All These Things We've Done
Title: All These Things We've Done
Summary: AU starting immediatately after S8. Sam is sick from the trials. Cas is human. Dean drinks too much.
Rating: R
Author's Note: Part One of Three. This will be Sam/Cas by the end.
They’ve been looking for their fallen angel for three days when Sam’s body gives out.
It’s not unexpected. He’s been running a fever for about a day and a half, climbing steadily, and on the morning of the fourth day he’s a human torch. He sits up in the motel bed and slumps there, shivering.
“You need a break,” Dean says, and kind of hates himself for inviting the argument.
Sam doesn’t disappoint. “Cas.”
“Cas can wait, Sammy.” Cas absolutely cannot wait. Cas is either wandering around somewhere, alone, and helpless and human, or else he’s dead, and either way, waiting isn’t an option. And Dean would point out that Cas did this to himself, except that would make him just about the biggest hypocrite on the planet, wouldn’t it?
“Buy me a bus ticket,” Sam stutters out.
“What? Sam, what the hell?”
“I’ll go back to the bunker. Wait for you.”
“I’m not putting you on a goddamn bus, Sam, are you crazy?”
(Sam still flinches when Dean asks him if he’s crazy. Dean has never, ever managed to break the habit.)
***
He doesn’t put Sam on a bus. He puts him in the backseat of the car. John used to make them beds when they weren’t feeling well by shoving the duffel bags into the floorspace between the bench and the seat backs and covering the whole thing with blankets and pillows. He remembers lying back here with the pillows arranged to support his broken shoulder, starlight shining through the window and Sammy on his knees in the passenger seat and reaching around to hold his hand. That might have been Christmas. He’s not sure. He’s warm and safe in the memory, nested in his father’s blankets and holding on to his brother. It occurs to him now, listening to Sam’s foggy sleep-breathing coming from the backseat, that John was on a hunt that night, that Dean’s sense of security was an illusion.He’d felt so taken care of, but they hadn’t even stopped for the night.
He has to find Cas, is the thing.
It isn’t the same. It isn’t like the way his father never stopped looking for Azazel. Cas can still be saved.
“Cas.” He speaks under his breath, not wanting to wake Sam. It’s the way he talks when he’s praying, not that he prays, that’s not what this is, he’s just talking to Cas and trying to be heard.
God only knows if Cas can hear him anymore.
God only knows....
Behind him, Sam gives a raw, painful cough in his sleep, and it sounds like it’s tearing holes in his throat.
It takes everything, every goddamn thing Dean has in him, to keep driving.
***
In the end they find him standing on the side of the road in the rain, as if he knew they’d be coming for him. Dean stomps on the brake so hard the car squeals and spins and Sammy pitches off the backseat and onto the floor with a grunt. Dean’s sorry, but he’s out of the car and running too fast to apologize, tearing off his coat, throwing it over the angel’s head as if it could possibly make any difference now.
Cas doesn’t look up or speak as Dean wrestles him into the passenger seat. “Take your shoes off,” Dean’s saying, “you need to get your feet dry, Cas, holy shit, how long have you been out there, are you okay?”
***
Sam was always the medic. He was the one to sew up John’s lacerations when they were little, and he was the one who stayed up all night reading about concussions and talking John through what to do with Dean after a nasty werewolf incident. Partly it was because he had steadier hands (and yeah, okay, maybe that was because he was the only one who wasn’t regularly drunk or jonesing, Dean knows he’s got a problem, it’s this monster that lives outside the doors of his mind and tonight is not the night to let it in). Partly it was because Sam was just so rarely the one to come back with field damage, what with John and Dean taking hits for him all the time. He was little. He was easy to shield.
He’s not little now.
Dean picked up a few tricks when he picked the kid up from Stanford. He can pop a dislocated joint back into place. He can stitch a wound closed - it’ll leave scars, he’s no Sam, but he knows how much alcohol to give you to get you through it, thanks very much. But then Hell went and happened and, you know, long story short, Sam’s been stitching up his own wounds since Dean got back.
Dean just can’t do it anymore.
Blood on his hands for more than about a minute is liable to make him vomit.
***
They get Cas into the bathtub, and Dean carefully cuts the shirt he’s wearing down the middle of his back. Cas’s breath hitches a couple of times and Dean figures it out and avoids the burned up husks of his wings.
Sam’s watching, wringing his hands.
“Cas…” Dean breathes.
“They’re dead. They’re dead, aren’t they.”
Dean swallows. The wings are brittle, cracked, falling apart.
Cas doubles over with a moan that’s young and mournful and broken and human and God, Dean would do anything to fix this, to put Cas’s world back the way it was.
“Dean.” Sam’s squeezing the hell out of his fingers. It must hurt, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “We have to clean it out.”
“Clean what out?”
Sam gestures to Cas’s back, where his ruined wings have worked their way through layers of human skin. He’s bleeding, Dean realizes, a slow trickle from just below each wing that runs down and is soaked up by the feathers.
“We have to get those out of him.”
Cas doesn’t respond. Maybe he’s not even hearing them anymore.
Dean takes Sam by the elbow and pulls him to a corner. Sam stumbles a little. Way to be careful with your brother, Dean, seriously, a hundred and three degrees (and why can’t they catch a break? What’s next, is Garth going to show up with a knee full of buckshot?)
“Sam,” he says. “We can’t...we can’t cut out his wings.”
“You heard him. They’re dead.”
“Yeah, and look at him. It’s killing him.”
Sam’s eyes are bright with fever, his voice is shaky. “He’s human. He’s got two open wounds with foreign bodies in them and he’s going to get an infection. And what kind of immune system do you think he has? He’s been human for about fifteen minutes.It’s a miracle he hasn’t picked something up already.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Yeah.”
Sam’s voice softens a little. “I’ll do it, Dean. You don’t have to.”
Goddamn, Dean wishes he could take his brother up on that one. “You’re sick. You can’t.”
Sam promptly drops the towel he’s holding, which kind of makes Dean’s point for him.
“Wait with him,” Dean says. “I’ll go get…” What? What will he get? He has no idea, so he leaves the room and the sentence unfinished.
***
A carving knife.
An electric carving knife.
He’s going to cut Castiel’s wings off his back with an electric carving knife.
When he gets back to the bathroom, Sam’s in the tub with his arms around Cas’s waist and his chin hooked over Cas’s shoulder. Cas is draped heavily against Sam’s body like a sleeping child, placid and waiting. Trusting Dean.
That trust makes his stomach roll. Cas has no idea what's about to be done to him.
Some part of Dean wants to make fun of his brother for this tableau. Probably it’s the part of Dean that wishes he wasn’t holding a goddamn knife in his hands, about to cut the bones from his best friend. Probably it’s the part of Dean that wishes anything at all was funny anymore.
The knife growls and chews its way through bone and Castiel screams in Sam’s arms.
Dean tastes blood on his lips long before he’s done and wonders if he’ll ever be able to face either of them again when this is over.
Summary: AU starting immediatately after S8. Sam is sick from the trials. Cas is human. Dean drinks too much.
Rating: R
Author's Note: Part One of Three. This will be Sam/Cas by the end.
They’ve been looking for their fallen angel for three days when Sam’s body gives out.
It’s not unexpected. He’s been running a fever for about a day and a half, climbing steadily, and on the morning of the fourth day he’s a human torch. He sits up in the motel bed and slumps there, shivering.
“You need a break,” Dean says, and kind of hates himself for inviting the argument.
Sam doesn’t disappoint. “Cas.”
“Cas can wait, Sammy.” Cas absolutely cannot wait. Cas is either wandering around somewhere, alone, and helpless and human, or else he’s dead, and either way, waiting isn’t an option. And Dean would point out that Cas did this to himself, except that would make him just about the biggest hypocrite on the planet, wouldn’t it?
“Buy me a bus ticket,” Sam stutters out.
“What? Sam, what the hell?”
“I’ll go back to the bunker. Wait for you.”
“I’m not putting you on a goddamn bus, Sam, are you crazy?”
(Sam still flinches when Dean asks him if he’s crazy. Dean has never, ever managed to break the habit.)
***
He doesn’t put Sam on a bus. He puts him in the backseat of the car. John used to make them beds when they weren’t feeling well by shoving the duffel bags into the floorspace between the bench and the seat backs and covering the whole thing with blankets and pillows. He remembers lying back here with the pillows arranged to support his broken shoulder, starlight shining through the window and Sammy on his knees in the passenger seat and reaching around to hold his hand. That might have been Christmas. He’s not sure. He’s warm and safe in the memory, nested in his father’s blankets and holding on to his brother. It occurs to him now, listening to Sam’s foggy sleep-breathing coming from the backseat, that John was on a hunt that night, that Dean’s sense of security was an illusion.He’d felt so taken care of, but they hadn’t even stopped for the night.
He has to find Cas, is the thing.
It isn’t the same. It isn’t like the way his father never stopped looking for Azazel. Cas can still be saved.
“Cas.” He speaks under his breath, not wanting to wake Sam. It’s the way he talks when he’s praying, not that he prays, that’s not what this is, he’s just talking to Cas and trying to be heard.
God only knows if Cas can hear him anymore.
God only knows....
Behind him, Sam gives a raw, painful cough in his sleep, and it sounds like it’s tearing holes in his throat.
It takes everything, every goddamn thing Dean has in him, to keep driving.
***
In the end they find him standing on the side of the road in the rain, as if he knew they’d be coming for him. Dean stomps on the brake so hard the car squeals and spins and Sammy pitches off the backseat and onto the floor with a grunt. Dean’s sorry, but he’s out of the car and running too fast to apologize, tearing off his coat, throwing it over the angel’s head as if it could possibly make any difference now.
Cas doesn’t look up or speak as Dean wrestles him into the passenger seat. “Take your shoes off,” Dean’s saying, “you need to get your feet dry, Cas, holy shit, how long have you been out there, are you okay?”
***
Sam was always the medic. He was the one to sew up John’s lacerations when they were little, and he was the one who stayed up all night reading about concussions and talking John through what to do with Dean after a nasty werewolf incident. Partly it was because he had steadier hands (and yeah, okay, maybe that was because he was the only one who wasn’t regularly drunk or jonesing, Dean knows he’s got a problem, it’s this monster that lives outside the doors of his mind and tonight is not the night to let it in). Partly it was because Sam was just so rarely the one to come back with field damage, what with John and Dean taking hits for him all the time. He was little. He was easy to shield.
He’s not little now.
Dean picked up a few tricks when he picked the kid up from Stanford. He can pop a dislocated joint back into place. He can stitch a wound closed - it’ll leave scars, he’s no Sam, but he knows how much alcohol to give you to get you through it, thanks very much. But then Hell went and happened and, you know, long story short, Sam’s been stitching up his own wounds since Dean got back.
Dean just can’t do it anymore.
Blood on his hands for more than about a minute is liable to make him vomit.
***
They get Cas into the bathtub, and Dean carefully cuts the shirt he’s wearing down the middle of his back. Cas’s breath hitches a couple of times and Dean figures it out and avoids the burned up husks of his wings.
Sam’s watching, wringing his hands.
“Cas…” Dean breathes.
“They’re dead. They’re dead, aren’t they.”
Dean swallows. The wings are brittle, cracked, falling apart.
Cas doubles over with a moan that’s young and mournful and broken and human and God, Dean would do anything to fix this, to put Cas’s world back the way it was.
“Dean.” Sam’s squeezing the hell out of his fingers. It must hurt, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “We have to clean it out.”
“Clean what out?”
Sam gestures to Cas’s back, where his ruined wings have worked their way through layers of human skin. He’s bleeding, Dean realizes, a slow trickle from just below each wing that runs down and is soaked up by the feathers.
“We have to get those out of him.”
Cas doesn’t respond. Maybe he’s not even hearing them anymore.
Dean takes Sam by the elbow and pulls him to a corner. Sam stumbles a little. Way to be careful with your brother, Dean, seriously, a hundred and three degrees (and why can’t they catch a break? What’s next, is Garth going to show up with a knee full of buckshot?)
“Sam,” he says. “We can’t...we can’t cut out his wings.”
“You heard him. They’re dead.”
“Yeah, and look at him. It’s killing him.”
Sam’s eyes are bright with fever, his voice is shaky. “He’s human. He’s got two open wounds with foreign bodies in them and he’s going to get an infection. And what kind of immune system do you think he has? He’s been human for about fifteen minutes.It’s a miracle he hasn’t picked something up already.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Yeah.”
Sam’s voice softens a little. “I’ll do it, Dean. You don’t have to.”
Goddamn, Dean wishes he could take his brother up on that one. “You’re sick. You can’t.”
Sam promptly drops the towel he’s holding, which kind of makes Dean’s point for him.
“Wait with him,” Dean says. “I’ll go get…” What? What will he get? He has no idea, so he leaves the room and the sentence unfinished.
***
A carving knife.
An electric carving knife.
He’s going to cut Castiel’s wings off his back with an electric carving knife.
When he gets back to the bathroom, Sam’s in the tub with his arms around Cas’s waist and his chin hooked over Cas’s shoulder. Cas is draped heavily against Sam’s body like a sleeping child, placid and waiting. Trusting Dean.
That trust makes his stomach roll. Cas has no idea what's about to be done to him.
Some part of Dean wants to make fun of his brother for this tableau. Probably it’s the part of Dean that wishes he wasn’t holding a goddamn knife in his hands, about to cut the bones from his best friend. Probably it’s the part of Dean that wishes anything at all was funny anymore.
The knife growls and chews its way through bone and Castiel screams in Sam’s arms.
Dean tastes blood on his lips long before he’s done and wonders if he’ll ever be able to face either of them again when this is over.