Repeat After Me
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Friendship, Angst. Angelst?
Pairing: Gen. Highly underrated Castiel and Sam bro love.
Rating: Teen+? Dark but nothing too intense.
Word Count: 2,000+
Warnings: Torture and... sappiness.
Prompt: In 8.17, there's a warehouse full of dead Dean Winchesters. But what was the fate of the taller one going to be? To Naomi, it's simple: give him what he rightfully deserves, after all the pain he's caused. Written for this prompt at Sam's hurt/comfort meme. Written in Castiel's POV, because I love me a good challenge.
I am doing what needs to be done. This is my path; my job; my life; my reason for existing. I'm recreated and ready -- and I am scared. Am I scared? She tells me that I am not, so I must not be. Not if she says it is so. Wait -- who says it is so?
In front of me in the pale light, Sam's body stutters to consciousness and I am the one who is keeping him there, tied down and prepared for the inevitable; he's confused, but I am not. I am ready, as decreed by my -- by who, who was it? I can hear her voice, crystal as scattered glass hung to chime in a breeze. The warehouse is dark, and elsewhere in a dark road, Dean must be terrified right now, suddenly being alone. I can... only imagine how Sam must've felt back then, when the same happened to him in Dick Roman's headquarters. Then, when I was broken and ugly, by no means a soldier, a shoulder of dependency that I had sworn myself to be for the Winc --
No. No, things are not as they used to be, and I have come to accept this; in fact, I embrace it. I'm better now, not at all like that mutated angel, nor that drinker lacking faith in his father on the cusp of an Apocalypse, nor the mindless Emmanuel, so sure that he was a normal man gifted by the Lord. There is a clarity that I always longed for. How foolish I'd been all those times ("but who was there with you during those times, Castiel? Cas?" I hear Dean say). There is clarity, isn't there? Surely...
Sam fights his binds weakly, too weakly, because he knows I have made them impossible to slip away from. Instead he just looks up, crescents pressed into the flesh above his wrinkled brow; such an interesting physical feature, and one I see so often on him, I've found it synonymous with the man before me. It's too bad that I've changed ("again, Cas? Come on, man, you can't possibly beli--") for the better. I'm well now. Purgatory led me astray, but Naomi has set me back to... to my -- 'factory settings'. I am new and whole and -- I do not want to do this. Please --
'You will do this, Castiel; have you forgotten? Are you weakening under the pressure of your duties?'
("Castiel, don't you touch a hair on my little brother's head; Cas!!")
There are little voices warring in my head, one real, one I believe I must be forcing myself to imagine. Why would I possibly do that? No, No I... I can do this. Sam knows I can, because when he looks at my stony visage -- it is stony, I have seen my resolution in the reflections of windows -- he swallows hard. A human reflex I have grown to appreciate, replicated. I understand humanity better than most of the Garrison, because I am part humanity.
"Cas..." Sam says to me, and the apprehension is stunted by the weary lines in his face. He wants to be outraged, but I think that time has made him tired. He looks... very tired. The Trials have not been kind to him.
'Castiel... What is your job?'
Please, do not make me do this --
'Repeat after me, now:' she commands, and I obey.
"Sam Winchester," I say against my own judgement, "The boy with the demon blood; the abomination. How many lives have you torn asunder in your wake?" I circle him and he starts coming to life in his bolted chair, straining against the rope and hoping he's wrong and he can truly break free. If I hit him, the chair will not move. His head would snap back and perhaps bone would crunch in his face, but the chair will not tip. I've made sure nothing can ruin my mission; why do I follow this mission? I touch my hand to his shoulder and he flinches under the weight of my pressed palm. It reminds me of a dark motel room, where he steadies me with his hands and I am too drunk to function properly. Back then.
"Why, Cas? What's happened to you??"
I lean in close to his ear.
"Don't ask stupid questions."
I hit him. Hard. His face blurs against the force of the motion, but I don't hit him hard enough to snap his neck or knock him unconscious. That would not be my mission. I must put him in his place, as commanded. I'm a good servant of Heaven. I know my place. Sam never knew his, and that is why we're here. He denied Fate herself. He is... an anomaly. An anomaly that is clenching his eyes shut, rolling his head and dripping blood from his lip. The image is familiar. I remember reaching into the pit of his stomach to brush my fingertips against his soul -- only to find the space barren. I remember the overwhelming sadness I'd felt, when I inspected it after it had been replaced. I remember how cold and lifeless it was, and when I curled my hand around it, it curled back like an infant's hand. It wailed so weakly. Please, it had said, it hurts so much.
I slam my fist into Sam's face again. A cut forms against his lower eye socket, on the sharp of his cheek bone, and it bleeds steadily.
"You drank from the lowest creatures for power, for revenge, because you wanted to feel superior. And when it all blew up in your face... you chose to fight against the angels, all because you wanted to deny what you really are."
I hit him in the nose; it bleeds as well. Twin rivulets. Most certainly broken. A wheezing voice tries to break through the mental fog:
"... Castiel, this... isn't you -- "
"Evil."
("You know that's a load of bull!")
Another cracking noise, echoing in the room. Stretching far, like an elongated shadow.
"Cas... d'n -- s'not you..."
I only realize now that considerable time has passed. I look at my hands, strong and proud, covered in blood. Sam's face is nearly unrecognizable; he is missing teeth; one side of his face is swollen; his lip is split, one hazel eye is shaded heavily by a growing lump against his eyebrow. Tears force their way down sunken cheeks, an automated response by the human body. And now, I am shaking heavily; my whole figure, shuddering as he coughs and says my name once again -- my 'nickname'. We both have 'nicknames'.
'He's not good, Castiel.'
Sam Winchester is a monster, I've been told as much, since before I could remember. Before he was born. I've always known. I remember him offering his hand to me, like he had been worthy of such a thing, but there had been such a hopeful look in his eyes then when we'd first met... I had pitied him. Pitied his ugly core. This boy king, this well-mannered child, whom I had learned to consider dirty long, long ago.
And then I became him.
'Castiel. What are you waiting for?'
A black sheep. A sinner cast aside, fighting all I had been told, being everything but what the others had asked me to be, denied what they asked of me. I had made mistakes, so many blunders. That I cannot deny. But I just wanted things to be better. I had hoped -- hoped. Such a simple word to say, yet so hard in practice. Castiel, why are you straying? Repeat after the voice. Sam Winchester is a monster. I know he is a monster, because the voice has told me so.
Sam breathes through a string of dribbling blood. "Cas... No..."
("Cas. I pray for him. I wouldn't pray for evil, Cas, you know that. You know Sammy.")
I know he is a monster, because I have watched him for a long time.
I have seen him drinking unholy blood.
(he was forced young)
I have seen him betray his brother for a demon.
(have you seen it really?)
I have seen the shockwave of the end of the world.
(i helped)
I have seen him save lives.
(he has)
I have seen him deny his addiction to defeat a Horseman.
(he did)
I have seen him defy Satan himself.
(against all odds)
I have seen the broken heart of a brother left behind, the other cast himself into a pit to suffer eternally.
(he suffered so deeply)
I have seen his walls crumble into dust.
(it was me)
I have seen him forgive me.
(me)
Sam Winchester forgave me.
What sort of abomination -- what sort of monster forgives?
Sam Winchester is not a monster.
Hey, Castiel... Maybe this is pointless. Look... I don't know if any part of you even cares, but, um... I still think you're one of us, deep down.
I had heard his prayers. I had followed the sound of it, bloody and sinful and ugly and mutated, and through his guidance, I found myself again. Sam. Oh, Sam. I had broke you from the panic room so long ago, and I had helped contain your brother, knowing full-well what was to come; I had dragged your body from the cage and your soul had continued to suffer because of my hubris, and I -- I had taken apart your mind and replaced it with blind suffering... Why would you ever pray to me?
Sam, I don't want to play my part anymore; we've never played our parts.
I know you never did anything but try to help. I realize that, Cas, and I'm grateful. We're all grateful. And we're gonna help you get better, okay? No matter what it takes.
Sam slowly looks at me, and he does nothing else, but he's spoken enough: a wordless recollection in my head, cancelling out an angry voice telling me to end it all. How could I end something that has forgiven me of my sins, when not even angels of the Lord could do such a thing? I've broken so many things so many times, I don't understand how they haven't broken me back, left me in pieces. No... they have, and I've been glued back together messily again and again. Sam would understand. Sam and Dean, they have always understood, in the end. And they have always forgiven. How could I possibly forsake him now?
There is so much blood and he is barely conscious, but the hand bound to the arm of the chair outstretches toward me. Clinging for something, anything, like his soul. I extend my hand and carefully hover there, uncertain, at his bleeding face. A tilt of the head. I feel my emotions stir in my chest, and suddenly I realize, I adore the boy king as I do the vessel of Michael. My small, horribly disfigured family that have always brought me back, someway, somehow, when nobody else could.
"Oh, Sam... I am sorry, my friend."
I remember not so long ago: Sam Winchester avoiding my open arms, unable to face embracing an angel after what had happened with Lucifer, within the cage. I remember being disappointed, admitting it would be awkward. But I also remember the broad shoulders I had embraced in the hospital room the night they had brought the tablet; the night when I had taken Dean and Sam in my arms, two halves I was content to cling to in my madness.
The binds around Sam fall away without a single touch as I lean close to him, and I think of how Dean would possibly hold him, comfort him; the Winchester way. I've always preferred that way, as self-destructive as it is. I have always admired the way they cling to everything, orphans in a storm. So my bloody hand cups the back of his head and he lulls forward against my shoulder with a pained moan, his ear weakly leaning against mine, and I know what salvation must feel like.
I was lost until I took on your pain.
Carefully, I brush my hand over the back of his hair. I hope it is sufficient.
"It will be alright."
My fingers spread over his slumped spine, I heal him with my cheek pressed beside his, and then I am gone with the sound of beating wings.
You are not taking Sam Winchester.
I won't let you.