’s your call.” It’s cold but it’s all he can manage and it will have to do.

Dean polishes off half a bottle of whiskey before lunch and stares sullenly out the window as they leave town, so apparently Sam’s weak words were nowhere near enough.

*******

Dean cradles the car keys in his open palm and looks at the shining metal, weighs the rattle of them in his hand.

“It’s been way too long, baby. I’m sorry.” He rests his other hand against the steering wheel and it’s one of the most comforting things he’s ever felt. He doesn’t know how he ever let this slip away.

He hadn’t even cared.

It’s been two months since he’s been in the driver’s seat, since Sam took his keys and he hadn’t stolen them back, hotwired the car, or tried a thing to get back on the road.

The Impala roars to life with a twist of the ignition and Dean’s whole body hums along with the familiar purr of the engine. He pats the dashboard like he would a dog and smiles.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He revs the gas pedal once, twice, not caring just this once if he floods the engine. “Damn, it feels good to be back in here.”

He pauses in his giddy excitement to take in any alterations Sam might have made, it briefly occurring to him that Sam hadn’t re-installed the iPod atrocity that had been waiting for him when he got out of hell.

A little digging in the backseat finds his tattered box of tapes and the sound of Metallica blasting from the speakers is almost as thrilling as when he heard it for the first time.

Sam’s kept the car relatively clean but out of curiosity Dean turns around and digs through the few things Sam does have stored in the back, like they’re clues as to what his brother’s been up to all this time.

There are a couple of tomes on Native American mythology and a tattered Milton paperback, pages bent and ripped and water damaged. A hard pack of cigarettes with only one missing. A candy bar wrapper. A white undershirt.

A white undershirt two sizes too small to be Sam’s.

Dean looks at the piece of clothing quizzically, wondering how some guy’s tee wound up in their backseat. It also occurs to him, as he eyes the red wrapper in between his fingers, that Sam absolutely loathes Mounds bars.

“Someone else has been in this car.” Dean states the obvious aloud to himself, needing to hear it to really wrap his mind around it. It doesn’t sound right so he tries again. “Someone else has been in this car. Who the…”

He scans the seats for other signs of a stranger and notices for the first time that the car smells different. Not bad, but just a different mixture of scents, a tinge of some cologne that’s definitely not Sam’s.

In the glove box he finds a few scraps of paper, folded and covered with an elegant, luxurious scrawl that’s nowhere near Sam’s cramped style.

“Who the hell’s with you, Sam?” Dean asks, putting the papers in his jacket pocket. His happiness at being behind the wheel has dissipated, replaced with suspicion sinking deep in his stomach.

He sits quietly for a minute, trying to remember where Sam had planned on going today. He’d mumbled something before walking out the door that morning.

Ten minutes later, he pulls into a tight parking spot at the local library and carefully maneuvers out of the car, having to inch his way out because he couldn’t open his door the whole way.

“Podunk town can’t even measure fucking parking spots.” He mutters angrily. A white-haired lady with thick glasses stops in her walker-slow steps and shoots him a watery, distorted glare. “Howdy.” Dean greets her unashamedly. Their fault they can’t create a proper parking lot, not his.

The library is one of those anachronistic types - green banker’s lamps, meticulous woodwork, high, vaulted ceilings, with a bank of high tech computers and a few gangly, lazily dressed kids using them. Dean’s never been fond of libraries in general, but there’s something to be said for old-fashioned card catalogs and nebbish old ladies who wear their glasses on beaded chains.

This library could almost be beautiful if not for racks of US Weeklies and Glamour magazines, a DVD rental section, and a librarian who looks a biscuit over twenty, still suffering from teenage acne.

Dean wanders slowly through the rows of shelves, glancing down the stacks in hopes of finding Sam searching down one of them.

“Hey, kid.” Dean catches a teenaged boy by the elbow and stops him in his tracks. “You seen a guy around here, freakishly tall, shaggy brown hair, kinda mopey, and probably getting a whole crap load of really boring books?”

“Toward the back.”

Dean looks a little surprised, mumbling a distracted thanks as the boy goes on his way.

“Huh. That was easy,” he says to himself and heads in the direction the kid had pointed.

What he expects to find is Sam hunched over a table far too low for his 6’4” frame, legs cramped underneath. He expects to see his brother’s brow deeply creased, too-long hair falling in his face and being pushed back by an absent hand every few minutes as he pores over a yellowed, musty text that hasn’t been touched for years.

He even half expects to find that Sam is not alone. All signs certainly point to Sam having made a new friend and Dean steels himself for an inevitable confrontation, anger and suspicion and jealousy roiling in his stomach. Maybe another hunter who’d taken advantage of Sam the way Gordon had of him, or another demon like Ruby that had plied Sam’s weaknesses wide open and toyed with his mind.

So when Dean rounds the corner and instead finds Castiel sitting beside Sam as if it is perfectly natural for him to be there, he doesn’t have the first clue what to do.

“What the hell…” He reacts on gut instinct and ducks behind a turning rack of paperback harlequins, jostling the bodice-ripping rippling-muscled men and the fainting women in their arms. The rickety spinner nearly tumbles and Dean rights it quickly. He steps down the nearest aisle, flattening himself against the shelves as Sam looks over toward the noise momentarily. After that cursory glance, Sam turns his attention back to his book.

Dean’s heart is palpitating and his palms are sweating like he’s on a hunt, but it’s a different kind of fear that makes his mouth go dry, a different kind of anxiety that makes his breath catch.

He shouldn’t have hid; he has nothing to hide from. But he can’t move.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

Taking a deep breath, Dean inches toward the edge of the row and furtively looks toward his brother and his surprise angelic visitor.

Castiel looks vastly different. A pair of loose-fitting dark denim jeans have replaced his trench coat and ugly suit; loafers gone and in their place heavy brown shoes like the ones Sam occasionally wears. But the difference is not only in the dark blue sweater he has pulled over a white dress shirt, sleeves of both pushed up to his elbows as he casually leans on the table. The whole way he carries himself has altered - he’s loose and easy and light, radiating inviting warmth that Dean can practically feel from all the way across the room.

Castiel is not the only one who has changed. Seeing Sam as he would a stranger, Dean can’t even remember the last time he really stopped and looked at his younger brother, truly saw him as he was. It may have been that morning when he found Sam sleeping after Castiel had left; it may have even been further back, over a year and a half ago now, when he stood in that doorway with Bobby, and Sam walked out and halted in shock, mouth falling open and eyes wide.

He’d seen Sam then, gratitude and love clearing his vision and making his heart beat strong. It’s the same feeling now but it’s intermingled with a deep sense of regret. How had he not noticed Sam changing before his very eyes?

He’s leaner now, that muscled bulk he’d built in their four months apart winnowed down to a tight, sleek form that made Sam look sharper somehow. Like he could move faster, strike harder with more calculation and less brutish strength. He seems older but not in that world-weary way he’d witnessed after Ruby’s death, like he was sick of fighting it all and had grown fed up with the world. There’s a calmness even in the tight set of his shoulders, a serenity in the intense stare he focuses on the book in front of him.

Dean studies Sam’s profile for a steadying moment, reminding himself that no matter what, Sam is still his brother, his Sam. Despite everything that’s happened, the distance that’s grown between them, nothing can make Sam unknowable. Sam’s Sam, and no one gets him better than Dean.

There’s not a reason in the world for him to be panicked like this, hiding behind rows of Encyclopedia Britannicas when his brother is sitting a mere twenty feet away.

He steps back out and makes toward Sam, forcing the doubt and apprehension away, annoyed with his unusual cowardice. He has questions and he deserves for Sam to give him the answers.

Then, in a gesture so easy and so loving that Dean instantly recognizes it for exactly what it is, Castiel reaches over and brushes that lock of hair, always falling in Sam’s eyes, back behind Sam’s ear.

It doesn’t stay, just as it never does. But Dean can tell that clearly wasn’t the point.

Castiel’s hand lingers, his eyes linger; Dean can sense the whole of Castiel lingering, staying in that moment with his fingers in that intimate caress.

Sam doesn’t react at first. The way he turns his attention from the text in front of him only after Castiel does not withdraw his hand would seem a signal of his indifference to anyone who didn’t know Sam.

But they were raised to be hyper-vigilant, aware of every touch, every single movement. That Castiel can wind his fingers in Sam’s hair before Sam even pulls himself slowly to look, as if waking from a dream…

Actions speak louder than words and Sam’s are yelling.

Castiel whispers something, Sam whispers back. Voices low, bodies close. Comfortable. Knowing.

Sam smiles, genuine and soft, and betrayal twists deep in Dean’s gut.

He’s frozen in place, staring at them, his feet glued to the paper-thin grey carpet.

If he’d been more like himself, the himself he was before hell tore away everything he had, he would have stormed over to the table and had it out right there. People would have gone to get the librarian; there would have been warnings, maybe even a call to the local police. Sam would muster an I can explain and an I’m sorry, I should have told you and Dean would tell Castiel to get the hell away from them, that he and his brother had things to discuss.

But he’s not that person anymore. The person that he is turns heel and hurries from the library, breaking into a run as soon as he gets outside and not stopping until he reaches the car. His hands grab the flat of the hood to steady himself as he gasps for air.

Dean clambers in and shuts the door quickly, locking it, like the Impala is going to shield him from the fear chasing him.

He grips the steering wheel and tries to process everything he’d just seen. There are things about this that he’d already been trying to get used to: Sam hunting on his own. Sam driving his car. He and Sam barely speaking. Living separate lives but not going their own ways.

Sam would never leave him entirely alone, or so he thought. Despite the drinking, the secrecy, the denial, the self-pity…Dean could understand, accept, but dislike that Sam still had to get things done while he was drowning himself in the bottle.

But this he never saw coming.

The car still smells like them both, Sam and Castiel, and Dean cracks open a window so he can breathe. End of May and spring is in the air. Supposedly a time of renewal and rebirth but all Dean can think about is how it’s all ending.

“Fuck.” Dean closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, trying hard not to cry at the thought of Sam abandoning him again.

How could Castiel, an angel, be Sam’s partner? His lover? Dean is baffled by the thought of it; he’s spinning, reeling. He can’t stop himself from wondering how many nights Sam has spent with Castiel. How many times had he stumbled back in the early hours and not noticed Sam missing from his bed? How many times had Sam slipped back home just before him, so Dean would never know he’d been gone?

How had this all been going on under his very nose without him even catching a glimpse of it until now?

How could he have possibly been so fucking oblivious?

The questions tear at his mind, pounding at him viciously like a jackhammer breaking concrete. They leave him shattered - jagged and pitted and worthless.

He’d feared this with Ruby. He’d feared this when Castiel and Uriel first appeared in their lives. He’d feared this when Sam went to challenge Lilith.

And he’d never feared it more than when he finally remembered all that he had done in hell.

He’s going to lose his brother for good this time. And it’s all his own fault.

*******

Something strange and uninvited stirs Castiel from deep slumber. It’s a slow awakening, but once his eyes are fully open, he knows that he does not dare close them again.

He waits before moving, taking a moment to take stock of what he knows as absolute. The softness of the pillow underneath his cheek; the reassuring weight of Sam’s arm slung over his waist; the measured in and out of Sam’s even breathing puffing warm against his neck where Sam’s head is nuzzled close.

The room around them is the untouched. Everything is exactly the same as it was when they both fell asleep, right down to how Sam’s fingers are intertwined with his.

Whatever woke him beckons him from outside, calling him away from Sam’s side with a pull so strong that Castiel wonders if Uriel is waiting on the other side of the door.

He hasn’t felt such divine intuition in months. He cannot in good faith ignore it, even if his humanity resists.

Carefully, Castiel lifts Sam’s arm and slips out from underneath it, trying not to jostle the mattress as he rises. In the darkness he finds clothes to cover his naked body, a body that remembers the stretch of Sam inside of him and the pull of Sam surrounding him. Sam’s kisses bruise now; the dig of his nails draw blood. All of his muscles ache from their considerable exertions.

Yet the twinge in his bones and the soreness of his limbs make him warm with pleasure. As he pulls a t-shirt over his head, it’s all sense memory of Sam pinning him to the bed, stripping that same shirt off only hours before.

He glances at Sam and finds him still sleeping soundly. He picks up his shoes from the floor and reaches for the door. He opens it slowly, just enough to edge outside, cautious not to let light spill in a rush over their darkened room.

Once the door latches shut Castiel lets his palm linger on the thin, warped wood. He can’t deny he is slightly afraid of what is about to come.

Then he turns and faces his visitor.

Dean sits on the hood of his car, feet resting on the front bumper, elbows resting on his knees. He is staring at Castiel with dark eyes, unreadable in the dim light. The walkway fluorescents are flickering intermittently overhead, bulbs giving their all in order to stay lit.

Dean wavers from their shared gaze, uneasy. He twists the thick silver band on his right ring finger, round and around slowly as a faraway, distant expression passes over his face like a shadow.

“Dean.”

Castiel remains in front of the door with the small stretch of sidewalk separating them. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He just waits for Dean to set their course.

Dean raises his head and after another long, heavy look, he comes to some kind of decision. His face turns impassive, impossible to discern. He climbs down from the hood and walks to the driver’s side.

“You and me, we’re going for a ride.” He gestures to the other side of the car. “Get in.”

“Where will we be going?”

“Not what you should be askin' yourself right now.”

Castiel waits until Dean slams his door, hesitating with his hand on the cold metal handle. He glances at the motel room window, curtains closed against the night, and hopes that Sam does not wake to find him gone.

“We must not be too long.” Castiel states flatly as he sits down. Dean sighs.

“Wouldn’t want to keep you from the love nest,” he mumbles and starts the car. Time is the least of his concerns.

Castiel settles in silently and waits for Dean to pick a destination, choose a path to take.

When they pull up in front of an all-night diner and Dean gets out, Castiel assumes that this is what Dean has chosen.

Four paces behind, he follows Dean inside. He doesn’t speak as Dean orders a cup of coffee, black. He tries to keep his face expressionless but his body guarded, his mind alert.

He hasn’t been face to face with Dean Winchester since the morning he fell.

Dean wasn’t able to tell, then. Worried only for Sam, Dean had been blind to the cosmic shift occurring directly in front of him, the two Tectonic plates of heaven and hell pushing and slipping along fractured fault lines that the meeting of an angel and Azazel’s chosen one had created.

And of all things, Dean looks shocked when Castiel orders a coffee of his own, with cream and sugar - he hates the bitter taste entirely.

“Since when do angels drink coffee?”

“Things change.” Castiel replies, folding his hands in front of him and meeting Dean’s challenging stare.

“Yeah. That’s the understatement of the century,” Dean mutters and shifts in his seat, setting the vinyl squeaking obnoxiously underneath him.

“Not entirely. I’ve heard many comments far more galling before this.”

“Well far be it for me to question the opinion of an angel.” The waitress returns with their two cups of coffee and Dean takes a slug of his immediately. Castiel is sure it stings Dean’s throat all the way down, but a brief grimace is all the pain Dean shows. “An angel who’s fucking my brother, no less.” He spits out the words bitterly. “Tell me, how exactly does that all work?”

“Dean, if you wish me to explain the mechanics of two men-“

“And you’ve suddenly got a sense of humor too,” Dean interrupts him, irked. “You know exactly what I mean, so why don't you quit the shit.”

Castiel cradles the cup of coffee in his hands, letting the heat warm his palms. The smell is pleasing and the light, creamy color is like Sam’s skin in the summer months, a sun-kissed glow that’s long since faded away.

“What precisely is it that you would like to know, Dean?”

“How about what’s going on, for starters.” He leans back, puts an arm along the back of his side of the booth, and glares at Castiel with rankled impatience. “You disappeared. Uriel fell off the map. And Lilith supposedly had the god damned keys to the kingdom yet no one’s heard so much as a peep out of her.”

Dean appears to expect an interjection but Castiel has nothing to say. He knows as much about Lilith’s unexpected disappearance as Dean does. Dean waits a long moment for a response but when he gets nothing, he sighs and continues.

“Everything was supposedly going to shit and then…nothing. Months of nothing, except some demon coming after me on someone else’s marching orders. You know about that?”

“Sam told me, yes.”

“Sam told you.” Dean repeats, still disbelieving of this whole situation. “So now, you’re just…what? Back to hang out with Sam ‘cause you’re such good pals? You wanted him dead.”

“I never wished for Sam to die.”

“’Stop him or we will’?” Dean’s mouth hangs open in disbelief.

“That was before.”

“Before what.”

“Before I met him.”

Dean pauses, setting a hand on the table with only his fingertips touching the laminate top, and raises his eyebrows skeptically.

“You expect me to believe, after all you and your buddies did, all that you said, that you were on Sam’s side since the beginning?” Dean shakes his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but you once left him burnt and burning up, or do you just not remember that?”

“I did not attack him, Dean.” Castiel sighs, adding yet more cream to his coffee in a steady pour and then stirring the liquid slowly with a spoon. He considers whether or not to tell Dean all of the truth and realizes that, at this point, there’s really no other option. “I merely kissed him.”

Dean does not, and maybe cannot, respond. His expression is a perfect mixture of complete confusion and surprise. Castiel continues.

“The burns, the fever…those were symptoms of unrestrained passion on an unprepared human body.”

Dean blanches but Castiel cannot tell exactly for what reason. Jealousy, disgust, anger - he still has a difficult time deciphering each emotion.

“Dean, the matters between your brother and I…” Castiel sets the spoon down and lifts his eyes to meet Dean’s. “Whatever lies between us is greater then either of us separately. We do not have the power to deny it.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that Sammy’s gone gay for an angel and it’s…fate?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Dean shifts awkwardly in his seat and coughs once, hard, trying to process everything Castiel is telling him and trying not to let it show how much it’s bothering him.

“So now what. You’re Jonathan Smith to his Mark Gordon? You just gonna travel the highway to heaven, leave me behind?”

Castiel does not reply. His blue eyes are beseeching, sending out a silent message of empathy that Dean all but ignores.

“You’re not taking Sammy away from me. Take whatever the hell else you want. But not him.” Dean warns, but his voice trips slightly over the words as he struggles to get them out without cracking wide open from the swell of emotion.

“I cannot take anything that is not mine to be taken. If you would like to reclaim your place by your brother’s side, I’m sure it would be yours.” It pains Castiel to say but he knows that what he says is true. He waits a moment before continuing, making sure that Dean is paying him due attention. “But wallowing in the memories of what you did in hell will not get Sam back. What’s done is done, Dean.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re an angel. You don’t know what it’s like…” Dean swallows hard and looks away, hiding his face from Castiel’s watchful gaze. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your soul stripped away, piece by piece.”

“It is true that I do not, but I may yet know such horrors.” Dean’s face twists in puzzlement. “I am not an angel any longer, Dean.”

“What do you mean, you’re not an angel?“

“I have given up the glory of the kingdom in order to be with Sam. It is a choice that I made willingly and without regret.”

Castiel can hear each and every clink of silverware, every sigh exhaled by the waitress as she shifts on her tired feet, every ding of the bell signaling an order’s up. Dean is so quiet that every sound around them is amplified by the stunned absence of his response.

“You fell. For Sam.” Dean’s eyes are wide and inexplicably full of pain. “You fell from heaven, for Sam.”

“Yes.”

Suddenly Dean pushes up and away from the table and without warning bolts from the restaurant as fast as his feet can take him.

Castiel follows him outside quickly, hurrying to reach him before Dean can reach the Impala and leave him behind.

“Dean, please stop.”

Dean does stop, turning sharply as Castiel approaches.

Castiel is met abruptly with a sharp right hook to his left cheek. Pain hits him hard and a bruise blossoms almost instantly, reddening over his cheekbone, Dean’s metal ring slashing across the side of his face. Castiel’s fingers catch droplets of blood.

Dean stares at him, fist still clenched but shock evident all over his ashen face.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I bleed the same as you now, Dean.” Castiel wipes his fingers lightly on the bottom hem of his t-shirt. “Please don’t do that again.”

Dean stands at the ready, fist formed and body wired, but it’s only because he doesn’t know what else to do. He makes no move to assault Castiel again.

After a moment he drops his hand to his side and the tension slides from his face, replaced with uncertainty. He fumbles for something in his pockets.

With a step toward Castiel, he presses his car keys into Castiel’s palm, sharp metal digging into soft flesh. His hands shake as he steps back.

“Here. Take them. Just get Sam and go.”

Castiel looks at the keys in his hand and then at Dean, perplexed.

“You would give up so easily?” He inquires. He does not believe for an instant leaving without Sam is what Dean truly wants or that it will be what happens next. “Sam will always need you, Dean.”

“He doesn’t need me.”

“That is not true.”

“I can’t…I’m not anything anymore. He’s better off with you.”

“Why?”

“I’m just a messed up asshole who can’t even talk to him. I just drag him down, shut him out. And you…” Dean sits down on the concrete steps leading up to the door of the diner. “You gave up heaven for him.”

“And you? Did you not go to hell for him?” Castiel counters. “I ask, what is the greater sacrifice?” Castiel sits down beside Dean, taking a pause to gather his thoughts before continuing. “Since I fell, I have known greater happiness than I ever imagined possible. You have known nothing but torment. Guilt. Despair. Dean, you resigned yourself to a fate worse than death in order to save the life of your brother. Whatever you did or did not do while Lilith held you captive does not determine who you are.”

“It doesn’t?” Dean retorts. He gets up, putting space between himself and Castiel once again. “Cause it ain’t ever going away. This is going to be with me. In my head. Forever. There’s no erasing it, there’s no escaping it, there’s no going back. And if Sam ever knew-“

“Sam has imagined it. And things far, far worse.” Castiel is taken aback by Dean’s apparent surprise at this news. “You’ve given him nothing but shadows of terror and a blank slate on which to draw out your possible histories. For two years now, Sam has done nothing but fear the absolute worst for you, even before you came back, even before you began to remember on your own. He has forgiven you every possibility, mourned every possible loss. There is nothing you could say that would surprise him, except perhaps that you will finally forgive yourself.”

The bell above the diner door rings and a couple walks out, laughing and oblivious and happy. Dean glances at them, jarred by the interruption, and then shrinks into himself, pulling his jacket closer around his body.

Castiel steps toward him, closing the gap once more until he’s close enough to reach out and touch Dean’s shoulder. Dean nearly pulls away but Castiel presses his touch more firmly, letting Dean know he means him no harm.

“I think it is time that you finally talked to Sam. There are no more excuses.”

“There never was an excuse. But I had my reasons.”

“Your reasons are wrong.” Castiel lets go of Dean’s shoulder. “Without Sam, you do not stand a chance in this world.”

“Thanks for those odds.” His sarcasm is uplifting; it’s the first sign Castiel’s seen that Dean is awake inside, ready to fight.

Somewhat satisfied, Castiel backs away from Dean and nods his head toward the Impala.

They both move toward it but are stopped by a sharp voice hacking toward them.

“Hey, Sid and Nancy, you two got a bill to pay.” Their waitress stands at the top of the steps, hand on her aproned hip, an expectant and annoyed expression on her pursed face.

“Uh, yeah.” Dean nods, caught off guard, and digs his wallet out of his back pocket. “What’da we owe ya?”

“$2.90”

Dean rifles through his bills for the right change, but only finds a ten. He hands it over, considering the waitress and deciding whether or not it’d be worth it to ask her for change, but decides against it. Another time Castiel knows he would’ve had the drive; tonight he is simply too worn down.

“Have a nice night,” Dean tells her, so kindly it’s bordering on sarcastic, and turns for the car. He shoots Castiel a sharp look over the roof of the car, mustering up a slight bit of snark for Castiel’s benefit. “Thanks for shelling out.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come here.” Castiel retorts, a smile breaking over his lips. Dean shakes his head and ducks inside the car, shutting the door.

“I’m never gonna get used to that.” He says as he settles into his seat, earning a furrowed brow from Castiel. “You. Smiling.” Dean clarifies.

“As I said, things change.”

“Yeah, they sure do.” Dean sighs and Castiel hopes that the sadness he hears in Dean’s voice will soon be gone. “They sure do.”

*******

The door blows open in a strong gust of wind, sending it hard into the wall with a deadening thud.

Sam jerks awake, all of his senses on high alert immediately.

“Dean?” He asks sharply, looking over to the other bed, then turning to look at the empty spot beside him in his own bed. “Castiel?”

He gets up quickly, finding his boxers on the floor and slipping them on.

“Cas?” The room is entirely empty save him. Grabbing a gun from his open bag, he goes to the open door and hesitantly, carefully, steps outside. Back against the wall, he checks to the left, to the right, scans the parking lot in front of him. He finds nothing and no one at all.

The wind is harsh and strong, rustling the new leaves on the trees. It smells like rain and lightning flashes in the distance, but he hears no thunder.

Sam goes back inside and closes the door slowly behind him, leans against it. The clock reads 4:30AM. No Castiel. No Dean.

Dean’s one thing, but Castiel…he hasn’t left his side without explanation or need for months. It’s not like him to just up and disappear in the middle of the night.

“What the hell is going on…” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead as he finds the lamp on the night side table, switches it on. As the room is flooded with soft light, he catches sight of someone out of the corner of his eye.

Instantly he whips around, gun pointed, finger on the trigger.

“Who are you?”

It’s a question he doesn’t need to ask. The second he really, truly, sees her face, sees that smile, he knows the answer.

“Sammy. So pretty. Kinda like you this way.” Lilith tilts her head slightly to the left, long blonde hair shifting on her shoulders, blue eyes wide open in a satire of innocence. She has a host similar to Ruby’s first; Lilith did like how she’d felt in Ruby’s skin.

Lilith gives his nearly naked body the once over, biting the edge of her lip. She takes one step toward him, eyes alight with a playful, frightening want, and Sam tightens his hold on his gun. His palms are sweaty on the grip but even though the weapon is useless, he keeps it in hand, aimed at her heart. The pretense at least keeps her at bay. She’s always liked playing the game.

“Where’s Castiel?”

Lilith grins.

“Why would I tell you that, Sammy? Him and Dean? They’re the only thing keeping you from sending me back.” She moves toward him confidently, assured that he won’t harm her when his loved ones are on the line.

Sam drops his gun down to his side, glaring at her, nostrils flaring.

“Maybe I’ll just send you back anyway.”

“Right. And never see your precious brother and your lovely little angel ever again? I know you wouldn’t dare, Sam. So how about you cooperate and we’ll see about getting both parts of your codependent screwed up life back in one piece.”

“Tell me what you want or you’re gone, bitch.” Sam raises his gun again, temper surging.

“Oh, Sammy. That’s easy. Don’t you know? I want you.”

“You’ve already got what you needed from me.” Sam states. Lilith slowly shakes her head no, a tsk of admonishment clicking off her teeth. Sam’s brow creases and the gun wavers.

“Your blood didn’t really take.” She sits down on the edge of the bed in front of him, reaches out and sets a hand on his hip. Sam backs up quickly, putting enough space between them that she can’t touch him again. Lilith sighs as she sets her hand back on the bedspread, leaning back slightly and looking up at him. “You made me really sick, Sammy. Down for the count in a bad, bad way. People say hell is horrible but it was nothing like your blood in me, Sam. It really hurt. A lot.”

“Best laid plans,” Sam retorts snidely. “So sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Well. I’m back, and I’d say I’m better than ever. Like my new body, Sammy? I picked it out ‘specially for you.” Lilith looks over herself, considering her host. “But if I’d known you were into boys now…” She shrugs. “Boys really are silly, you know.”

“Thanks for the update.”

“Girls are so much softer, Sammy. Don’t you miss all of this?” Lilith runs her hand over her breasts, squeezing them gently through the thin fabric of her clingy black tank top, and then trails a finger down the center of her stomach. “I kinda like it. I like the way people look at me. I think I’ll keep her.”

“I say you let her go.”

“She’s begging me to. It’s fun, even if she is a little whiny.”

Lilith’s face suddenly goes stock still, her eyes wide as her body tightens, her chest seizing. She starts to cough.

“Dean,” she croaks out and Sam lets her go. Her shoulders sag and she gasps for air. It only takes her a moment to recover and for a knowing smile to reclaim its place on her face. “That pretty brother of yours always was your weak spot.”

Lilith rises from the bed and walks to the window. Her fingers play with the edge of the curtain.

“What did you do with him?”

“Nothing we haven’t done before.” She clicks her tongue. “We really did a number on him, didn’t we? We had such a good time together in hell. Kinda miss his company. His screaming.”

Sam raises his hand again, angry, but Lilith continues quickly, laughter in her voice.

“I’ve been hearing things. You two hardly even see each other anymore! Barely even talk. And you’re off running around with some cute angel.”

“Shut up.”

“And still using your powers too. Better than ever, from what I can see.”

“What I do is none of your business.”

“Sammy, Sammy…everything you do is my business. You’re mine. My puppy.”

Sam sets his gun on the table and stares her down.

“If I’m yours, then come get me.”

Lilith studies him, eyes running over his face.

“I don’t get my hands dirty. They’re such pretty hands.”

Sam is about to reply with a snide comment when Lilith’s gaze ticks up ever so slightly over his shoulder, looking at something just past him.

All Sam feels is white-hot pain in the back of his skull and then there’s only darkness.

*******

-------> THIS PART CONTINUED