Come as You Are 6/6
Come as You Are
Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Chapter Six
Nothing is better when Sam wakes up.
The blankets are twisted around his legs and one of his pillows has made its way onto the floor, remnants of a restless night. Sam's dreams had all stunk of sulphur and blood.
The alarm clock reads eight fifteen. Sam stares at the little red numbers, watching the five flick to a six, to a seven, to an eight. Finally he gets up because he doesn't know what else to do.
In the bathroom, Sam stares at himself in the mirror, searching for... something. Some sign of the secret beneath his skin. Something abnormal. Unnatural. But he looks the same as always. Same brown eyes staring back at him, tired and trepidatious. Same dark hair, doing it's usual morning impression of an unkempt hedgehog. It's getting long. Dad would have made him cut it by now but Dean hasn't said anything. Other than the ten or so times a day that he calls Sam 'Samantha' or 'Princess' or some other girl's name, of course, but that happens no matter the length of his hair so it doesn't count.
He looks entirely ordinary. He doesn't look like someone with demon blood in their veins. Or maybe he does. What does he know?
Without bothering to change from the t-shirt and sweats he slept in, Sam heads out into the hallway. Maybe he'll go to the library and find some books on demons The Men of Letters must have known something about this sort of thing. There could be a way to... purify himself somehow. Make his blood clean again.
The warm smell of coffee is emanating from the kitchen, along with a rumble of voices. Sam slows, bare feet silent as he drifts towards the doorway.
“I don't know,” Dean is saying, in response to something indecipherable said in Castiel's low tones. “He just sort of... shut down. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.”
“No good has ever come from you and Sam lying to each other,” Castiel says, prompting a rush of gratitude from Sam. “He deserves to know the truth.”
“Well, he shouldn't have to.” Dean sounds angry. “It's not fair. Everything that happened to him; what the demon did, and those fluffy-winged dickbags - no offence, Cas - it's too much to put on a kid.”
“It would be difficult for a child to understand,” Castiel concedes, which tempers Sam's gratitude somewhat, until the angel continues with “but Sam is smart and more resilient than you give him credit for.”
“I know he is,” Dean snaps. “That's not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Something is set down with a soft thud. A coffee cup, maybe.
“I don't want him to know.” Dean's voice is so quiet Sam has to step closer to hear. He presses himself against the wall. “How bad I've let him down. So much of what happened is my fault.”
“Your fault?” Castiel sounds as confused as Sam feels. “What do you mean?”
Dean is quiet for a long moment, then it all comes out in a rush. “It was my job to keep him safe, Cas. I was supposed to look out for him. I should've saved him from those damn psychic Hunger Games without selling my soul, or killed Ruby before she got the kid drinking demon blood. I should have held out longer in Hell. I shouldn't have broken the first Seal so Sam wouldn't have broken the last. Then Lucifer wouldn't have crawled out of the Cage and under Sam's skin. The world wouldn't have almost ended.” Dean laughs but not in a happy way. “All because I couldn't do my damn job.”
Sam realises that he's crouched on the floor with his arms wrapped around his stomach and no memory of getting there. He feels sick. Dean told him ages ago about the archangels Michael and Lucifer and how they wanted to have a big fight that would have destroyed the world. But he didn't say anything about breaking seals or drinking blood or Lucifer wearing Sam's skin. Dean said that they saved the world, not that they almost ended it.
“Dean.” There's a frown in Castiel's voice. Sam imagines the angel looking at Dean, brow drawn together, little lines pressed into his forehead, eyes bright and piercing. “The plan for the Apocalypse was aeons old, prophesied in the Book of Revelation. Both of you were manipulated by some of the most powerful beings in creation. There was nothing to be done.”
“That's not true.” Dean spits out the words like they're bitter. “If Sam could-”
Sam's foot slips on the tile. The gasp he lets out as he regains his balance is barely audible but Dean breaks off mid-sentence. Something, a wayward spoon or fork, clatters to the floor.
“Sam?” Dean calls sharply. A chair scrapes back.
Sam stands up. He should go into the kitchen. He should be calm and mature and face up to his brother and Cas and an apocalypse that sounds like it was at least partially his fault. He should ask some questions, like what is a Seal and how do you break one? Who is Ruby and did he really drink blood from demons? Why would he do that? He should probably ask how they got the devil out of him. He should definitely start breathing again because he's starting to feel like water circling the drain.
Sam turns and runs.
XXX
The problem with living in a locked underground bunker is that running away is impossible.
He could head for the store room and it's not so secret tunnel to the woods but Dean would be on him in a heartbeat, checking the wall for fresh smears of blood. The Impala is a tempting option. Sam even knows where Dean keeps a spare key. He could take it and smash his way out of the garage like something from an action movie. Of course, he'd need to keep driving forever because Dean would destroy him for treating the Impala that way. Plus there's a chance he'd simply end up pancaked among a heap of twisted metal and Dean would double destroy him if he did something as stupid as getting himself killed.
He can't go to his room, or Dean's room, or the library or the shooting range or anywhere else that Dean would expect. Instead, Sam runs along hallway after hallway, taking turns at random, with no clear idea where he's heading other than 'down', which feels as close to 'away' as he can get. Finally, he trips his way down a winding set of stairs, into a dungeon chamber tucked behind shelves of boxes and books - still ajar from previous a previous poke around - and skids to a halt just before he crosses into the huge Devils' Trap painted on the floor.
Sam sinks down beside the sigil, panting. His head is spinning. The room is spinning. He might actually be dying somehow because everything is spinning, trying to throw him into dark and weightless space, and he can't catch his breath and his heart is beating way way too fast to be okay. Maybe he's having a heart attack. How old is he supposed to be? Thirty-something? That's old enough for a heart attack, right? Or maybe it's, like, a seizure or something. He's shaking pretty hard. What does a seizure feel like?
Sam curls up on the cold concrete. He wraps his arms around himself to hold himself together and presses his forehead to the floor. The swooping line of the Devil's Trap is inches from his eye. He can't remember how to breathe.
Time passes. Sam doesn't know how much. Somehow he doesn't die. He comes close to throwing up a couple times, revolted by the phantom taste of blood, and at one point he hyperventilates so much that the room goes dark while he imagines himself with black eyes, like a demon. Or yellow eyes, like the demon that killed Mom. Why was it different? He never asked. What colour were Lucifer's eyes?
He wishes he would pass out, if only so he could stop thinking. He wants to erase his memories of the last few days and all of the horrifying revelations. He wants whoever or whatever stole two decades of his life to come back and takes away the last week.
But he doesn't pass out, or throw up, or magically forget everything that he's learned. Eventually he remembers how to breathe somewhat properly, which calms the swirly puke-y spinning of the room. The violent beating of his heart slows to a much less frantic rhythm and the shaking stops before he rattles himself to pieces. Sam lies on the floor, breathing in and out. In and out. The cold from the concrete seeps through his clothes and into his skin, the fuzzy Devil's Trap comes back into focus, and finally Sam becomes aware of Castiel, sitting quietly against the wall. Sam doesn't know when he came in or how much of Sam's breakdown he witnessed. The angel's face is unreadable. His unblinking eyes watch Sam impassively.
Heat rises in Sam's face. Self-conscious, he forces himself to sit up. “What do you want?” he snaps.
Castiel cocks his head to the side, regarding Sam without any hint of irritation at the rudeness. “Dean and I were looking for you.”
Well duh. “So you found me. Now go away.”
Infuriatingly, Castiel doesn't leave. “I think we should talk.”
Scowling, Sam turns his head away, looking stubbornly at the grey wall. “I don't want to talk.”
“Nonetheless, I think we should.” The angel is unexpectedly firm. Sam frowns. He can feel Castiel's eyes on the back of his head, staring him down.
What does Castiel see when he looks at Sam? Can angels see souls? Sam feels naked. What does his soul look like now, after everything? After demon blood. After the devil. He imagines a vein of darkness, like a coiling black vine, spreading through him. A corruption.
Sam draws his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around himself in a pointless attempt at concealing the evil in him. His toes brush the painted outer line of the Devils' Trap and he curls them back, away.
“Would I be able to get out?” he blurts. “If I stepped into it? Or would I be trapped like the other demons?”
He glances over at Castiel. The angel looks back at him, seemingly unperturbed. An angel should be more bothered, Sam thinks, by a boy infected with demon blood. By a boy the devil dressed in to end existence.
“You are not a demon, Sam. You have never been affected by Devils' Traps.”
Sam looks back at the Trap, unconvinced.
“You could test it, if you like,” Castiel suggests.
Sam shakes his head. What was it that Castiel said to him, after that sparring match with Dean? That angels don't need to lie. That an angel could manipulate a person with the truth. Is that what happened to Sam? Did he let Lucifer lead him astray?
“Is it true?” Sam's throat is dry. “Did I drink blood and free Lucifer? Did all those people die because of me?”
Castiel is silent for a long moment, thinking. At least, Sam assumes he's thinking. Castiel stays very still and looks even more serious than usual. When he speaks it's with the slow deliberate cadence of someone choosing their words carefully.
“No mortal being could have brought about the Endtimes alone. You and Dean were unwilling participants in a war between angels and demons. Pawns being used by the forces of Heaven and Hell to carry out plans that were put into place generations before your birth.”
“That sounds like a roundabout way of saying yes,” Sam points out.
Castiel smiles a little, not unkindly. “Dean said that I should hit you if you tried to take the blame for everything but I don't think he was being serious.”
“He might have been.” Sam rubs his shoulder, where Dean punched him last night.
“Even so, I am not going to hit you.”
“Thanks.”
Castiel's smile fades. “I am going to tell you that the story of the apocalypse is long and complicated. The creatures of Hell are devious and determined. My brothers and sisters in Heaven do not always do well without our Father's guidance. What is right is not always obvious. Mistakes were made. By all of us. Myself included. I am not proud of some of my decisions.”
“You're an angel,” Sam says dubiously. He can't imagine Castiel doing anything worth being ashamed of.
“So was Lucifer.”
Sam shudders. The devil had always seemed like somewhat of an abstract, even when Dean told the story of Lucifer's assault on humanity. Even when Sam read the news articles chronicling the unusual storms and plagues and entire towns of people vanishing, hundreds, thousands of people dying. It was like reading about a war that happened before he was born. Distant. Detached. Worse, it had seemed like an adventure. One that Sam regretted forgetting. Him and Dean, driving around America. Saving people, hunting things. Collecting rings to make a key to lock the devil in a cage. Like action heroes. On a quest to defeat a monster and save the world.
“You said that angels need permission to possess someone,” Sam remembers. “Does that mean I let him do it?”
Castiel's silence is answer enough. Fresh anguish sparks tears in Sam's eyes.
“Why would I do that?” he demands. “Am I evil? Because of the demon blood? Am I a monster?”
“No.” Dean would have been tripping over himself with blustering denials but Castiel's reply in calm. Matter of fact. “There was a time that I might have answered differently but that was before. Before I met you and Dean. Before I learned more about how wonderful, terrible, and complicated it is to be human. And before I watched you prepare to say 'yes' to Lucifer. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen.”
The angel's bluntness is strangely reassuring, even though Sam is hopelessly confused.
“How was that brave? I don't understand.”
“I know. I'm sorry. It is difficult to explain.” Castiel is silent and still again, thinking. “Your actions were the culmination of months of fighting a losing battle. Months of struggle and suffering and loss. The world was ending. Saying 'yes' to Lucifer was the only way to stop it.”
“To stop it?” Maybe he didn't hear Cas right. How could handing himself over to the devil stop the apocalypse?
“Yes. The world is still here, as you may have noticed.”
“Because we locked the devil back in Hell. Dean said...” The penny drops. Obviously Lucifer didn't go back to Hell willingly. Someone must have had to push him. Or drag the devil down with them. Dean left out that detail.
“I went to Hell?” Sam realizes. He's starting to feel weird and floaty again. Probably forgetting to breathe. He feels like he's dreaming.
“Lucifer's Cage is separate from the rest of Hell. But yes, essentially. You allowed Lucifer to possess you, then threw yourself in.” Oddly, Castiel smiles. Soft. Impressed. He looks at Sam with something warm that could actually be pride. “Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood, destined to end the world. Who defied the will of angels and demons alike. Who tore prophesy to shreds and sacrificed everything. To save Dean. To save everyone. You are not evil, Sam. You are a miracle.”
He really must be dreaming. Sam stares at the angel. He doesn't know what to say. A denial is pressed against the back of his teeth.
Finally his brain settles on the simplest, most obvious question. “How did I get out?” Because unless Hell is being thirteen again - and there could be an argument to be made there - the eternal damnation part of his sacrifice doesn't seem to have stuck. “Did you go get me, like you did for Dean?”
Something indecipherable flickers, almost imperceptibly, across Castiel's face. His eyes lower and his lips press together, just for a second before his gaze returns to Sam and whatever it was that flashed across his face is gone.
“Yes.” Castiel gets to his feet. “But that is another long complicated story, best saved for another time. Dean will begin tearing down walls if I ignore his messages for much longer.”
At first, Sam thinks Cas means that Dean is praying - which is weird - but then Castiel pulls a cellphone from his pocket - which is weirder. Who ever heard of an angel with a cellphone?
“Is he mad?” Sam asks, rising to his feet. He wants to push Cas for more details. He wants to know every part of every long complicated story. But he recognises a refusal when he hears it. Castiel isn't ready to share, or he thinks that Sam isn't ready to listen. And Dean is alone and he'd sounded so broken when he told Castiel that everything was his fault. Sam feels a stab of regret. He shouldn't have run away.
“Dean is worried.” Castiel thumbs through several messages. “So yes, he is mad.”
Sometimes Sam is jealous of how well Cas knows his brother.
“Do you think he'll yell at me?” Sam follows the angel out of the room with the Devils' Trap, trailing behind as they cross the storeroom and climb the winding stairs.
“I think he will yell at me,” Castiel says, “for not letting him know the moment I found you.”
Dean meets them in what he calls the War Room, the bunker's door closing behind him with an angry bang, boots clanking heavily down the stairs.
“He was here?” Dean immediately fulfils Castiel's prediction, barking at the angel before he reaches the bottom step. “And it took you this long to find him?”
“We were talking,” Castiel says, unphased by Dean's anger.
“You were talking,” Dean repeats, eyes flashing dangerously. “And you couldn't take a second to send me a text? You know, one of those quick easy messages I taught you how to do that lets me know that Sam hasn't gone and gotten grabbed by yet another monster? I was out there searching the woods, Cas!”
“Sorry, Dean,” Sam offers, a twist of guilt tightening in his stomach. Dean is pretty loud - he must have been really worried.
Dean looks past Castiel, at Sam, and deflates. He licks his lips, suddenly uncertain.
“Sam.” It comes out sounding like an apology and a plea. Dean opens his mouth but whatever words he's searching for don't come.
“Cas said that I'm a miracle,” Sam blurts out. It sounds dumb when he says it out loud. His voice doesn't have the same gravity as Castiel's deep rumbling. But he can't stand the stretching silence or the bleak guilt in Dean's eyes.
Dean goes still. Braces himself. He glances back at Castiel, uneasy, a question in his quirked eyebrow.
“Oh really?” Dean's voice is neutral but Sam can sense his brother's brewing panic. Dean is looking at him like he's waiting for Sam to throw a punch or a scathing accusation. Like he thinks Sam is going to scream at him for breaking some stupid Seal. For not killing some chick named Ruby. For allowing Sam to go to Hell. Dean might be older now but he looks exactly like the teenager Sam remembers, standing in front of their father, ready to be verbally beat down for his transgressions, real or imagined. Dad always seemed to find something and it doesn't surprise Sam to find that Dean has carried on the tradition. “What exactly did you tell him, Cas?”
“The truth,” Castiel says, “about the end of the Apocalypse.”
Dean looks stricken. His eyes go wide and his face loses a shade of colour. “Jesus, Cas, you'll scare the shit out of him! He'll have nightmares.”
“I'm not scared,” Sam argues, automatically. “We saved the world. That's really cool.”
“It wasn't at the time.” Grief makes Dean's words heavy. “You went to Hell, Sam.”
Sam shrugs. He doesn't really know how he's supposed to feel about Hell. He doesn't remember any of it. It may as well not have happened.“I'm not there now.”
Dean glances at Castiel. Eyes meet in silent understanding. There's a story about Sam's release from Hell, unshared, that Sam plans to ask about, later, when Dean doesn't look so devastated.
“It's okay,” Dean says, looking back at Sam, “if you're mad at me. I know I let you down. I didn't keep you safe and I should have.”
The way Dean's looking at him, Sam gets the feeling that his brother never stopped seeing him as the little kid that he kind of is right now, even when he was an adult and they were working together to save the world from squabbling archangels. Just like when Dean was a teenager and wanted to beat up anyone who looked at Sam wrong, even though Sam was capable of kicking a bullies ass six ways to Sunday.
“I kept you safe,” Sam points out, echoing Castiel's assurance, and Dean's face does a familiar dance between embarrassment and pride, the same expression he would make if Sam ended up saving him from peril on a hunt.
“You did.”
“Because I'm a miracle,” Sam says earnestly, suppressing a grin. If he can get Dean to call him a miracle, Sam will be able to lord it over him for the rest of eternity. Dean, being Dean, sees right through him and the tension, the fear of blame and rage, dissipates.
“The miracle is that I haven't attached some kind of tracking device to you. Take your phone next time you disappear, would you?”
Castiel has drifted from the room, perhaps sensing that a private brotherly moment was imminent, and Sam takes the opportunity to strike, surprising Dean not with a punch but a hug.
It will never not be weird. How tall Dean is now. How his build tricks Sam's brain into thinking of Dad when he wraps arms around his brother's waist and presses his face against the broad chest. He even smells like Dad. Like gun oil and beer.
Dean stiffens, startled by the sudden show of affection. Sam guesses that they probably didn't embrace a lot as adults. They didn't do it much as kids either. Living in each other's pockets, sharing too-small motel rooms and the Impala's back seat, shrinking with each growth spurt, had inspired a desire for space that living in the bunker doesn't. Sam would be embarrassed by how often he finds himself following Dean around - getting told off for sitting on the counter while Dean cooks, passing tools and feigning interest when Dean works on one of the cars in the garage - if he didn't notice Dean doing it too - playing on his cellphone while Sam browses books in the library, suggesting movies or TV shows and then crushing himself in beside Sam on one of their beds to watch.
Uncertainly, Dean returns the hug, huge arms curling around Sam's back.
“I don't think it was your fault,” Sam says. His voice is a little muffled by Dean's t-shirt but he can tell by the breath Dean sucks in that his brother hears the absolution. He can tell by the brief tightening of Dean's grip that his brother's first instinct is to refuse it, and then by the loosening that Dean has decided to accept.
“I don't think it was your fault either,” Dean says, voice firm. Convicted. Sam wouldn't be allowed to argue if he wanted to.
Sam doesn't want to. He closes his eyes, enjoying the weird - not bad weird, just weird weird - hug. It feels safe. Safer than his room or the Impala or anywhere else in the world.
And then Dean, still incapable of displaying more than a moments honest emotion, twists around and turns the hug into a headlock. Without mercy, he noogies Sam's already-messy hair into a hopelessly tangled birds nest while Sam squirms and yelps out the obligatory (and pointless) protests. Castiel is in the next room, saying something about bacon that makes Dean laugh, and life is really strange but well, what else is new?
The End
A/N: Okay, ending this was hard. One revelation leads to another and I got kind of tied up in my head trying to get Cas explaining everything without explaining the entire plot of Supernatural. So... I don't know. Tell me what you think?
Reviews will be given huge slices of birthday cake.