Better Than Sorry (The Author's Notes Verse)
Author’s notes: A small fic after The Epilogue in a Very Long Biography. Castiel and Sam have a moment together. Read that link up there to get the full details behind the story!!! Sorry for all the re-posting. Apparently you can’t reblog ‘read more’ from other sideblogs and delete the original post, hahaha. W-whoopsie…
Warnings: Suicide attempt.
***
Cas finds he doesn't really blame Sam for much of anything these days.
He knew that, as the years passed, Dean had held some bitterness, some resentment. Blame. He isn't sure what Dean feels now that Sam was back in their care (relieved, happier than he's been a long time, perhaps re-evaluating his old burning resentments), but Cas? By the time they found Sam in that quiet little settlement years into the end (and beginning) of the world, Cas was contented to see a picture of him on Raelyn's wall of memories. Not to let it get twisted, like he's some symbol of peace and love - before the virus hit, and even for a little time after, he had been bitter, angry, directed his blame on Sam to an unfair degree. He had been angry that he gave up his place in the clouds for some kid to go and give away his consent to the vilest angel of all. He was just bitter in general.
It was a foolish thing to feel, if he's honest. He had his role in this just as much as any other angel, regardless of his 'Bible Camp' return to Heaven (as Dean would call it). Castiel had long before ignored Sam's prayers alongside the other angels. Castiel had turned a blind eye to Sam Winchester's death in Cold Oak. Castiel had let Sam Winchester out of the panic room. Castiel had known, by letting him out, just what fate awaited both Sam and the world. Castiel the Stoic Angel Soldier had known all these things, but it's only Cas the Drugged Out Lump who has never forgiven Sam, because he's not so sure that there's anything that needs to be forgiven. Nothing at all, if he's honest. Not to him. Perhaps Dean may have deserved something from Sam that Cas was unaware of - he's not sure what happened between them after the panic room - but Cas? No. No, no. Cas, baked and lounging in a bed with a lovely young woman for the night, considers that what happened to him was his own punishment. He had deserved to lose his wings more than Dean did his compassion, or Sam his sanity.
It just took him years to reach such a conclusion.
The first few nights back in their camp for Sam is undeniably difficult. Cas has no illusions that Sam would take their reappearance in his life well, especially after he'd thrown himself down in despair when they found him a few days ago, begging for mercy and death, as if that was what they were expecting out of him (and really, cynical as Cas is, he's human enough now to feel the ache in that fact). Now Sam's sleeping somewhat restfully in his own cabin, one he suspects Dean had kept ready for Sam, even if he was never sure if Sam was alive one day or the next; there are old but legible books lined up on shelves and more care put into the journals and writing utensils than Dean's ever given to anyone else in their camp. Cas isn't bitter about it; this is how Dean's always been. Years ago he would have put a bullet between Lucifer's eyes; now he's carefully making sure Sam's room is to his liking. The way Dean mourns for the loss of what his brother used to be is clear. Cas would do the same, now that he's not as much angel as he is just another survivor. That's why Cas takes great pleasure in finding books and stocking Sam's room with them. He considers maybe he should just fill it up until Sam isn't able to move left or right.
His thoughts are interrupted by Dean screaming - not simply yelling, but screaming, and there is a profound difference. Cas rushes from his walk to the source and feels a icy lump in the pit of his stomach when he finds himself standing in front of Sam's cabin. Inside, Sam is sprawled on the floor, blood under his head and shoulders, and Dean's got both hands clamped over his brother's neck. Cas is able to put two and two together. Sometimes he wishes he couldn't. Dean's on the verge of hyperventilating, eyes stormy and afraid, as he yells at confused citizens, "Get me the first aid and the doctor over here!!"
They all obey, because it's never good to ignore their leader.
Cas is at Sam's side quickly, putting a hand on the man's chest - his heart is still beating, but he's pale. Judging from the volume of blood he's already lost (soaking into Dean's jeans, into Sam's hair, into the floorboards), Sam should already be dead; despite that, when Cas looks at Sam's face, he's surprised to find Sam's eyes listlessly tracking him, face dotted with red spots and wet with salty trails. With Dean too terrified to take his hands off the jagged wound pulsing blood, Cas takes it upon himself to put his hand on Sam's cheek, cupping it firmly. Sam's teary eyes widen slightly, then soften, some sort of confused mixture of guilt and fondness present in the action that makes Cas smile. Very thinly. He's not sure how Sam's body works after Lucifer's departure; simply that it does. He supposes the devil is to blame for that.
Since Dean is busy repeating Sam's name over and over and telling him what a fucking moron he is, Cas decides his role is to just stroke the side of Sam's hair quietly. Somebody's got to counteract Dean's desperation. Part of him wants to tell Sam that if it's his time he should go, because he's no doubt exhausted with this life, but that isn't what Cas wants. Not at all.
Hours later, when Sam is tucked into bed with extra sheets, the room is thoroughly cleared out of anything else potentially dangerous (hunters are very creative). Dean is vigiliant at his brother's bedside for a long while, stuck enough to his rickety chair that Castiel is nearly unable to get him to go take a piss and eat before he implodes. Admittedly, there's a very human and very annoying feeling of pride that comes with the knowledge that Dean would leave his injured, sleeping brother with him, if even for ten minutes. Once he's gone, Cas sits. His feet hurt. It's annoying.
"You can stop pretending to sleep," Cas says wryly. "I'm practically human, but I can sense whether you're awake or not. It's not that hard."
Sam's eyes pry open with some difficulty. He's exhausted, but he's not sleeping. Cas congratulates himself on his endless patience with Winchesters.
"Sorry," Sam breathes. One of Cas' least favorite words. They weren't common where he's from, and it grates on him just a little. He shakes his head, one hand sitting beside Sam's. Sam is considerably pale compared to him, small moles here and there across his skin. He reaches out and carefully pats his knuckles. "You're apologizing for something that has no effect on me. I'm guessing that's a common thing, these days."
There's probably another 'sorry' to be had here. Sam juts his jaw a bit instead, eyes closed. Cas glances at the starkly white gauze there around his neck. The sutures must throb something fierce.
Sam says, voice nearly a whisper, it's so thin, "I don't understand. I thought you would have hated me. I ruined your family. You're human now... You didn't get the paradise you all wanted... Humanity isn't the only thing I screwed over."
"If this is an attempt to get on my good side, it's not working," Castiel jokes, though he thinks that maybe in his years of being on the ground, he still hasn't perfected his 'ha ha it's a joke get it' tone. Or maybe Sam lost that skill trait, the ability to read jokes. He bows his head, considering his words. The ex-angel has had a very, very long time to think about these thoughts, and yet... he still needs time to think about the delivery. It's a bit pathetic. Ultimately, he remembers how to-the-point he used to be, years ago. "Sam. You're not the only one at fault. Have you forgotten that my siblings and I all aimed to have Lucifer freed? We wanted you to say yes, for a long time. Dean didn't say yes, which was equally as damning. This isn't some malicious crime that falls on the shoulders of one man. Or even two."
Sam's gray-rimmed gaze turns toward the wall. He's always been so easily soft-spoken. "Chuck said it did. That it rested on my shoulders."
"Chuck is a moron who hides toilet paper under his bed. I should know, I've stolen many rolls."
Castiel is genuinely surprised to hear a rasping laugh punch its way from his friend.
"You're so different now," Sam replies, "Kind of the same, but mostly different."
Cas shrugs. "People change. Time moves regardless of our intentions."
"You smell like weed a lot, too," Sam says.
This was the man who had sliced his own neck open earlier? Castiel quirks his eyebrow, smirking.
"That is because I smoke copious amounts of it." A pause, and what feels like hesitation. He reaches out and puts a hand on Sam's chest. It's strange, but he sees now why Dean used to be so hands-on with everyone, before he turned into what he had been during the largest swell of Croats. Feeling Sam's chest move under his palm was comforting. As a living creature, having another living creature beside you is wanted. But more importantly, Sam's entire body seems to melt further into the bed, as if such a sensation is enough to calm the very soul that is tattered and trapped inside. "... You did not let Lucifer out on your own, either. I was the one who had unlocked the panic room door, so that you may escape to open the Cage."
The chest under his fanned fingertips tenses just slightly. A price to pay for the truth.
"... You shouldn't have let me out."
Cas nods. "I know."
He knows it's what Sam would want now, anyway. It's complicated.
"I should have died in there. You should have let whatever happen to me happen."
Cas doesn't feel the need to argue that Bobby and Dean would have gone after Lilith anyway. Someone was going to beat Sam to it, only Castiel isn't quite sure what would have happened. Either Lucifer would have been freed regardless, or Lilith would have obliterated the two hunters. Both options aren't very pleasant to think about, especially when coupled with a detoxed Sam, dead and rotting on a filthy cot while he's left behind by an oblivious family who would've probably been marching to their deaths. Even the angelic Castiel would have found it too terrible to think about for long. Then again, he always did have something wrong with the way he functioned as an angel. Sympathy was truly a pain in his ass. Truly.
Cas leans in.
"And just so you're aware... The voicemail that you heard the night you killed Lilith, it was tampered by angels." Sam's eyes widen, hazel pools looking back at him in complete awe. They look at each other for a long moment. "Your brother wanted you back. He said you were family. What you heard, it was... less-than-divine intervention, but it was all an illusion."
He just wanted to let him know. Been waiting years for this. Sam chokes on a delusional sort of laugh, eyes full of tears.
Cas adds with considerable softness, "Don't kill yourself, Sam. Your brother would probably be more trouble than he's worth, if you did."
He moves to lean back, but Sam's hand reaches out to grip his tattered sleeve; he needs a new shirt.
"Thank you, Cas. Thank you so much."
Actually, Sam's sleeve is very tattered, too. He'll need to make arrangements to go pilfer a mall. Do they have shirts his size? Well, Sam's shrunk down quite a bit now, so he'd probably be fine until pants would be an issue...
Cas smiles, lets his hand sit on the bed again at Sam's silent request.
Even if he finds it unnecessary, 'thank you' is better than 'I'm sorry', anyway.