Mercy Comes With the Morning
Title: Mercy Comes With the Morning
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: AU after 4.03 “In the Beginning”, with a character from 4.07 “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester”
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Previous Part: Like a Rolling Thunder Chasing the Wind
Soundtrack: Download Here
The sun rises.
The days pass definitively now, with every hour, minute and second ticking forward, moving on. Leaving him behind. He feels time now in a way he never has before.
For thousands of years Castiel watched the world go by, a mere spectator rarely called upon to intervene in the grand affairs of men. Empires fell. The face of a civilization, once fresh and young, grew old and decayed and was replaced by another, and then yet another. People lived and loved and died and he felt each one like the other, which was hardly at all.
Eternity makes one strangely numb. He thought he knew the world was beautiful and that each and every man living within it was God’s greatest achievement; all living souls irreproachable works of art. But he didn’t know this.
He didn’t know how it really was. He didn’t truly understand because he’d always been on the outside, looking in.
But passion is not objective.
Love is not objective.
Now he is awake and these sensations are his to experience, fully, completely. There is an end waiting for him and each time the world goes dark and then is reborn, he knows he has moved one step closer to it. It makes every moment more vivid; every second more precious.
Perhaps that’s why some would say that he chooses to spend his time unwisely, but Castiel can’t think of any other, better way to pass his days. Following two steps behind the Winchesters makes the road he walks feel a little less lonely.
Morning leaves frost on the windshields of the vehicles in the motel parking lot, ice spidering crystalline over glass, and his breath turns to fog whenever he breathes. His skin stings, his fingers tingle in the cold. It had snowed during the night and he’d watched the flakes drift downward and blanket the earth in a shroud of purity, silent and perfect. He’d stared for hours.
The delicate swirl of snow in the yellow glow of the streetlights against the deep darkness of night in December made him think of Sam.
Whenever the world catches him off guard with all its gorgeous complication, he always thinks of Sam.
A small gap in the curtains drawn across their motel room window allows Castiel a precious stolen glimpse. He can’t help watching, waiting. They’re both asleep and he can imagine their comfort. Tucked up warm and safe in the only home they’ve ever known - two beds beside each other in the dead of night, the reassuring sound of another person breathing, living, there.
Sam looks as he did the morning Castiel had to leave him six months ago, save for the gash on his forehead that remains unhealed from a hunt a mere week ago.
That night Castiel had surreptitiously looked on as Dean had tended to his brother’s injuries, cleaned the blood from his face, and made it all okay.
Sam’s grown used to Dean again. He doesn’t stitch his own wounds one handed and wince manfully through the pain. Those four months alone have slowly been erased and the brothers are no longer two separate entities struggling to discover how their newly jagged, broken edges fit together.
They are Sam and Dean, all over again, two halves that make something whole.
Sam trusts that Dean is there to stay and he has let his guard down. Castiel senses the danger inherent in the change. There’s a fine line. Dean and Sam may be one another’s strength, but that’s always been their greatest weakness. One false step and their world could splinter all over again.
Yet even with that risk, Castiel cannot and should not interfere. He ripped Dean from perdition and placed him back by Sam’s side with reason, with the future of the world at stake. They are meant to be as they are and if Castiel were to make himself known, it would upset the careful balance only just restored.
It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to break God’s rules more than he already has. He was cast from heaven for risking it once, only once, and he does not know what will occur if he crosses the line again. God’s infinite forgiveness is reserved only for man.
He stares longingly at the man sound asleep on the other side of the thin pane of cold glass. So little separates him from Sam - it could be so easily shattered, so easily gone. The space of a few inches crossed and he would be able to hear the rhythmic sound of Sam’s deep and even breathing and feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He could run his fingers through Sam’s soft hair and touch his warm skin.
Sam’s long body is curled up underneath the layers of blankets and he looks so young and innocent. Even though Castiel has seen the fire of lust burn through Sam’s blood and the poison of anger darken his gaze, this is the image of Sam he carries with him like a token of affection kept close to his heart.
Castiel remembers what it was like to kiss him. To have him. He would give anything to have that again.
But he does not have anything to give. He has nothing at all.
Slowly Castiel steps away from the window, fingers leaving prints on the icy glass, shoes scuffing the snow. He leaves traces now. If either of the Winchesters bother to look, they will realize that someone was there.
He wonders if Sam will see. He wonders if Sam will know.
Castiel hopes that he does.
*******
Sam is supposed to be concentrating on the research spread out in front of him on the table. But his computer screen slips idly into a standard screensaver, his work ignored and forgotten.
He stares idly out the large picture window at the wintry landscape. A picture-perfect Christmas card, evergreens dusted with snow and moonlight glinting off their snow-covered branches. The world is so beautiful that it’s almost unsettling.
There’s a feeling that he can’t shake. It’s been there since he awoke that morning, the room strangely hushed. No banging doors or shouting children in nearby rooms. No showers running, no cars passing by. Just the hum and crackle of the heater and the sound of Dean’s soft, steady snoring.
He’d gone outside without thinking; pajama pants and thin t-shirt, bare feet on the icy pavement. He didn’t think to shiver until Dean sat up in bed and, confused and annoyed, asked Sam in a sleep-heavy, whiskey thick voice what the hell he thought he was doing.
He had no answer then. Just like he doesn’t have one now when Dean snaps his fingers repeatedly in front of his face.
“Dude, what is up with you today?”
Sam snaps out of his reverie, blinking two, three times and turning to look at his brother as if just realizing that he’s still there. Dean sits down across from him at the small table. He’s staring at Sam with concern sharp in his wide green eyes.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Sam says a little too quickly. It is the truth; nothing’s wrong. Nothing he can put a finger on, anyway. He is perfectly fine. But that’s not all of it and Sam knows that Dean knows it. “I just didn’t sleep well, is all.”
Sam furrows his brow and wakes his computer, scrolling downward and locking his eyes carefully on the screen, ignoring Dean’s lingering gaze.
“I’m sure you know what that’s like.” Sam adds quietly, partially out of ever-present concern and curiosity of his own, and partially because he knows it will push Dean back and his brother will leave this be. Sam’s problems are always fair game, but it’s unacceptable to turn focus on the fact that Dean tosses and turns and wakes up startled, sometimes screaming, more often than not.
Sure enough, Dean draws back both physically and emotionally, his face closing off completely as he turns and goes back to his bed, tossing pairs of freshly cleaned socks from the shared laundry bag to his duffel.
“You got anything yet?” Dean coughs sharply and nods to the computer, conversation pointedly steered in a new direction like a car turning sharp left in front of oncoming traffic.
“Nope,” Sam states, leaning back in the chair with a heavy sigh. “Nothing but dead ends.”
“Figures nothin’ could be easy.” The next pair of socks is thrown harder and then Dean sits down on the edge of the bed. “It’s been two weeks - two incredibly boring weeks. We really need another job, Sam.”
Sam would suggest that perhaps they should take the hint that they both need a break but he’d tried it days before and had been viciously rebuffed. He knows better than to try that tack again; any attempt made to comfort or coddle Dean thus far has only been met with snappish retorts and annoyance, and sometimes, outright anger.
What Dean needs is something to keep him occupied, to keep him busy. Keep his mind from lingering on the horrors he’d witnessed in hell that he’s still denying he’d seen.
But Dean never was very good at hiding the truth to begin with, and no amount of lies could ever cover a problem this large. And while the façade is beginning to break, Sam knows Dean would rather turn away and hide than allow him to freely see the reality showing starkly from between the cracks.
Sam struggles to find the right thing to say as the silence stretches on. His options have become limited and he knows if he says anything plaintive, soft, caring, chances are he’s going to get decked. He opens his mouth to speak a few times and thinks better of it.
Dean finally coughs again and picks up his coat from the back of the chair opposite Sam.
“I’m gonna hit that bar down the road.”
“Again? Dean.”
“Well if we don’t have any hot leads, I’m not just gonna sit around here with my thumb up my ass. I gotta do somethin’.” Dean pauses and then grins lasciviously. “Maybe twins.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Just make sure to puke in the toilet this time and not all over the floor.” Sam mutters, disgruntled.
“Hilarious, Sammy. I, unlike some other people, can hold my liquor. You coming with or what?”
“Think I’ll pass. I think I’ve filled my quota of shit-faced Dean for the week.” Sam knows he’s being slightly bitchy and from the look on Dean’s face, his brother is none too amused, but Sam’s patience is nearly non-existent. The thought of picking a mumbling, stinking Dean up off the bathroom tile in the morning, yet again, makes his own stomach twist.
Denial and Jack Daniel’s always produce the same results and the only secrets that will slip from Dean’s liquored lips are the ones Sam’s never wanted to know. Hearing the explicit details of the one time Dean did it with their thirty-year-old neighbor when he was only in the tenth grade may be Sam’s personal hell, but it’s not the hell that he needs to hear about.
“Fine.” Dean mumbles back, grabbing his jacket and his keys. “Don’t wait up.”
He slams the door much harder then necessary and Sam actually winces.
The gap between them is widening at a pace that’s astounding. For one brief moment things had seemed normal - or as normal as normal could be for anyone with the last name Winchester. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean, fighting evil, side by side, no more secrets, no more lies.
Then Dean started waking up in night sweats and refused to tell Sam what visions of terror haunted his dreams.
Sam can’t believe how fast Dean is slipping away.
He’s terrified to tread the ground between his brother and himself. The surface of it all looks serene but a deadly crevasse lies in wait to collapse under his feet, to send him plunging too far down to ever climb back up.
But he can’t just sit still, can’t stay put. It’s not in his blood, and it’s certainly not in Dean’s.
Grabbing his jacket, Sam stands up and opens the door, taking a deep breath and letting the air ice his lungs.
Dean is sitting in the Impala, engine idling but headlights off. He doesn’t smile when Sam comes to the passenger’s side and climbs in, but the fog of his gaze lifts for a brief moment and his expression shifts.
“You’re buying.” Sam grunts and Dean shrugs noncommittally, switches on the headlights and throws the car into reverse.
“Play you for it.”
The headlights sweep over the darkened window of their motel room and against the dirt and the grime and the road salt splattered and dried over the glass, Sam catches sight of one smudged but distinct handprint left behind.
Dean’s foot hesitates on the gas as Sam rapidly twists in his seat, glancing around the parking lot as if he expects to find someone there.
Sam knows exactly whom he’s expecting, though he has yet to really admit it. The racing of his heart is more than enough to tell him the truth behind his anticipation.
“What is it?” Dean inquires, turning to follow Sam’s motion with instant suspicion invading his expression. Sam hesitates, taking one last look, and then settles back into his seat.
“Nothing. I just…thought I saw something. Nevermind.” Sam turns on the radio, turns it up. His hand shakes slightly but before he can withdraw Dean clearly sees the tremble of his fingers. Sam puts his hands palm down on his thighs and tries to pretend nothing’s happened. “Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t say anything but the heavy, laden pause before he moves again speaks louder than words. Sam knows he’s just broken whatever he’d tentatively repaired by coming out of that motel room and coming along. The feeling makes him desperate, makes him scared.
Their bond is more fragile and tenuous than it’s ever been and holding on could just as easily crush as it could keep, but Sam can’t bring himself to loosen his grip.
Dean’s all he has left and he has every intention of holding on, even if it means ignoring the feeling gnawing deep down in his gut that tells him something more is waiting for him, just out of sight.
*******
Another bar, another town; this one is the same as all the rest with the smell of stale beer hanging in the air and the sticky floor underfoot clinging to the rubber roles of his boots. There’s a semi-attractive bartender who he tries to grin flirtatiously at each time she passes him by, but he fails entirely. His face feels like it’s heavy as stone, tight as dried clay. Each attempt to smile stings.
Dean used to be able to forget his troubles with enough booze and enough pretty women, but now alcohol stings his throat raw and the thought of being touched by some random stranger just makes his skin crawl.
Nothing can turn it off. The thoughts barrage his mind incessantly. It’d been flashes at first, like being sucker punched in the gut. They’d happen every so often, weeks or days passing between assaults. The glimpses didn’t add up to much. Screaming, pain, darkness. He could guess the overall picture, but the details were unclear.
Two months after Sam’s last encounter with Lilith, the flashes increased in frequency. Sometimes two, three times a day, with blinding pain like sudden migraine headaches, like how he felt when Andy sent him word of Sam from Cold Oak.
And then the dreams started. Vivid. Real. Linear. The whole story coming together, piece by piece, clicking definitively into place. By January’s end, he knew, in intimate detail, every last thing he’d done, every line he’d crossed.
Dean downs another shot of tequila and turns away from his reflection in the huge mirror behind the bar. The only time he can look at himself these days is after his vision has gone blurry and he can’t really see much of anything at all. Just a vague outline of who he used to be. The person Sam still needs and expects him to be.
And he’d managed that for a while. He and Sam, for once without a dark cloud hanging over their heads; just the two of them, doing their job. Not a word about Lilith, no angels appearing at their door, no demons clawing out of hell to pledge themselves to Sam’s aid. It’d been too easy and he should have known that simply “not really remembering” hell was far too good to be true.
He certainly remembers it now. And while he can barely look at himself in the mirror, it’s much harder to look Sam in the eye.
He hates it. He hates himself. He hates everything.
Sam is making awkward conversation with a short blonde who’d singled him out almost the second they’d walked in. Every few moments his brother glances over, looking trapped and clearly desiring a rescue, but Dean doesn’t oblige. He doesn’t quite know why he can’t bother. The thought of getting up and walking over, forcing a smile on his face and coming up with some lie to set Sam free is all too much effort.
Eventually Sam extracts himself from the situation just as Dean knew he very well could and makes his way back to Dean’s side.
“Aw, bored with Malibu Barbie already? Don’t tell me, she didn’t know who Jack Kerouac was and you just knew right then that it could never work out between you.” He can’t really work up any real malice or sting to his mocking insult and Sam shrugs him off.
“Kerouac’s overrated.” He mumbles and then looks at the glass held loosely in between Dean’s fingers. “How many is that?”
Dean throws back another shot and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“This isn’t Sesame Street, no need to count here.” Dean signals for another and gestures to Sam by his side, implying that he’ll need a shot for him too.
When the glass is placed in front of Sam, he waves it off with a polite no thank you even though Dean can see the disdain flash over Sam’s face, crinkling his nose.
Dean simply drinks his too and ignores the concern that then spreads into his little brother’s gaze. He despises Sam for caring. There’s nothing in him worth caring about, not anymore. Nothing worth saving.
He’d dared to hope differently when Castiel had pulled him from hell, but he knows better now. Remembers better now.
Some days he thinks that makes it all the worse. His rescue, his so-called purpose, had led him to believe he was something special. Then he woke up with the smell of burning flesh in his nose and the sound of shrill screaming in his ears.
The angels have given up on him. It’s been months - since Lilith’s attack, since he’d found Sam and Castiel mysteriously out in the middle of nowhere - and he’s seen neither hide nor hair of any heavenly agent. He’d considered it a blessing at first - he and Sam were free - but now the meaning of the angels' disappearance has taken a different slant.
It seems he’d been lifted up only to be dropped down. Falling from an even greater height made the crash that much more painful.
Given the chance again, he’s sure Castiel would just leave him in hell to rot.
“Why don’t we play some pool, Dean?” Sam suggests, antsy, plainly wanting to get Dean away from the bar for at least a little while. Dean shakes his head no, scowling at Sam’s transparent behavior. “C’mon. We could use the money.”
Sam hits him in the arm and jerks his head toward the pool table, a smile straining across his face, but Dean resists roughly.
“Gotta take a piss.”
His feet are unsteady when he stands but he tries not to let on. He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, concentrating on making it to the rest room without wavering or tripping. He can feel Sam’s stare trained on his back as he makes his way through the crowd and disappears into the dingy bathroom.
Dean leans against the cold metal wall of the lone stall and pushes the door closed behind him. It’s quiet; the music from the bar is a hum through the thick walls and Dean finds it somehow reassuring. He closes his eyes and tries to block out everything except that murmur.
But the door to the rest room opens and the noise blasts full-fledged for a brief moment, Bob Seger’s voice from the jukebox crystal clear and cutting through his calm like a knife. The door falls closed and though the small room is relatively quiet once again, Dean’s temporary balance is gone. He’s about to push the stall door open when someone else does it for him.
The petite blonde who’d been angling for Sam only five minutes ago slinks into the small space, a sly smile on her face.
“Hey there, cowboy.” Her hands are on his chest, warm through his threadbare t-shirt. “You look a little wound up…want some…release?”
The whole thing is off and as she presses up against him, her fingers toy with the amulet around his neck. The touch is too deliberate and when her lips cover his, wet and hard and too demanding, he feels nothing but wrong.
He tries to push her back but she’s viciously strong.
“What the…” Dean manages to gasp out as her slim hands slide up his chest and then find his neck. He’s not surprised when they circle tightly and press in. He’s not shocked when her eyes flash black and her smile turns wicked.
Ruby’s knife is in his inside jacket pocket. He could get it out pretty easily if he only tried. The demon is killing him with human force - her hands, not her mind. But he doesn’t make an attempt to grab it. He can’t get his hands to move. The feeling of life slipping away and darkness creeping in around the edges is inviting. It feels like relief.
When she realizes he’s not even bothering to fight, her expression turns confused, perplexed by the ease of her attack.
“Dean, you’re not even going to try?” She inquires, amusement crinkling around her blue eyes. “Tsk-tsk, what would Sammy think?”
“I think you’re going to hell, bitch.” Her body ricochets against the cinder block wall opposite Dean, the full weight of her hitting with a heavy, deadened thud. “Tell Lilith she’s gonna have to do better than this.”
“Lilith? Lilith’s nothing.” Sam’s brow knits and his eyes cloud with confusion. The demon laughs, amused. “Sammy Winchester…don’t you even know what you did?”
“What are you talking about?” Sam demands, trying to sound strong over his bewilderment. Dean looks between the girl and his brother, mind still a bit foggy as oxygen starts recirculating. All he can gather in the moment is that this demon certainly didn’t come here on Lilith’s orders.
The demon cocks a triumphant smirk at Sam and then stretches her host’s mouth open wide, black smoke starting to stream from between her lips.
But the smoke halts, stutters, direction changing from upward to downward, from certain escape to certain doom.
Sam extends his hand and Dean stares wide-eyed at him, not the girl, as the sound of choking and coughing fills the bathroom.
It chills Dean to the core. Sam is deathly intense but so calm, so still. It frightens Dean, and also thrills him against his own will. Sam is beyond powerful, beyond human, and he has more control than anyone Dean’s ever seen. Dean’s heart pounds and he barely manages to breathe, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead.
This isn’t supposed to be. This isn’t how it is. This isn’t the brother he knew.
This Sam is a stranger to him now.
It takes barely any time at all before smoke swirls through the floor and snuffs out like a cigarette stubbed in an ashtray, singeing the linoleum black in a perfect circle around the innocent girl’s feet.
She slumps against the wall and Sam lunges to catch her, all clear eyes and concern; he’s caring and innocent little Sammy again as if he hadn’t just ripped a demon from this girl’s body with his mind. She begins to cry and ask the impossible questions, her face full of terror, and Sam soothes her with soft words and his reassuring hold.
Minutes tick by slowly and Dean stands there, silently, staring. He can’t find his voice and he offers his brother no assistance with the girl. He’s frozen, locked into place and at a complete loss.
Sam eventually calms her enough to convince her to find her friends and get home, knowing better than to lead some obviously distraught and tear-soaked young girl from the men’s bathroom and into a room full of drunken men who’ll assume the worst.
She nods, sucking in a deep breath and trying to still her shaking hands, Dean can tell that Sam feels uncomfortable with leaving her but she summons the strength to get it together and makes her way out to the bar on her own. Once she’s gone, Sam turns to him, his jaw set tightly in anger. His gaze turns razor sharp and he seems to grow larger, arms spreading as he steps forward.
“What the fuck, Dean?”
“She just came in and attacked me, man. Don’t look at me like that.”
“You were letting it happen!” Sam shouts, frustrated and scared. He advances quickly, grabbing Dean by the front of his jacket and pulling him from the stall, turning and pushing him against the opposite wall. He fumbles into the inside pocket of Dean’s coat and lifts the knife out roughly. “You didn’t even try to defend yourself. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dean doesn’t know how to answer that except with the truth and he can’t bring himself to say those words aloud. Not to Sam.
He shakes his head and shoves Sam back, breaking his hold on him, and stalks out the door.
He doesn’t stop until he’s out of the bar. The parking lot’s uneven surface is shining wet from melted snow, lot lamps reflecting in the scattered puddles over gravel and asphalt. Dean can smell gasoline in the air, as well as a drifting scent of coffee and pancakes from the diner across the double lane highway. The restaurant’s lights cut through the night warmly and Dean can see every patron moving about inside, like some Hopper painting come to life.
He wants to be over there, over where life seems normal and he could get breakfast and watch Sammy scowl over the paper and his biggest worry would be the next hunt, the next job.
That life is gone now. That’s never going to be them again. There’s no going back.
Dean fumbles for the cigarettes he has in his front pocket, ignoring the echo of Sam’s voice in his head telling him that he shouldn’t be smoking again. His thumb slips on the lighter a few times before it catches but eventually the end of his cigarette burns and he inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs.
Across the parking lot, a person is standing, face hidden in deep shadow. Dean only catches sight of him out of the corner of his eye because the man suddenly moves. It’s startling - not because of someone’s presence, but because Dean is sure that he recognizes him, his whole body immediately wired and the drugged haze of his mind clearing like someone flipped a switch.
“Castiel?” Dean shouts, dropping his cigarette to the ground. It hisses, hitting water.
The figure picks up speed, hurries away, and by the time Dean reaches the place where the stranger once stood, all the surrounds him in every direction are parked cars and silence. There’s no sign of where Castiel - if it had been Castiel - had gone.
“Dean!” Sam barks sharply, storming out of the bar. Dean looks across the rows of cars at his brother, staring but not speaking. He actually considers running. Hiding. Keeping out of sight until Sam gives up and looks elsewhere, then hotwiring some unsuspecting shlub’s car and making off into the night. He could disappear, drink himself into oblivion and never come back.
He’d left Sam the Impala before; she’d be all right with Sam again.
But he stands still, lets Sam find him standing there. He can’t run. Not from this. Certainly not from Sam.
Sam stops at his side, breathless and angry. But he doesn’t say anything when he sees the bewildered expression on Dean’s face, his anger dropped and replaced with worry.
“Dean. What is it?”
“I just saw Castiel.”
“You saw Castiel?” Sam turns, looks around, and Dean catches a hint of utter desperation in Sam’s eyes when he turns back. “Where? Where’d you see him?”
“He was standing right here. He saw me and he ran.”
“He…ran?” Sam’s brow furrows and Dean nods slowly, knowing that Sam must think he’s crazy, or too drunk, or both. Sam visibly deflates, his defenses dropping. “Castiel doesn’t run. He’s an angel, Dean. There’s no need for him to run.”
“Well, he did.”
“Then it wasn’t him.” Sam states, and that’s that. He won’t even consider the possibility and being brushed off like a small child spouting tall tales strikes a nerve within Dean.
“I know what I saw, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, no offense, Dean, but I don’t exactly trust your judgment right now.” Sam starts to walk away, turning his back on his brother.
“No offense? Naw, none taken. Fuck you, Sam.” Dean jabs a finger in Sam’s direction and then slaps his hand against the nearest car in indignation. “I don’t know where you get off - you’re the one who’s pulling demons out of people even though the angels told you not to. And you don’t trust me?”
Sam turns, stalking toward him, and Dean nearly takes a protective step away, his feet hedging backward in the damp gravel.
“I’ll just let the demons finish you off next time then, Dean. That what you want?” Sam asks, voice cracking. “Cause you’re acting like it is. You’re acting like you want to die.”
“Well maybe I do.”
The effect is instantaneous. Sam stops moving, goes quiet, eyes welling with tears. It’s just like when Dean used to tell Sam he couldn’t tag along with him and his friends to the movies, or when Sam would come home with a straight A report card and Dean told him good grades didn’t mean a damn thing in the real world and called him a nerd.
It’s that look, that look when Dean’s knocked the wind right out of him and Sam is so hurt that Dean immediately feels guilty, wishes he hadn’t done it.
To his surprise, Sam doesn’t try to convince him that life is worth living, doesn’t ask him how he could say a thing like that, doesn’t tell him that he couldn’t go on if Dean weren’t around.
Instead Sam bites his lip and shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks away, swallows hard, and then sniffles once to hold back his tears. Dean can see Sam steel himself; the lines of his shoulders set like stone and he stands up straighter, grits his teeth. He tries to look Dean in the eye but quickly looks away again.
“We should go. That demon was after you for a reason and if Lilith isn’t the one who sent her…I don’t have a clue what the hell’s going on. All I know is it’s not safe here.”
“Maybe something new is starting. If Castiel-“
“Dean, it wasn’t Castiel. I don’t know who it was, but it wasn’t him.” Sam’s is strangely adamant and his voice nearly cracks again, this time steeped in nervous anxiety. Dean is about to call him out on it but Sam doesn’t give him a chance. “And frankly, hanging around here when some random stranger was watching you doesn’t really make me feel any safer. We should-“
“Get out of here, I know.” Dean mutters. “Whatever.”
Sam digs the keys out of his pocket and gestures toward where the Impala is parked, back toward the bar’s entrance. Dean doesn’t move. He takes another look at the path Castiel had run, knowing he won’t find a thing if he follows it but wanting to anyway.
“Dean. Now.”
Rolling his eyes, Dean reluctantly follows. He doesn’t have the energy to fight Sam. Not tonight. Not anymore.
*******
It’s April and it’s raining. There is a saying, something about May flowers, that a waitress had smiled down at him that morning as she filled his coffee, but he doesn’t quite remember what it was supposed to mean.
There are a lot of things that these humans say that seem to make no sense, a lot things that he doesn’t understand.
What he does understand is that the damp cold has chilled him to the bone, leaving him shivering and wet.
The elements never used to bother him before.
But that was before.
He bought an umbrella yesterday - a large black atrocity that he is still learning how to wield properly, the buttons and catches pinching his fingers. Castiel imagined he could hear Uriel’s laughter from where he stood, just as taunts rang clear as a bell in his ears last week when he purchased two pairs of jeans, clean dress shirts, new shoes. He’d reveled in the feeling of soft cotton and denim against his skin; if he’d known that there was such a huge difference between polyester and the rest of all available fabrics, he might have tried shopping sooner.
He’d had to throw the trench coat and the suit out; he couldn’t repair the tattered mess with the touch of his hand any longer and people were beginning to look at him strangely.
He couldn’t afford to stand out - or more honestly, he didn’t want to.
He was used to being seen only when he wanted to be seen, heard only when he wanted to be heard. Now there was no escape and he possessed not an ounce of control.
A smarter man would’ve realized that tailing the Winchesters in those circumstances was a risky proposition, but he is barely a man, much less a smart one. He can’t keep himself from continuing to follow Sam.
Though he’s managed to keep a safer distance from the Winchesters since Dean had almost discovered him that night, months ago, outside that bar, even from far away it’s clear that things between Dean and Sam are falling apart. The brotherly camaraderie is strained. They never touch; they rarely smile.
They sit in silence in the mornings when Dean can be bothered to wake up and Sam barely touches his food. His face is gaunt and Dean’s is drawn; dark circles linger underneath bloodshot, puffy eyes that betray tortured, troubled nights.
Dean departs at dusk every evening for the nearest bar or liquor store and Sam’s started working cases on his own. He takes the Impala and drives out to cemeteries and salt and burns alone, does the interviews and the legwork and the research while Dean sleeps off another late night.
When he comes back to their motel room, dirtied and bruised, Dean is never there to question him. He showers and falls into an uneasy sleep but he’s at least stopped waking up when Dean stumbles in. That has become routine.
And if Dean notices the scrapes and the cuts adorning Sam’s body in the few daylight hours they actually share, he doesn’t say a word.
While Castiel’s been witness to this tragedy as it played out, he thought that he had been careful enough to escape notice.
So when Sam comes out of their motel room and walks straight out into the middle of the parking lot and yells out his name, it’s the last thing that Castiel expected.
Sam stands there, letting the rain soak his thin t-shirt until it sticks to his chest like a second skin and the water begins to drip over the fabric of his worn boxers. His bare feet sink into the mud, dirt seeping upward to pull his toes down into the earth.
“Castiel!” Sam calls again, turning in all directions, waiting for him to simply appear by his side. It’s a challenge and a plea, both daring and begging Castiel to show his face.
Castiel considers walking away but the thought doesn’t linger for more than a cursory moment. Walking away could never be a real choice, not with Sam so real and so close.
“Castiel! I know you’re here, god dammit!” Sam sounds like he’s crying but in the rain it’s impossible to tell. Castiel swallows hard and moves.
“Sam.”
He announces his presence softly, one step out into the rain, then another.
Sam stares at him, eyes wide, mouth half open. His chest heaves as he breathes sharply and Castiel can sense Sam’s whole body tensing, quickening. Water drips from the dark locks of his hair, clings to his eyelashes, slides down the planes of his face.
They both move toward one another slowly, but Sam touches him first. A strong but unsteady hand to his cheek, fingertips rough and everything that Castiel remembered. Sam closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh of relief.
“You’re real.” Sam whispers and all Castiel can do is cover Sam’s hand with his, nod slightly, make a small, vulnerable noise of assent. He can’t find the right words and even if he could, his heart is in his throat and his voice won’t work.
The moment stretches and stretches until it snaps like thin ice and they both fall through, plunging helpless into the deep. Then Sam is everywhere, body enveloping him easily. He grapples to hold Castiel tighter, can’t get their bodies close enough. Castiel clings to broad shoulders, muscled arms, thin waist, unable to decide where his hands should come to rest and wanting to feel it all, everything that’s Sam.
He finally ropes his restless hands in Sam’s hair - tangled, wet strands slipping through his fingers - as Sam’s mouth plunders his. Sam takes complete control, tongue delving deep and drawing out a delicious groan from the pit of Castiel’s stomach. It is a sweet release.
Castiel can only imagine that this is what being an alcoholic is like, someone taking a first drink after years of hard-earned sobriety; the first taste of Sam warms him through and through, sets his pulse racing, spikes pleasure up and down every inch of his body.
“I’ve needed you, god, I’ve needed you,” Sam gasps between kisses. Fingernails dig into his skin through layers of rain-soaked fabric.
“Sam,” Castiel manages to whisper, lips pushing back against Sam’s with equal fervor. He’s no longer cold; he’s burning up and he’d give anything just to get these clothes off and let the rain splash cool against his skin. He pulls up on Sam’s shirt and touches bare flesh. Sam’s moan is loud even over the pounding of the rain, which is coming down in thick sheets much harder than before.
“Where have you been?” Sam’s desperate voice in his ear, Sam’s lips on his neck, Sam’s hands on his hips, and Castiel can’t think of the right reply.
“Here. I’ve been here,” is all he can say and he easily allows Sam to pull him into his dark motel room and slam the door.
*******
Sam lets his eyes drift closed, a content feeling washing over him as Castiel traces a gentle finger over his lips. If he looked, he knows he would find the other man staring at him intently, crystal clear blue eyes studying him and trying to memorize the lines of his face. He supposes that Castiel must see many changes, the differences etched in the surface of his skin since the last time they’d been this close.
“I’m all right,” Sam murmurs in response to the question Castiel has yet to ask. Castiel’s finger hesitates in its movement and Sam forces his eyes open to find Castiel staring directly back with concern challenging the truth of Sam’s statement.
“No you’re not,” Castiel replies gently but without room for argument. His expression turns contemplative and his fingers dance lightly along Sam’s jaw line. “But you don’t have to be.”
Castiel drops his head, leans down, brushes his lips to Sam’s in a soft, reassuring kiss. When he pulls back, he looks down the length of Sam’s body, hand slipping down the exquisite length of Sam’s graceful neck to his sharp collarbone. He traces the dark outline of Sam’s tattoo on his chest and then furrows his brow, eying the burn he’d left over the curve of Sam’s ribcage. Much, much fainter than the marks he once left in the throes of passion, but still there, branded on Sam’s golden skin nonetheless.
Sam can’t keep his whole body from shivering as Castiel gingerly touches the outline his fingers left behind. The sensation is raw and splits him open, pleasure and pain spiraling through his system. His heels dig reflexively into the mattress and he arches up into Castiel’s touch, wanting more of that intense rush that forces every other feeling out and away.
“I can’t heal you,” Castiel states so quietly that Sam, enthralled to sensation and yearning for more, barely hears the words. “I’m more human than angel now.”
He starts to pull his fingers away from Sam’s body, a reluctant frown on his face.
“I don’t care.” Sam immediately puts both of his hands over Castiel’s and pushes back down, hard, melding Castiel’s palm to the imprint on his body. He hisses at the pain but he feels more alive than he’s felt in months, every thought in his head blissfully concentrated on Castiel and Castiel alone.
“It’s all slipping away.” Castiel stares down at their intertwined hands but his gaze is unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere.
“Don’t leave.” Sam doesn’t know what makes him say it because it’s not the right response to Castiel’s concern, but it’s all he can think of when he hears the despair lacing Castiel’s words. He presses Castiel’s hand down against him even harder. “Just…don’t leave me again. Please.”
“Dean will be back soon.” Castiel glances toward the door as if Dean will be walking in any second and Sam reaches up, runs the back of his hand down the line of Castiel’s jaw and guides his gaze back toward him. “You know I shouldn’t be here.”
“No, I don’t.” Sam replies. “I don’t know anything.” He slides his hand to the back of Castiel’s head, his tousled, damp hair soft against the crush of his palm, and brings Castiel down to him. The nights he has dreamed of this…
This, this…there’s still nothing about it that makes sense but it’s the only thing that makes him feel right. It’s the only thing that gives him hope.
The further Dean has pulled away, the more dead he’s felt. This fantasy was the only thing that kept his blood flowing when all he wanted to do was lie down and give up. Now with the reality of Castiel in his arms, he feels like part of what’s been missing has finally returned.
“Sam…” Castiel tries to pull back, struggling, and it feels like a knife slicing Sam’s heart wide open.
“What have you got to lose?” He demands, wondering what more could be keeping Castiel from giving in completely to the pull between them; what could have kept him away for so many months. Even with their sweat and come still cooling on their skin from their enthusiastic reunion, Castiel still wants to pretend that this is something he can and will resist. “What are you doing here, Castiel?”
Castiel gazes at him, eyes shaded with thoughts going unspoken, and then he reaches over and pushes a strand of Sam’s messy hair back from his forehead. The gesture is familiar and loving and it’s not an answer, but it’s all it takes to break the tension.
Sam takes Castiel and easily rolls his body underneath his own. He claims Castiel’s lips and molds their angles and curves together, legs and arms tangling, chests pressing.
Castiel gives in easily, letting Sam take control, his kiss willing and open and a whimpering plea on his tongue.
Sam grows hard so quickly that it makes his head spin and feels Castiel react exactly the same, thickening against his thigh, blood rushing and hearts thundering. He urges his hips in a steady rhythm, thrusting and rocking in a slow build up to an eventual frantic and stuttering pace, the desperation to touch, to feel taking over them both.
Castiel clings to him, fingers scraping his broad back, and Sam loses himself to instinct, blind passion leaving him gasping and groaning as Castiel writhes under him and moans his name breathlessly. As ever before, feeling and hearing Castiel break apart under his hands is overwhelming in its power.
The room is one hundred degrees and his head is cloudy. He can’t breathe and he can’t see straight. He can't get enough. Sam wants and wants, desperate for more. Castiel is light and air and all around him; it’s nothing and it’s everything at once and it’s all he needs after months of twisting himself into tangled knots over Dean.
It’s a fleeting moment of sheer freedom and he tries to hang on to it. It’s impossible.
When he comes hot and messy over Castiel’s stomach, spurting again and again until he’s wrung entirely empty, the swell of satisfaction ebbs and flows through his body in waves. He keeps rocking gently against Castiel long after they’ve both finished, feeling it as Castiel goes soft and all their muscles relax.
He doesn’t want to stop; he doesn’t want this to end.
Castiel sighs secrets into his ear that he can’t really make out, and rubs his hands down the strong line of Sam’s spine. The sensation soothes Sam to the point of near slumber. He feels at peace and his defenses break down further with every caress. He has no choice but to admit that everything leading up to this seems even more wrong in comparison.
“I’m not really okay.” Sam murmurs and Castiel nods, understanding. He lets Castiel kiss him, possess him, his mouth slack and his body loose. He doesn’t realize that he’d been crying until Castiel brushes a tear away from his cheek with the pad of his thumb as he pulls back to look at him.
“I know.” Castiel’s whisper is the last thing Sam hears before he drifts off to sleep.
*******
The shower is running when Dean manages to get his key into the door and turned. He pauses, eyes adjusting to the darkness, before getting both feet across the threshold and into their motel room.
He’s honestly more tired than drunk but these days it doesn’t make much difference. The feeling is kind of the same. Both leave him numb and worn down enough to catch a few minutes of sleep without being assaulted with images of sheer, utter terror.
With bleary eyes he finds the digital clock and, after blinking twice to clear his vision, reads 5:45 a.m. in blurry red.
Sam’s bed is mussed, covers strewn, and the room smells distinctly of sex, heady and thick. He decides he’s not going to ask. He finds he doesn’t really want to know if Sam’s sexual habits have turned suddenly casual and mumbles a faint hope that whatever girl Sam picked up has already taken off.
Dean shuffles through a layer of cast off clothes, boot getting caught on a pair of Sam’s boxers that cause him to stumble.
“Dammit,” he mutters, angrily kicking the offending garment away.
He sits down quickly on the edge of his own untouched bed and eyes the bathroom door, slivered open just slightly to let hot steam and warm light waft out into the main room. Dean listens carefully for a telltale sound of Sam not being alone, but there’s only the sound of running water.
Running water that stops, abruptly.
Dean considers clambering into bed and feigning sleep, but he can’t move in time.
Sam emerges only a moment later, backlit by the bathroom light. He’s dripping in that annoying way Sam always is when fresh out of the shower, not bothering to even dry himself off a bit before getting the rug and the bed and everything around him sopping wet.
Sam visibly hesitates when he finds his brother back and it hurts Dean a little to see Sam practically wince at the sight of him. He doesn’t say anything; he just clutches his towel tighter around his body with one hand and steps out of the light quickly, crossing the room to his leather bag and digging out a clean shirt, clean boxers.
He dresses swiftly in that thirteen year old in a locker room way Dean used to tease him mercilessly for, keeping his towel firmly around his hips until his boxers are pulled on, managing not to show too much skin, all modesty and shyness. Dean looks away anyway, but moreso because Sam hasn’t been this uncomfortable around him since they first hit the road again four and a half years ago.
Uncomfortable like they hadn’t spent their entire lives in each other’s pockets, so used to each other’s constant, inescapable presence that getting changed was just matter-of-fact business that needed to be taken care of, swiftly and surely and without any thought of embarrassment.
It’s awkward and it’s strange and Dean wishes he’d stayed out just fifteen minutes longer so this whole scene could have been avoided. It’s easier to come home when Sam’s already asleep. That way they don’t have to talk and he doesn’t have to explain where he’s been.
Not that Sam asks anymore, which is a development that might just bother him even more than Sam’s concerned queries used to.
Light catches Sam’s flank when he reaches up, pulls his shirt over his head, and the angry red welt on Sam’s skin screams out for Dean’s attention.
“What the hell is that?” Dean blurts out, unthinking, and climbs up from his seat. He suddenly feels a lot more sober.
Sam and hurt still occasionally have a way of clearing his head.
Sam pulls down his shirt sharply and throws Dean a look that stops him in his tracks.
“Just something I picked up on the latest hunt, it’s fine.” He mutters and turns away.
“What were you hunting? When were you hunting?”
“Get some sleep, Dean.” Sam shrugs him off but Dean persists.
“You were hunting without me? What the hell are you thinkin’-”
Sam’s snort is derisive and it rankles Dean to the core.
“Not everyone can be Ernest Hemingway, Dean.” Sam picks up a shirt from the floor and shoves it into his laundry bag.
“What does that mean?” Dean’s face screws up in complete puzzlement.
“I’m not gonna let you hunt while you’re drunk off your ass, that’s what it means.” He’s exhausted and bitter and the words slide sadly off his tongue rather than snap. “I’ve been hunting without you, Dean. For over a month now. And you know that I’ve been hunting without you, so please don’t pretend like it’s news.”
Dean tries to think of something to say that doesn’t sound idiotic but he comes up empty. Sam sighs and picks his bag up from the chair, drops it on the floor, and takes the spot it had occupied.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, Dean.”
“About what?” Dean feigns ignorance and Sam pushes on like he hadn’t spoken.
“I’ve pretended it’s nothing, I’ve given you your space, I’ve let you lie. But it’s too much. We need to talk about this.”
“What ‘this’, Sam? There is no ‘this’.”
Sam glares at him and Dean can see his eyes spark with impatience and anger even in the dim light.
“You really want to just keep ignoring the elephant in the room then.”
“I’m used to it. It’s like furniture.” Dean jokes harshly and Sam’s face grows even more stern, the angular planes of his face drawing flat and tight and his mouth setting in a firm, unforgiving line. It’s not quite the indignant, righteous anger that Sam used to flash at their father, but this tightly wound aggravation and disappointment strikes Dean as even more dangerous.
“I know you think that I can’t understand, Dean, and you’re right. I probably can’t. There’s no way I can know what you went through in hell. But holding it in, not talking about it at all? It’s not a solution.”
“It’s not something that has a solution, Sam. You can’t just Oprah this out. You can’t fix it.”
Sam stands up with a frustrated huff and turns away from Dean, running his hands through his hair.
“So you’d really rather drink yourself to death than just tell me what the fuck happened.”
Sam’s past the point of being brotherly and kind, past the careful concern and past respecting boundaries that Dean’s set. Dean knows he’s worn Sam’s goodwill down to nothing but he can’t bring himself to spit out even one word about the time he spent down in the depths of hell.
Dean avoids Sam’s steely gaze and focuses instead on a blotchy stain on the faded carpet. He fills his head with a stream of incredibly inane questions - is it blood? Spilled wine? Juice some clumsy kid dropped? Did the kid get screamed at for his mistake or was it just another thing to be forgotten? - that he doesn’t notice how long Sam stands there, waiting, quiet, for some kind of response.
Finally, Sam moves to the door and this breaks Dean from his thoughts. He casts a wavering, unsure glance up at his brother and then looks away. Sam’s hand is on the doorknob and part of Dean - almost all of him - honestly doesn’t want Sam to walk out now. He wants Sam to stay without needing an explanation, without understanding anything.
But he’s been asking that of Sam for months.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Sammy.”
Dean locks his eyes back on the floor but he knows that Sam stares at him for a long moment, pained, before he opens the door. His voice is soft but heavy, laden down with all the things that he wants to say that Dean knows Sam’s holding back.
“I’m going to go get breakfast. Get some sleep, Dean, if you can.”
Dean watches Sam’s heavy boots shuffle out of his peripheral vision and the door latch loudly clicks shut against the aching silence.
He knows Sam hasn’t really left, but the sound is still heart-wrenchingly final.
*******
-------> THIS PART CONTINUED...
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: AU after 4.03 “In the Beginning”, with a character from 4.07 “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester”
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Previous Part: Like a Rolling Thunder Chasing the Wind
Soundtrack: Download Here
The sun rises.
The days pass definitively now, with every hour, minute and second ticking forward, moving on. Leaving him behind. He feels time now in a way he never has before.
For thousands of years Castiel watched the world go by, a mere spectator rarely called upon to intervene in the grand affairs of men. Empires fell. The face of a civilization, once fresh and young, grew old and decayed and was replaced by another, and then yet another. People lived and loved and died and he felt each one like the other, which was hardly at all.
Eternity makes one strangely numb. He thought he knew the world was beautiful and that each and every man living within it was God’s greatest achievement; all living souls irreproachable works of art. But he didn’t know this.
He didn’t know how it really was. He didn’t truly understand because he’d always been on the outside, looking in.
But passion is not objective.
Love is not objective.
Now he is awake and these sensations are his to experience, fully, completely. There is an end waiting for him and each time the world goes dark and then is reborn, he knows he has moved one step closer to it. It makes every moment more vivid; every second more precious.
Perhaps that’s why some would say that he chooses to spend his time unwisely, but Castiel can’t think of any other, better way to pass his days. Following two steps behind the Winchesters makes the road he walks feel a little less lonely.
Morning leaves frost on the windshields of the vehicles in the motel parking lot, ice spidering crystalline over glass, and his breath turns to fog whenever he breathes. His skin stings, his fingers tingle in the cold. It had snowed during the night and he’d watched the flakes drift downward and blanket the earth in a shroud of purity, silent and perfect. He’d stared for hours.
The delicate swirl of snow in the yellow glow of the streetlights against the deep darkness of night in December made him think of Sam.
Whenever the world catches him off guard with all its gorgeous complication, he always thinks of Sam.
A small gap in the curtains drawn across their motel room window allows Castiel a precious stolen glimpse. He can’t help watching, waiting. They’re both asleep and he can imagine their comfort. Tucked up warm and safe in the only home they’ve ever known - two beds beside each other in the dead of night, the reassuring sound of another person breathing, living, there.
Sam looks as he did the morning Castiel had to leave him six months ago, save for the gash on his forehead that remains unhealed from a hunt a mere week ago.
That night Castiel had surreptitiously looked on as Dean had tended to his brother’s injuries, cleaned the blood from his face, and made it all okay.
Sam’s grown used to Dean again. He doesn’t stitch his own wounds one handed and wince manfully through the pain. Those four months alone have slowly been erased and the brothers are no longer two separate entities struggling to discover how their newly jagged, broken edges fit together.
They are Sam and Dean, all over again, two halves that make something whole.
Sam trusts that Dean is there to stay and he has let his guard down. Castiel senses the danger inherent in the change. There’s a fine line. Dean and Sam may be one another’s strength, but that’s always been their greatest weakness. One false step and their world could splinter all over again.
Yet even with that risk, Castiel cannot and should not interfere. He ripped Dean from perdition and placed him back by Sam’s side with reason, with the future of the world at stake. They are meant to be as they are and if Castiel were to make himself known, it would upset the careful balance only just restored.
It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to break God’s rules more than he already has. He was cast from heaven for risking it once, only once, and he does not know what will occur if he crosses the line again. God’s infinite forgiveness is reserved only for man.
He stares longingly at the man sound asleep on the other side of the thin pane of cold glass. So little separates him from Sam - it could be so easily shattered, so easily gone. The space of a few inches crossed and he would be able to hear the rhythmic sound of Sam’s deep and even breathing and feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He could run his fingers through Sam’s soft hair and touch his warm skin.
Sam’s long body is curled up underneath the layers of blankets and he looks so young and innocent. Even though Castiel has seen the fire of lust burn through Sam’s blood and the poison of anger darken his gaze, this is the image of Sam he carries with him like a token of affection kept close to his heart.
Castiel remembers what it was like to kiss him. To have him. He would give anything to have that again.
But he does not have anything to give. He has nothing at all.
Slowly Castiel steps away from the window, fingers leaving prints on the icy glass, shoes scuffing the snow. He leaves traces now. If either of the Winchesters bother to look, they will realize that someone was there.
He wonders if Sam will see. He wonders if Sam will know.
Castiel hopes that he does.
*******
Sam is supposed to be concentrating on the research spread out in front of him on the table. But his computer screen slips idly into a standard screensaver, his work ignored and forgotten.
He stares idly out the large picture window at the wintry landscape. A picture-perfect Christmas card, evergreens dusted with snow and moonlight glinting off their snow-covered branches. The world is so beautiful that it’s almost unsettling.
There’s a feeling that he can’t shake. It’s been there since he awoke that morning, the room strangely hushed. No banging doors or shouting children in nearby rooms. No showers running, no cars passing by. Just the hum and crackle of the heater and the sound of Dean’s soft, steady snoring.
He’d gone outside without thinking; pajama pants and thin t-shirt, bare feet on the icy pavement. He didn’t think to shiver until Dean sat up in bed and, confused and annoyed, asked Sam in a sleep-heavy, whiskey thick voice what the hell he thought he was doing.
He had no answer then. Just like he doesn’t have one now when Dean snaps his fingers repeatedly in front of his face.
“Dude, what is up with you today?”
Sam snaps out of his reverie, blinking two, three times and turning to look at his brother as if just realizing that he’s still there. Dean sits down across from him at the small table. He’s staring at Sam with concern sharp in his wide green eyes.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Sam says a little too quickly. It is the truth; nothing’s wrong. Nothing he can put a finger on, anyway. He is perfectly fine. But that’s not all of it and Sam knows that Dean knows it. “I just didn’t sleep well, is all.”
Sam furrows his brow and wakes his computer, scrolling downward and locking his eyes carefully on the screen, ignoring Dean’s lingering gaze.
“I’m sure you know what that’s like.” Sam adds quietly, partially out of ever-present concern and curiosity of his own, and partially because he knows it will push Dean back and his brother will leave this be. Sam’s problems are always fair game, but it’s unacceptable to turn focus on the fact that Dean tosses and turns and wakes up startled, sometimes screaming, more often than not.
Sure enough, Dean draws back both physically and emotionally, his face closing off completely as he turns and goes back to his bed, tossing pairs of freshly cleaned socks from the shared laundry bag to his duffel.
“You got anything yet?” Dean coughs sharply and nods to the computer, conversation pointedly steered in a new direction like a car turning sharp left in front of oncoming traffic.
“Nope,” Sam states, leaning back in the chair with a heavy sigh. “Nothing but dead ends.”
“Figures nothin’ could be easy.” The next pair of socks is thrown harder and then Dean sits down on the edge of the bed. “It’s been two weeks - two incredibly boring weeks. We really need another job, Sam.”
Sam would suggest that perhaps they should take the hint that they both need a break but he’d tried it days before and had been viciously rebuffed. He knows better than to try that tack again; any attempt made to comfort or coddle Dean thus far has only been met with snappish retorts and annoyance, and sometimes, outright anger.
What Dean needs is something to keep him occupied, to keep him busy. Keep his mind from lingering on the horrors he’d witnessed in hell that he’s still denying he’d seen.
But Dean never was very good at hiding the truth to begin with, and no amount of lies could ever cover a problem this large. And while the façade is beginning to break, Sam knows Dean would rather turn away and hide than allow him to freely see the reality showing starkly from between the cracks.
Sam struggles to find the right thing to say as the silence stretches on. His options have become limited and he knows if he says anything plaintive, soft, caring, chances are he’s going to get decked. He opens his mouth to speak a few times and thinks better of it.
Dean finally coughs again and picks up his coat from the back of the chair opposite Sam.
“I’m gonna hit that bar down the road.”
“Again? Dean.”
“Well if we don’t have any hot leads, I’m not just gonna sit around here with my thumb up my ass. I gotta do somethin’.” Dean pauses and then grins lasciviously. “Maybe twins.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Just make sure to puke in the toilet this time and not all over the floor.” Sam mutters, disgruntled.
“Hilarious, Sammy. I, unlike some other people, can hold my liquor. You coming with or what?”
“Think I’ll pass. I think I’ve filled my quota of shit-faced Dean for the week.” Sam knows he’s being slightly bitchy and from the look on Dean’s face, his brother is none too amused, but Sam’s patience is nearly non-existent. The thought of picking a mumbling, stinking Dean up off the bathroom tile in the morning, yet again, makes his own stomach twist.
Denial and Jack Daniel’s always produce the same results and the only secrets that will slip from Dean’s liquored lips are the ones Sam’s never wanted to know. Hearing the explicit details of the one time Dean did it with their thirty-year-old neighbor when he was only in the tenth grade may be Sam’s personal hell, but it’s not the hell that he needs to hear about.
“Fine.” Dean mumbles back, grabbing his jacket and his keys. “Don’t wait up.”
He slams the door much harder then necessary and Sam actually winces.
The gap between them is widening at a pace that’s astounding. For one brief moment things had seemed normal - or as normal as normal could be for anyone with the last name Winchester. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean, fighting evil, side by side, no more secrets, no more lies.
Then Dean started waking up in night sweats and refused to tell Sam what visions of terror haunted his dreams.
Sam can’t believe how fast Dean is slipping away.
He’s terrified to tread the ground between his brother and himself. The surface of it all looks serene but a deadly crevasse lies in wait to collapse under his feet, to send him plunging too far down to ever climb back up.
But he can’t just sit still, can’t stay put. It’s not in his blood, and it’s certainly not in Dean’s.
Grabbing his jacket, Sam stands up and opens the door, taking a deep breath and letting the air ice his lungs.
Dean is sitting in the Impala, engine idling but headlights off. He doesn’t smile when Sam comes to the passenger’s side and climbs in, but the fog of his gaze lifts for a brief moment and his expression shifts.
“You’re buying.” Sam grunts and Dean shrugs noncommittally, switches on the headlights and throws the car into reverse.
“Play you for it.”
The headlights sweep over the darkened window of their motel room and against the dirt and the grime and the road salt splattered and dried over the glass, Sam catches sight of one smudged but distinct handprint left behind.
Dean’s foot hesitates on the gas as Sam rapidly twists in his seat, glancing around the parking lot as if he expects to find someone there.
Sam knows exactly whom he’s expecting, though he has yet to really admit it. The racing of his heart is more than enough to tell him the truth behind his anticipation.
“What is it?” Dean inquires, turning to follow Sam’s motion with instant suspicion invading his expression. Sam hesitates, taking one last look, and then settles back into his seat.
“Nothing. I just…thought I saw something. Nevermind.” Sam turns on the radio, turns it up. His hand shakes slightly but before he can withdraw Dean clearly sees the tremble of his fingers. Sam puts his hands palm down on his thighs and tries to pretend nothing’s happened. “Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t say anything but the heavy, laden pause before he moves again speaks louder than words. Sam knows he’s just broken whatever he’d tentatively repaired by coming out of that motel room and coming along. The feeling makes him desperate, makes him scared.
Their bond is more fragile and tenuous than it’s ever been and holding on could just as easily crush as it could keep, but Sam can’t bring himself to loosen his grip.
Dean’s all he has left and he has every intention of holding on, even if it means ignoring the feeling gnawing deep down in his gut that tells him something more is waiting for him, just out of sight.
*******
Another bar, another town; this one is the same as all the rest with the smell of stale beer hanging in the air and the sticky floor underfoot clinging to the rubber roles of his boots. There’s a semi-attractive bartender who he tries to grin flirtatiously at each time she passes him by, but he fails entirely. His face feels like it’s heavy as stone, tight as dried clay. Each attempt to smile stings.
Dean used to be able to forget his troubles with enough booze and enough pretty women, but now alcohol stings his throat raw and the thought of being touched by some random stranger just makes his skin crawl.
Nothing can turn it off. The thoughts barrage his mind incessantly. It’d been flashes at first, like being sucker punched in the gut. They’d happen every so often, weeks or days passing between assaults. The glimpses didn’t add up to much. Screaming, pain, darkness. He could guess the overall picture, but the details were unclear.
Two months after Sam’s last encounter with Lilith, the flashes increased in frequency. Sometimes two, three times a day, with blinding pain like sudden migraine headaches, like how he felt when Andy sent him word of Sam from Cold Oak.
And then the dreams started. Vivid. Real. Linear. The whole story coming together, piece by piece, clicking definitively into place. By January’s end, he knew, in intimate detail, every last thing he’d done, every line he’d crossed.
Dean downs another shot of tequila and turns away from his reflection in the huge mirror behind the bar. The only time he can look at himself these days is after his vision has gone blurry and he can’t really see much of anything at all. Just a vague outline of who he used to be. The person Sam still needs and expects him to be.
And he’d managed that for a while. He and Sam, for once without a dark cloud hanging over their heads; just the two of them, doing their job. Not a word about Lilith, no angels appearing at their door, no demons clawing out of hell to pledge themselves to Sam’s aid. It’d been too easy and he should have known that simply “not really remembering” hell was far too good to be true.
He certainly remembers it now. And while he can barely look at himself in the mirror, it’s much harder to look Sam in the eye.
He hates it. He hates himself. He hates everything.
Sam is making awkward conversation with a short blonde who’d singled him out almost the second they’d walked in. Every few moments his brother glances over, looking trapped and clearly desiring a rescue, but Dean doesn’t oblige. He doesn’t quite know why he can’t bother. The thought of getting up and walking over, forcing a smile on his face and coming up with some lie to set Sam free is all too much effort.
Eventually Sam extracts himself from the situation just as Dean knew he very well could and makes his way back to Dean’s side.
“Aw, bored with Malibu Barbie already? Don’t tell me, she didn’t know who Jack Kerouac was and you just knew right then that it could never work out between you.” He can’t really work up any real malice or sting to his mocking insult and Sam shrugs him off.
“Kerouac’s overrated.” He mumbles and then looks at the glass held loosely in between Dean’s fingers. “How many is that?”
Dean throws back another shot and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“This isn’t Sesame Street, no need to count here.” Dean signals for another and gestures to Sam by his side, implying that he’ll need a shot for him too.
When the glass is placed in front of Sam, he waves it off with a polite no thank you even though Dean can see the disdain flash over Sam’s face, crinkling his nose.
Dean simply drinks his too and ignores the concern that then spreads into his little brother’s gaze. He despises Sam for caring. There’s nothing in him worth caring about, not anymore. Nothing worth saving.
He’d dared to hope differently when Castiel had pulled him from hell, but he knows better now. Remembers better now.
Some days he thinks that makes it all the worse. His rescue, his so-called purpose, had led him to believe he was something special. Then he woke up with the smell of burning flesh in his nose and the sound of shrill screaming in his ears.
The angels have given up on him. It’s been months - since Lilith’s attack, since he’d found Sam and Castiel mysteriously out in the middle of nowhere - and he’s seen neither hide nor hair of any heavenly agent. He’d considered it a blessing at first - he and Sam were free - but now the meaning of the angels' disappearance has taken a different slant.
It seems he’d been lifted up only to be dropped down. Falling from an even greater height made the crash that much more painful.
Given the chance again, he’s sure Castiel would just leave him in hell to rot.
“Why don’t we play some pool, Dean?” Sam suggests, antsy, plainly wanting to get Dean away from the bar for at least a little while. Dean shakes his head no, scowling at Sam’s transparent behavior. “C’mon. We could use the money.”
Sam hits him in the arm and jerks his head toward the pool table, a smile straining across his face, but Dean resists roughly.
“Gotta take a piss.”
His feet are unsteady when he stands but he tries not to let on. He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, concentrating on making it to the rest room without wavering or tripping. He can feel Sam’s stare trained on his back as he makes his way through the crowd and disappears into the dingy bathroom.
Dean leans against the cold metal wall of the lone stall and pushes the door closed behind him. It’s quiet; the music from the bar is a hum through the thick walls and Dean finds it somehow reassuring. He closes his eyes and tries to block out everything except that murmur.
But the door to the rest room opens and the noise blasts full-fledged for a brief moment, Bob Seger’s voice from the jukebox crystal clear and cutting through his calm like a knife. The door falls closed and though the small room is relatively quiet once again, Dean’s temporary balance is gone. He’s about to push the stall door open when someone else does it for him.
The petite blonde who’d been angling for Sam only five minutes ago slinks into the small space, a sly smile on her face.
“Hey there, cowboy.” Her hands are on his chest, warm through his threadbare t-shirt. “You look a little wound up…want some…release?”
The whole thing is off and as she presses up against him, her fingers toy with the amulet around his neck. The touch is too deliberate and when her lips cover his, wet and hard and too demanding, he feels nothing but wrong.
He tries to push her back but she’s viciously strong.
“What the…” Dean manages to gasp out as her slim hands slide up his chest and then find his neck. He’s not surprised when they circle tightly and press in. He’s not shocked when her eyes flash black and her smile turns wicked.
Ruby’s knife is in his inside jacket pocket. He could get it out pretty easily if he only tried. The demon is killing him with human force - her hands, not her mind. But he doesn’t make an attempt to grab it. He can’t get his hands to move. The feeling of life slipping away and darkness creeping in around the edges is inviting. It feels like relief.
When she realizes he’s not even bothering to fight, her expression turns confused, perplexed by the ease of her attack.
“Dean, you’re not even going to try?” She inquires, amusement crinkling around her blue eyes. “Tsk-tsk, what would Sammy think?”
“I think you’re going to hell, bitch.” Her body ricochets against the cinder block wall opposite Dean, the full weight of her hitting with a heavy, deadened thud. “Tell Lilith she’s gonna have to do better than this.”
“Lilith? Lilith’s nothing.” Sam’s brow knits and his eyes cloud with confusion. The demon laughs, amused. “Sammy Winchester…don’t you even know what you did?”
“What are you talking about?” Sam demands, trying to sound strong over his bewilderment. Dean looks between the girl and his brother, mind still a bit foggy as oxygen starts recirculating. All he can gather in the moment is that this demon certainly didn’t come here on Lilith’s orders.
The demon cocks a triumphant smirk at Sam and then stretches her host’s mouth open wide, black smoke starting to stream from between her lips.
But the smoke halts, stutters, direction changing from upward to downward, from certain escape to certain doom.
Sam extends his hand and Dean stares wide-eyed at him, not the girl, as the sound of choking and coughing fills the bathroom.
It chills Dean to the core. Sam is deathly intense but so calm, so still. It frightens Dean, and also thrills him against his own will. Sam is beyond powerful, beyond human, and he has more control than anyone Dean’s ever seen. Dean’s heart pounds and he barely manages to breathe, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead.
This isn’t supposed to be. This isn’t how it is. This isn’t the brother he knew.
This Sam is a stranger to him now.
It takes barely any time at all before smoke swirls through the floor and snuffs out like a cigarette stubbed in an ashtray, singeing the linoleum black in a perfect circle around the innocent girl’s feet.
She slumps against the wall and Sam lunges to catch her, all clear eyes and concern; he’s caring and innocent little Sammy again as if he hadn’t just ripped a demon from this girl’s body with his mind. She begins to cry and ask the impossible questions, her face full of terror, and Sam soothes her with soft words and his reassuring hold.
Minutes tick by slowly and Dean stands there, silently, staring. He can’t find his voice and he offers his brother no assistance with the girl. He’s frozen, locked into place and at a complete loss.
Sam eventually calms her enough to convince her to find her friends and get home, knowing better than to lead some obviously distraught and tear-soaked young girl from the men’s bathroom and into a room full of drunken men who’ll assume the worst.
She nods, sucking in a deep breath and trying to still her shaking hands, Dean can tell that Sam feels uncomfortable with leaving her but she summons the strength to get it together and makes her way out to the bar on her own. Once she’s gone, Sam turns to him, his jaw set tightly in anger. His gaze turns razor sharp and he seems to grow larger, arms spreading as he steps forward.
“What the fuck, Dean?”
“She just came in and attacked me, man. Don’t look at me like that.”
“You were letting it happen!” Sam shouts, frustrated and scared. He advances quickly, grabbing Dean by the front of his jacket and pulling him from the stall, turning and pushing him against the opposite wall. He fumbles into the inside pocket of Dean’s coat and lifts the knife out roughly. “You didn’t even try to defend yourself. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dean doesn’t know how to answer that except with the truth and he can’t bring himself to say those words aloud. Not to Sam.
He shakes his head and shoves Sam back, breaking his hold on him, and stalks out the door.
He doesn’t stop until he’s out of the bar. The parking lot’s uneven surface is shining wet from melted snow, lot lamps reflecting in the scattered puddles over gravel and asphalt. Dean can smell gasoline in the air, as well as a drifting scent of coffee and pancakes from the diner across the double lane highway. The restaurant’s lights cut through the night warmly and Dean can see every patron moving about inside, like some Hopper painting come to life.
He wants to be over there, over where life seems normal and he could get breakfast and watch Sammy scowl over the paper and his biggest worry would be the next hunt, the next job.
That life is gone now. That’s never going to be them again. There’s no going back.
Dean fumbles for the cigarettes he has in his front pocket, ignoring the echo of Sam’s voice in his head telling him that he shouldn’t be smoking again. His thumb slips on the lighter a few times before it catches but eventually the end of his cigarette burns and he inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs.
Across the parking lot, a person is standing, face hidden in deep shadow. Dean only catches sight of him out of the corner of his eye because the man suddenly moves. It’s startling - not because of someone’s presence, but because Dean is sure that he recognizes him, his whole body immediately wired and the drugged haze of his mind clearing like someone flipped a switch.
“Castiel?” Dean shouts, dropping his cigarette to the ground. It hisses, hitting water.
The figure picks up speed, hurries away, and by the time Dean reaches the place where the stranger once stood, all the surrounds him in every direction are parked cars and silence. There’s no sign of where Castiel - if it had been Castiel - had gone.
“Dean!” Sam barks sharply, storming out of the bar. Dean looks across the rows of cars at his brother, staring but not speaking. He actually considers running. Hiding. Keeping out of sight until Sam gives up and looks elsewhere, then hotwiring some unsuspecting shlub’s car and making off into the night. He could disappear, drink himself into oblivion and never come back.
He’d left Sam the Impala before; she’d be all right with Sam again.
But he stands still, lets Sam find him standing there. He can’t run. Not from this. Certainly not from Sam.
Sam stops at his side, breathless and angry. But he doesn’t say anything when he sees the bewildered expression on Dean’s face, his anger dropped and replaced with worry.
“Dean. What is it?”
“I just saw Castiel.”
“You saw Castiel?” Sam turns, looks around, and Dean catches a hint of utter desperation in Sam’s eyes when he turns back. “Where? Where’d you see him?”
“He was standing right here. He saw me and he ran.”
“He…ran?” Sam’s brow furrows and Dean nods slowly, knowing that Sam must think he’s crazy, or too drunk, or both. Sam visibly deflates, his defenses dropping. “Castiel doesn’t run. He’s an angel, Dean. There’s no need for him to run.”
“Well, he did.”
“Then it wasn’t him.” Sam states, and that’s that. He won’t even consider the possibility and being brushed off like a small child spouting tall tales strikes a nerve within Dean.
“I know what I saw, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, no offense, Dean, but I don’t exactly trust your judgment right now.” Sam starts to walk away, turning his back on his brother.
“No offense? Naw, none taken. Fuck you, Sam.” Dean jabs a finger in Sam’s direction and then slaps his hand against the nearest car in indignation. “I don’t know where you get off - you’re the one who’s pulling demons out of people even though the angels told you not to. And you don’t trust me?”
Sam turns, stalking toward him, and Dean nearly takes a protective step away, his feet hedging backward in the damp gravel.
“I’ll just let the demons finish you off next time then, Dean. That what you want?” Sam asks, voice cracking. “Cause you’re acting like it is. You’re acting like you want to die.”
“Well maybe I do.”
The effect is instantaneous. Sam stops moving, goes quiet, eyes welling with tears. It’s just like when Dean used to tell Sam he couldn’t tag along with him and his friends to the movies, or when Sam would come home with a straight A report card and Dean told him good grades didn’t mean a damn thing in the real world and called him a nerd.
It’s that look, that look when Dean’s knocked the wind right out of him and Sam is so hurt that Dean immediately feels guilty, wishes he hadn’t done it.
To his surprise, Sam doesn’t try to convince him that life is worth living, doesn’t ask him how he could say a thing like that, doesn’t tell him that he couldn’t go on if Dean weren’t around.
Instead Sam bites his lip and shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks away, swallows hard, and then sniffles once to hold back his tears. Dean can see Sam steel himself; the lines of his shoulders set like stone and he stands up straighter, grits his teeth. He tries to look Dean in the eye but quickly looks away again.
“We should go. That demon was after you for a reason and if Lilith isn’t the one who sent her…I don’t have a clue what the hell’s going on. All I know is it’s not safe here.”
“Maybe something new is starting. If Castiel-“
“Dean, it wasn’t Castiel. I don’t know who it was, but it wasn’t him.” Sam’s is strangely adamant and his voice nearly cracks again, this time steeped in nervous anxiety. Dean is about to call him out on it but Sam doesn’t give him a chance. “And frankly, hanging around here when some random stranger was watching you doesn’t really make me feel any safer. We should-“
“Get out of here, I know.” Dean mutters. “Whatever.”
Sam digs the keys out of his pocket and gestures toward where the Impala is parked, back toward the bar’s entrance. Dean doesn’t move. He takes another look at the path Castiel had run, knowing he won’t find a thing if he follows it but wanting to anyway.
“Dean. Now.”
Rolling his eyes, Dean reluctantly follows. He doesn’t have the energy to fight Sam. Not tonight. Not anymore.
*******
It’s April and it’s raining. There is a saying, something about May flowers, that a waitress had smiled down at him that morning as she filled his coffee, but he doesn’t quite remember what it was supposed to mean.
There are a lot of things that these humans say that seem to make no sense, a lot things that he doesn’t understand.
What he does understand is that the damp cold has chilled him to the bone, leaving him shivering and wet.
The elements never used to bother him before.
But that was before.
He bought an umbrella yesterday - a large black atrocity that he is still learning how to wield properly, the buttons and catches pinching his fingers. Castiel imagined he could hear Uriel’s laughter from where he stood, just as taunts rang clear as a bell in his ears last week when he purchased two pairs of jeans, clean dress shirts, new shoes. He’d reveled in the feeling of soft cotton and denim against his skin; if he’d known that there was such a huge difference between polyester and the rest of all available fabrics, he might have tried shopping sooner.
He’d had to throw the trench coat and the suit out; he couldn’t repair the tattered mess with the touch of his hand any longer and people were beginning to look at him strangely.
He couldn’t afford to stand out - or more honestly, he didn’t want to.
He was used to being seen only when he wanted to be seen, heard only when he wanted to be heard. Now there was no escape and he possessed not an ounce of control.
A smarter man would’ve realized that tailing the Winchesters in those circumstances was a risky proposition, but he is barely a man, much less a smart one. He can’t keep himself from continuing to follow Sam.
Though he’s managed to keep a safer distance from the Winchesters since Dean had almost discovered him that night, months ago, outside that bar, even from far away it’s clear that things between Dean and Sam are falling apart. The brotherly camaraderie is strained. They never touch; they rarely smile.
They sit in silence in the mornings when Dean can be bothered to wake up and Sam barely touches his food. His face is gaunt and Dean’s is drawn; dark circles linger underneath bloodshot, puffy eyes that betray tortured, troubled nights.
Dean departs at dusk every evening for the nearest bar or liquor store and Sam’s started working cases on his own. He takes the Impala and drives out to cemeteries and salt and burns alone, does the interviews and the legwork and the research while Dean sleeps off another late night.
When he comes back to their motel room, dirtied and bruised, Dean is never there to question him. He showers and falls into an uneasy sleep but he’s at least stopped waking up when Dean stumbles in. That has become routine.
And if Dean notices the scrapes and the cuts adorning Sam’s body in the few daylight hours they actually share, he doesn’t say a word.
While Castiel’s been witness to this tragedy as it played out, he thought that he had been careful enough to escape notice.
So when Sam comes out of their motel room and walks straight out into the middle of the parking lot and yells out his name, it’s the last thing that Castiel expected.
Sam stands there, letting the rain soak his thin t-shirt until it sticks to his chest like a second skin and the water begins to drip over the fabric of his worn boxers. His bare feet sink into the mud, dirt seeping upward to pull his toes down into the earth.
“Castiel!” Sam calls again, turning in all directions, waiting for him to simply appear by his side. It’s a challenge and a plea, both daring and begging Castiel to show his face.
Castiel considers walking away but the thought doesn’t linger for more than a cursory moment. Walking away could never be a real choice, not with Sam so real and so close.
“Castiel! I know you’re here, god dammit!” Sam sounds like he’s crying but in the rain it’s impossible to tell. Castiel swallows hard and moves.
“Sam.”
He announces his presence softly, one step out into the rain, then another.
Sam stares at him, eyes wide, mouth half open. His chest heaves as he breathes sharply and Castiel can sense Sam’s whole body tensing, quickening. Water drips from the dark locks of his hair, clings to his eyelashes, slides down the planes of his face.
They both move toward one another slowly, but Sam touches him first. A strong but unsteady hand to his cheek, fingertips rough and everything that Castiel remembered. Sam closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh of relief.
“You’re real.” Sam whispers and all Castiel can do is cover Sam’s hand with his, nod slightly, make a small, vulnerable noise of assent. He can’t find the right words and even if he could, his heart is in his throat and his voice won’t work.
The moment stretches and stretches until it snaps like thin ice and they both fall through, plunging helpless into the deep. Then Sam is everywhere, body enveloping him easily. He grapples to hold Castiel tighter, can’t get their bodies close enough. Castiel clings to broad shoulders, muscled arms, thin waist, unable to decide where his hands should come to rest and wanting to feel it all, everything that’s Sam.
He finally ropes his restless hands in Sam’s hair - tangled, wet strands slipping through his fingers - as Sam’s mouth plunders his. Sam takes complete control, tongue delving deep and drawing out a delicious groan from the pit of Castiel’s stomach. It is a sweet release.
Castiel can only imagine that this is what being an alcoholic is like, someone taking a first drink after years of hard-earned sobriety; the first taste of Sam warms him through and through, sets his pulse racing, spikes pleasure up and down every inch of his body.
“I’ve needed you, god, I’ve needed you,” Sam gasps between kisses. Fingernails dig into his skin through layers of rain-soaked fabric.
“Sam,” Castiel manages to whisper, lips pushing back against Sam’s with equal fervor. He’s no longer cold; he’s burning up and he’d give anything just to get these clothes off and let the rain splash cool against his skin. He pulls up on Sam’s shirt and touches bare flesh. Sam’s moan is loud even over the pounding of the rain, which is coming down in thick sheets much harder than before.
“Where have you been?” Sam’s desperate voice in his ear, Sam’s lips on his neck, Sam’s hands on his hips, and Castiel can’t think of the right reply.
“Here. I’ve been here,” is all he can say and he easily allows Sam to pull him into his dark motel room and slam the door.
*******
Sam lets his eyes drift closed, a content feeling washing over him as Castiel traces a gentle finger over his lips. If he looked, he knows he would find the other man staring at him intently, crystal clear blue eyes studying him and trying to memorize the lines of his face. He supposes that Castiel must see many changes, the differences etched in the surface of his skin since the last time they’d been this close.
“I’m all right,” Sam murmurs in response to the question Castiel has yet to ask. Castiel’s finger hesitates in its movement and Sam forces his eyes open to find Castiel staring directly back with concern challenging the truth of Sam’s statement.
“No you’re not,” Castiel replies gently but without room for argument. His expression turns contemplative and his fingers dance lightly along Sam’s jaw line. “But you don’t have to be.”
Castiel drops his head, leans down, brushes his lips to Sam’s in a soft, reassuring kiss. When he pulls back, he looks down the length of Sam’s body, hand slipping down the exquisite length of Sam’s graceful neck to his sharp collarbone. He traces the dark outline of Sam’s tattoo on his chest and then furrows his brow, eying the burn he’d left over the curve of Sam’s ribcage. Much, much fainter than the marks he once left in the throes of passion, but still there, branded on Sam’s golden skin nonetheless.
Sam can’t keep his whole body from shivering as Castiel gingerly touches the outline his fingers left behind. The sensation is raw and splits him open, pleasure and pain spiraling through his system. His heels dig reflexively into the mattress and he arches up into Castiel’s touch, wanting more of that intense rush that forces every other feeling out and away.
“I can’t heal you,” Castiel states so quietly that Sam, enthralled to sensation and yearning for more, barely hears the words. “I’m more human than angel now.”
He starts to pull his fingers away from Sam’s body, a reluctant frown on his face.
“I don’t care.” Sam immediately puts both of his hands over Castiel’s and pushes back down, hard, melding Castiel’s palm to the imprint on his body. He hisses at the pain but he feels more alive than he’s felt in months, every thought in his head blissfully concentrated on Castiel and Castiel alone.
“It’s all slipping away.” Castiel stares down at their intertwined hands but his gaze is unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere.
“Don’t leave.” Sam doesn’t know what makes him say it because it’s not the right response to Castiel’s concern, but it’s all he can think of when he hears the despair lacing Castiel’s words. He presses Castiel’s hand down against him even harder. “Just…don’t leave me again. Please.”
“Dean will be back soon.” Castiel glances toward the door as if Dean will be walking in any second and Sam reaches up, runs the back of his hand down the line of Castiel’s jaw and guides his gaze back toward him. “You know I shouldn’t be here.”
“No, I don’t.” Sam replies. “I don’t know anything.” He slides his hand to the back of Castiel’s head, his tousled, damp hair soft against the crush of his palm, and brings Castiel down to him. The nights he has dreamed of this…
This, this…there’s still nothing about it that makes sense but it’s the only thing that makes him feel right. It’s the only thing that gives him hope.
The further Dean has pulled away, the more dead he’s felt. This fantasy was the only thing that kept his blood flowing when all he wanted to do was lie down and give up. Now with the reality of Castiel in his arms, he feels like part of what’s been missing has finally returned.
“Sam…” Castiel tries to pull back, struggling, and it feels like a knife slicing Sam’s heart wide open.
“What have you got to lose?” He demands, wondering what more could be keeping Castiel from giving in completely to the pull between them; what could have kept him away for so many months. Even with their sweat and come still cooling on their skin from their enthusiastic reunion, Castiel still wants to pretend that this is something he can and will resist. “What are you doing here, Castiel?”
Castiel gazes at him, eyes shaded with thoughts going unspoken, and then he reaches over and pushes a strand of Sam’s messy hair back from his forehead. The gesture is familiar and loving and it’s not an answer, but it’s all it takes to break the tension.
Sam takes Castiel and easily rolls his body underneath his own. He claims Castiel’s lips and molds their angles and curves together, legs and arms tangling, chests pressing.
Castiel gives in easily, letting Sam take control, his kiss willing and open and a whimpering plea on his tongue.
Sam grows hard so quickly that it makes his head spin and feels Castiel react exactly the same, thickening against his thigh, blood rushing and hearts thundering. He urges his hips in a steady rhythm, thrusting and rocking in a slow build up to an eventual frantic and stuttering pace, the desperation to touch, to feel taking over them both.
Castiel clings to him, fingers scraping his broad back, and Sam loses himself to instinct, blind passion leaving him gasping and groaning as Castiel writhes under him and moans his name breathlessly. As ever before, feeling and hearing Castiel break apart under his hands is overwhelming in its power.
The room is one hundred degrees and his head is cloudy. He can’t breathe and he can’t see straight. He can't get enough. Sam wants and wants, desperate for more. Castiel is light and air and all around him; it’s nothing and it’s everything at once and it’s all he needs after months of twisting himself into tangled knots over Dean.
It’s a fleeting moment of sheer freedom and he tries to hang on to it. It’s impossible.
When he comes hot and messy over Castiel’s stomach, spurting again and again until he’s wrung entirely empty, the swell of satisfaction ebbs and flows through his body in waves. He keeps rocking gently against Castiel long after they’ve both finished, feeling it as Castiel goes soft and all their muscles relax.
He doesn’t want to stop; he doesn’t want this to end.
Castiel sighs secrets into his ear that he can’t really make out, and rubs his hands down the strong line of Sam’s spine. The sensation soothes Sam to the point of near slumber. He feels at peace and his defenses break down further with every caress. He has no choice but to admit that everything leading up to this seems even more wrong in comparison.
“I’m not really okay.” Sam murmurs and Castiel nods, understanding. He lets Castiel kiss him, possess him, his mouth slack and his body loose. He doesn’t realize that he’d been crying until Castiel brushes a tear away from his cheek with the pad of his thumb as he pulls back to look at him.
“I know.” Castiel’s whisper is the last thing Sam hears before he drifts off to sleep.
*******
The shower is running when Dean manages to get his key into the door and turned. He pauses, eyes adjusting to the darkness, before getting both feet across the threshold and into their motel room.
He’s honestly more tired than drunk but these days it doesn’t make much difference. The feeling is kind of the same. Both leave him numb and worn down enough to catch a few minutes of sleep without being assaulted with images of sheer, utter terror.
With bleary eyes he finds the digital clock and, after blinking twice to clear his vision, reads 5:45 a.m. in blurry red.
Sam’s bed is mussed, covers strewn, and the room smells distinctly of sex, heady and thick. He decides he’s not going to ask. He finds he doesn’t really want to know if Sam’s sexual habits have turned suddenly casual and mumbles a faint hope that whatever girl Sam picked up has already taken off.
Dean shuffles through a layer of cast off clothes, boot getting caught on a pair of Sam’s boxers that cause him to stumble.
“Dammit,” he mutters, angrily kicking the offending garment away.
He sits down quickly on the edge of his own untouched bed and eyes the bathroom door, slivered open just slightly to let hot steam and warm light waft out into the main room. Dean listens carefully for a telltale sound of Sam not being alone, but there’s only the sound of running water.
Running water that stops, abruptly.
Dean considers clambering into bed and feigning sleep, but he can’t move in time.
Sam emerges only a moment later, backlit by the bathroom light. He’s dripping in that annoying way Sam always is when fresh out of the shower, not bothering to even dry himself off a bit before getting the rug and the bed and everything around him sopping wet.
Sam visibly hesitates when he finds his brother back and it hurts Dean a little to see Sam practically wince at the sight of him. He doesn’t say anything; he just clutches his towel tighter around his body with one hand and steps out of the light quickly, crossing the room to his leather bag and digging out a clean shirt, clean boxers.
He dresses swiftly in that thirteen year old in a locker room way Dean used to tease him mercilessly for, keeping his towel firmly around his hips until his boxers are pulled on, managing not to show too much skin, all modesty and shyness. Dean looks away anyway, but moreso because Sam hasn’t been this uncomfortable around him since they first hit the road again four and a half years ago.
Uncomfortable like they hadn’t spent their entire lives in each other’s pockets, so used to each other’s constant, inescapable presence that getting changed was just matter-of-fact business that needed to be taken care of, swiftly and surely and without any thought of embarrassment.
It’s awkward and it’s strange and Dean wishes he’d stayed out just fifteen minutes longer so this whole scene could have been avoided. It’s easier to come home when Sam’s already asleep. That way they don’t have to talk and he doesn’t have to explain where he’s been.
Not that Sam asks anymore, which is a development that might just bother him even more than Sam’s concerned queries used to.
Light catches Sam’s flank when he reaches up, pulls his shirt over his head, and the angry red welt on Sam’s skin screams out for Dean’s attention.
“What the hell is that?” Dean blurts out, unthinking, and climbs up from his seat. He suddenly feels a lot more sober.
Sam and hurt still occasionally have a way of clearing his head.
Sam pulls down his shirt sharply and throws Dean a look that stops him in his tracks.
“Just something I picked up on the latest hunt, it’s fine.” He mutters and turns away.
“What were you hunting? When were you hunting?”
“Get some sleep, Dean.” Sam shrugs him off but Dean persists.
“You were hunting without me? What the hell are you thinkin’-”
Sam’s snort is derisive and it rankles Dean to the core.
“Not everyone can be Ernest Hemingway, Dean.” Sam picks up a shirt from the floor and shoves it into his laundry bag.
“What does that mean?” Dean’s face screws up in complete puzzlement.
“I’m not gonna let you hunt while you’re drunk off your ass, that’s what it means.” He’s exhausted and bitter and the words slide sadly off his tongue rather than snap. “I’ve been hunting without you, Dean. For over a month now. And you know that I’ve been hunting without you, so please don’t pretend like it’s news.”
Dean tries to think of something to say that doesn’t sound idiotic but he comes up empty. Sam sighs and picks his bag up from the chair, drops it on the floor, and takes the spot it had occupied.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, Dean.”
“About what?” Dean feigns ignorance and Sam pushes on like he hadn’t spoken.
“I’ve pretended it’s nothing, I’ve given you your space, I’ve let you lie. But it’s too much. We need to talk about this.”
“What ‘this’, Sam? There is no ‘this’.”
Sam glares at him and Dean can see his eyes spark with impatience and anger even in the dim light.
“You really want to just keep ignoring the elephant in the room then.”
“I’m used to it. It’s like furniture.” Dean jokes harshly and Sam’s face grows even more stern, the angular planes of his face drawing flat and tight and his mouth setting in a firm, unforgiving line. It’s not quite the indignant, righteous anger that Sam used to flash at their father, but this tightly wound aggravation and disappointment strikes Dean as even more dangerous.
“I know you think that I can’t understand, Dean, and you’re right. I probably can’t. There’s no way I can know what you went through in hell. But holding it in, not talking about it at all? It’s not a solution.”
“It’s not something that has a solution, Sam. You can’t just Oprah this out. You can’t fix it.”
Sam stands up with a frustrated huff and turns away from Dean, running his hands through his hair.
“So you’d really rather drink yourself to death than just tell me what the fuck happened.”
Sam’s past the point of being brotherly and kind, past the careful concern and past respecting boundaries that Dean’s set. Dean knows he’s worn Sam’s goodwill down to nothing but he can’t bring himself to spit out even one word about the time he spent down in the depths of hell.
Dean avoids Sam’s steely gaze and focuses instead on a blotchy stain on the faded carpet. He fills his head with a stream of incredibly inane questions - is it blood? Spilled wine? Juice some clumsy kid dropped? Did the kid get screamed at for his mistake or was it just another thing to be forgotten? - that he doesn’t notice how long Sam stands there, waiting, quiet, for some kind of response.
Finally, Sam moves to the door and this breaks Dean from his thoughts. He casts a wavering, unsure glance up at his brother and then looks away. Sam’s hand is on the doorknob and part of Dean - almost all of him - honestly doesn’t want Sam to walk out now. He wants Sam to stay without needing an explanation, without understanding anything.
But he’s been asking that of Sam for months.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Sammy.”
Dean locks his eyes back on the floor but he knows that Sam stares at him for a long moment, pained, before he opens the door. His voice is soft but heavy, laden down with all the things that he wants to say that Dean knows Sam’s holding back.
“I’m going to go get breakfast. Get some sleep, Dean, if you can.”
Dean watches Sam’s heavy boots shuffle out of his peripheral vision and the door latch loudly clicks shut against the aching silence.
He knows Sam hasn’t really left, but the sound is still heart-wrenchingly final.
*******
-------> THIS PART CONTINUED...