Treebeard
Title: Treebeard
Author: familybizness
Summary: When Dean won't let Sam get a pet, Cas steps in. Allergies ensue.
Word Count: 1625
Rating: PG-13
Dean laughs at Sam when he asks for a pet. “Sure, and then we’ll make peanut butter sandwiches and go on a picnic.” His voice isn’t unkind, but the words are cruel, and Sam bites his lip and works the muscles in his face that mean he’s holding back tears.
When Dean’s gone, Castiel sits behind his human and pulls him into his chest. “What’s a pet?”
Sam sniffles a little, and Castiel holds a tissue to his nose and thumbs away tears. “An animal. Cat or dog, maybe. That lives with you.”
“Oh.” Castiel’s seen it done, animals kept as companions. “Why won’t Dean let you?”
Sam just shakes his head. “Stupid.” He takes a few breaths and relaxes his body, curls into Castiel and turns on the TV and they watch Cake Boss and compare the cakes unfavorably to Jess’s.
But the idea stays with Castiel - a new friend, something for Sam to love, something uncomplicated for his sick human to cling to when the hallucinations take him or the nightmares get bad - and after Sam’s asleep, in a heady rush of disobedience, he leaves the house.
He’s not sure what he’s going to get, but he finds a cat almost right away. It’s young and lean and prowling the streets, and Castiel sees it and thinks hunter and Sam and he knows.
He wants to give it to Sam like a present, but he can’t figure out how to wrap it, so in the end he puts it into the pocket of his coat. The cat is quiet and warm and still there, waiting.
“Sam.”
Sam stirs slowly, opens his eyes. Smiles. “Hi, angel.”
“No nightmares?”
“No nightmares.” Sam drags him down for a kiss, all tired eyes and lazy hands, and Castiel nearly forgets what he’s doing. Sam Winchester could carry him away like a tide. “Did you do something?”
“Went for a walk. Brought you a present.”
“A present?”
“Do you want to guess?” Sometimes he likes this game, and sometimes he really really does not.
Sam sits up a little. “From a store or from nature?”
“Nature.”
“Here, or somewhere else?”
“Where’s here?”
“Where’s it from?” Sam counters.
“Arizona.”
“That’s not here!”
“It’s more here than Rome, or 1925.”
Sam plays with his fingers. “You’re cute. Is it a rock?”
“No.”
“Sand?”
“No.”
“Ummm…cactus.”
“No.”
“I give up.”
Castiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cat.
Sam stares for a moment, looking from the animal to Castiel and back. “For me?”
“A pet,” Castiel says. “If you want him.”
“He’s not…you didn’t take him from anyone, did you? He’s not someone else’s pet?”
“No, he was alone.”
Sam picks the cat up gingerly. “He’s beautiful.”
The cat stretches out with a paw and hits Sam’s nose, and Sam breaks into laughter. Beautiful, Castiel thinks.
Then he has an armful of human, crushed against him and kissing thank you thank you thank you into his face and his neck, and he takes Sam’s face in his hands and finds his lips and for several minutes the cat watches, forgotten.
When they separate, Sam says (as if he’s been thinking about it, and how can he have been thinking at all, humans are magical like that, nothing ever consumes them completely), “We can’t tell Dean.”
Sometimes Castiel’s loyalty is divided.
But Sam is the one who will crumble if Castiel is dishonest, so when he says “okay, we won’t tell Dean,” he means it.
***
“Cas?”
It sounds thick, the C almost a G and an extra little gasp at the end, and it gets Castiel’s attention right away, because sometimes when this happens it gets really bad really fast. “Sam?
He’s sitting up in bed, arms locked around his knees. “Can I have Benadryl?” Beddadryl.
“What’s wrong?” Because sometimes when Sam asks for Benadryl, things are already on their way to really bad.
“Allergies.”
“Which kind?” Meaning, the kind that come from something in the air and make you itchy and sneezy and uncomfortable for a while, or the kind that come from things you’ve touched (or worse, tasted) and close your throat and widen your eyes as your face turns blue and even though your grip becomes so weak, I understand you’re holding onto me as hard as you can?
Sam opens his mouth to answer and instead sneezes five times in succession, which is answer enough, really.
Castiel wraps one arm around him and pulls him close. Sam’s head hangs heavily into his shoulder, and Castiel kisses his forehead. “Cage?” he asks, softly, which is shorthand for is this scaring you, do you feel unsafe?
Sam hesitates a little too long, shakes his head.
“No?”
“My cat?”
“He’s here.” Castiel ferries the animal into Sam’s hands. Sam’s breath hitches, and Castiel gets a tissue to his nose just in time and cradles his head from both sides as he sneezes.
“Sorry,” Sam whispers.
“Shh, no. Love you so much.”
“How many…?”
“Sneezes? Seven.”
“Oh…” He hates seven.
“Twelve total.” Meaning it’s a multiple of three.
Sam relaxes a little, rubs at his eyes.
“What is it? Is it pollen? I hate pollen.”
“You hate…” Sam looks up, eyes red and watery. “I’m sorry…”
“Oh - Sam, no, no, baby.” He kisses Sam’s cheeks, tastes the salt of his tears. “You’re beautiful. Please don’t worry.”
“Don’t feel beautiful.” He’s rubbing his eyes again, and then he sneezes and Castiel takes advantage of the distraction to gather Sam’s hands in his own and hold them gently away from his face.
“I hate that it makes you feel like that,” he says, and kisses Sam’s nose.
Sam giggles. “Gonna smite pollen?”
“Yes.” Even though he can’t, of course he can’t. Sam is smiling.
“You…” his breath hitches one, two, three times, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t sneeze. “You know pollen is tree sex don’t you?”
Castiel frowns. “They should be more discreet. You don’t see me having sex in the middle of the air.”
“You should totally have sex in the middle of the air. Can we do that?”
“I’d need my wings. You’d be allergic.”
“I don’t mind, though.” Sam runs his fingers along the edges of Castiel’s shoulder blades. “I like them.”
“I like you.”
“It isn’t - hh - pollen.”
“No?”
“The cat.”
The creature stretches in Sam’s lap. Sam’s hand flies to his forehead and he bows over, sneezes whiplashing through his body, until Castiel wraps an arm around him from hip to shoulder and pulls him close against his own body to keep him still. He relays tissues to Sam with his free hand and kisses his neck and Sam sobs out a few times, which is just something he does when his allergies are bad and isn’t the same as actually crying.
The fit passes, and he curls into Castiel like he’s survived a storm. “How many?” His voice is sanded away.
“Seven.”
Sam shivers. “Cas…”
“Twenty one total.”
***
“Should we get rid of the cat?”
Sam looks up in alarm, the shoelace he’s been playing with dangling just out of the cat’s reach. “What? We’re not gedding rid of Treebeard.”
“Treebeard?”
Sam grins in that wide-mouthed way that means he’s breathing through his teeth (but he’s breathing, so that’s okay). “Because I’m allergic. It’s from Lord of the Riggs.”
Treebeard rises up and bats at the shoelace, and Sam laughs stuffily and scoops him up and presses him to his cheek.
***
The next day Sam’s miserable, eyes swollen partway shut, breathing thick and humid and sentences peppered with sneezes. Castiel keeps track of them with a pen and a pad of paper, carefully noting each one.
Sam shivers in his arms as he fires off another round. “Hhh-how many?”
“Four.”
“Total?”
“Sixty-five.”
“Oh…”
“It’s all right, baby.”
Sam pushes into Castiel’s chest so hard it hurts a little.
“Cage?”
“Y-yeah…hhh…”
“Sam, I can return the cat.”
He shakes his head fiercely. “TB.”
“You’re sure?”
“Love him.” He touches the cat’s ear. TB bats at his own head.
“Dean’s going to find out, you know.”
“Don’t tell…”
“I won’t, but…Sam, he’s going to notice you’re sick.”
Sam pulls the blanket over his face. “Always sick.”
“Baby, don’t hide.”
His shoulders shake. Castiel pulls the blanket away carefully. Sam’s rubbing at his face, eyes and nose red and leaking, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s crying or not.
Castiel hesitates, then spreads his wings and wraps them around Sam, pulling him close, letting the feathers tickle his face, and Sam gasps and grips Castiel’s wrists and gasps and gasps and sneezes until he’s sagging in Castiel’s arms.
“Seventy-two,” Castiel says, tucking his wings away, and Sam smiles up at him through tear-filled eyes.
***
For three days, Castiel spends every hour Sam’s not awake on his computer, reading about cat allergies.
By the end of the third day he understands what needs to be done.
It’s a matter of removing a few proteins, but changing the molecular structure of an organism is risky. He sits with TB on his lap and scratches him behind the ears, feels the soft rumble that means the cat is happy. He watches, alert, ready to backtrack if anything seems wrong.
When all the essential proteins are gone, he lies on his back in the grass and lets the clouds pass over his head and the cat play on his stomach, and he thinks of heaven, thinks of all the angels by name and doesn’t love any of them the way he loves his human. The way he loves this silly, surprisingly important, rumbling little cat.
That night, TB sleeps on Sam’s pillow, and he wakes up with clear eyes and a smile.
Author: familybizness
Summary: When Dean won't let Sam get a pet, Cas steps in. Allergies ensue.
Word Count: 1625
Rating: PG-13
Dean laughs at Sam when he asks for a pet. “Sure, and then we’ll make peanut butter sandwiches and go on a picnic.” His voice isn’t unkind, but the words are cruel, and Sam bites his lip and works the muscles in his face that mean he’s holding back tears.
When Dean’s gone, Castiel sits behind his human and pulls him into his chest. “What’s a pet?”
Sam sniffles a little, and Castiel holds a tissue to his nose and thumbs away tears. “An animal. Cat or dog, maybe. That lives with you.”
“Oh.” Castiel’s seen it done, animals kept as companions. “Why won’t Dean let you?”
Sam just shakes his head. “Stupid.” He takes a few breaths and relaxes his body, curls into Castiel and turns on the TV and they watch Cake Boss and compare the cakes unfavorably to Jess’s.
But the idea stays with Castiel - a new friend, something for Sam to love, something uncomplicated for his sick human to cling to when the hallucinations take him or the nightmares get bad - and after Sam’s asleep, in a heady rush of disobedience, he leaves the house.
He’s not sure what he’s going to get, but he finds a cat almost right away. It’s young and lean and prowling the streets, and Castiel sees it and thinks hunter and Sam and he knows.
He wants to give it to Sam like a present, but he can’t figure out how to wrap it, so in the end he puts it into the pocket of his coat. The cat is quiet and warm and still there, waiting.
“Sam.”
Sam stirs slowly, opens his eyes. Smiles. “Hi, angel.”
“No nightmares?”
“No nightmares.” Sam drags him down for a kiss, all tired eyes and lazy hands, and Castiel nearly forgets what he’s doing. Sam Winchester could carry him away like a tide. “Did you do something?”
“Went for a walk. Brought you a present.”
“A present?”
“Do you want to guess?” Sometimes he likes this game, and sometimes he really really does not.
Sam sits up a little. “From a store or from nature?”
“Nature.”
“Here, or somewhere else?”
“Where’s here?”
“Where’s it from?” Sam counters.
“Arizona.”
“That’s not here!”
“It’s more here than Rome, or 1925.”
Sam plays with his fingers. “You’re cute. Is it a rock?”
“No.”
“Sand?”
“No.”
“Ummm…cactus.”
“No.”
“I give up.”
Castiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cat.
Sam stares for a moment, looking from the animal to Castiel and back. “For me?”
“A pet,” Castiel says. “If you want him.”
“He’s not…you didn’t take him from anyone, did you? He’s not someone else’s pet?”
“No, he was alone.”
Sam picks the cat up gingerly. “He’s beautiful.”
The cat stretches out with a paw and hits Sam’s nose, and Sam breaks into laughter. Beautiful, Castiel thinks.
Then he has an armful of human, crushed against him and kissing thank you thank you thank you into his face and his neck, and he takes Sam’s face in his hands and finds his lips and for several minutes the cat watches, forgotten.
When they separate, Sam says (as if he’s been thinking about it, and how can he have been thinking at all, humans are magical like that, nothing ever consumes them completely), “We can’t tell Dean.”
Sometimes Castiel’s loyalty is divided.
But Sam is the one who will crumble if Castiel is dishonest, so when he says “okay, we won’t tell Dean,” he means it.
***
“Cas?”
It sounds thick, the C almost a G and an extra little gasp at the end, and it gets Castiel’s attention right away, because sometimes when this happens it gets really bad really fast. “Sam?
He’s sitting up in bed, arms locked around his knees. “Can I have Benadryl?” Beddadryl.
“What’s wrong?” Because sometimes when Sam asks for Benadryl, things are already on their way to really bad.
“Allergies.”
“Which kind?” Meaning, the kind that come from something in the air and make you itchy and sneezy and uncomfortable for a while, or the kind that come from things you’ve touched (or worse, tasted) and close your throat and widen your eyes as your face turns blue and even though your grip becomes so weak, I understand you’re holding onto me as hard as you can?
Sam opens his mouth to answer and instead sneezes five times in succession, which is answer enough, really.
Castiel wraps one arm around him and pulls him close. Sam’s head hangs heavily into his shoulder, and Castiel kisses his forehead. “Cage?” he asks, softly, which is shorthand for is this scaring you, do you feel unsafe?
Sam hesitates a little too long, shakes his head.
“No?”
“My cat?”
“He’s here.” Castiel ferries the animal into Sam’s hands. Sam’s breath hitches, and Castiel gets a tissue to his nose just in time and cradles his head from both sides as he sneezes.
“Sorry,” Sam whispers.
“Shh, no. Love you so much.”
“How many…?”
“Sneezes? Seven.”
“Oh…” He hates seven.
“Twelve total.” Meaning it’s a multiple of three.
Sam relaxes a little, rubs at his eyes.
“What is it? Is it pollen? I hate pollen.”
“You hate…” Sam looks up, eyes red and watery. “I’m sorry…”
“Oh - Sam, no, no, baby.” He kisses Sam’s cheeks, tastes the salt of his tears. “You’re beautiful. Please don’t worry.”
“Don’t feel beautiful.” He’s rubbing his eyes again, and then he sneezes and Castiel takes advantage of the distraction to gather Sam’s hands in his own and hold them gently away from his face.
“I hate that it makes you feel like that,” he says, and kisses Sam’s nose.
Sam giggles. “Gonna smite pollen?”
“Yes.” Even though he can’t, of course he can’t. Sam is smiling.
“You…” his breath hitches one, two, three times, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t sneeze. “You know pollen is tree sex don’t you?”
Castiel frowns. “They should be more discreet. You don’t see me having sex in the middle of the air.”
“You should totally have sex in the middle of the air. Can we do that?”
“I’d need my wings. You’d be allergic.”
“I don’t mind, though.” Sam runs his fingers along the edges of Castiel’s shoulder blades. “I like them.”
“I like you.”
“It isn’t - hh - pollen.”
“No?”
“The cat.”
The creature stretches in Sam’s lap. Sam’s hand flies to his forehead and he bows over, sneezes whiplashing through his body, until Castiel wraps an arm around him from hip to shoulder and pulls him close against his own body to keep him still. He relays tissues to Sam with his free hand and kisses his neck and Sam sobs out a few times, which is just something he does when his allergies are bad and isn’t the same as actually crying.
The fit passes, and he curls into Castiel like he’s survived a storm. “How many?” His voice is sanded away.
“Seven.”
Sam shivers. “Cas…”
“Twenty one total.”
***
“Should we get rid of the cat?”
Sam looks up in alarm, the shoelace he’s been playing with dangling just out of the cat’s reach. “What? We’re not gedding rid of Treebeard.”
“Treebeard?”
Sam grins in that wide-mouthed way that means he’s breathing through his teeth (but he’s breathing, so that’s okay). “Because I’m allergic. It’s from Lord of the Riggs.”
Treebeard rises up and bats at the shoelace, and Sam laughs stuffily and scoops him up and presses him to his cheek.
***
The next day Sam’s miserable, eyes swollen partway shut, breathing thick and humid and sentences peppered with sneezes. Castiel keeps track of them with a pen and a pad of paper, carefully noting each one.
Sam shivers in his arms as he fires off another round. “Hhh-how many?”
“Four.”
“Total?”
“Sixty-five.”
“Oh…”
“It’s all right, baby.”
Sam pushes into Castiel’s chest so hard it hurts a little.
“Cage?”
“Y-yeah…hhh…”
“Sam, I can return the cat.”
He shakes his head fiercely. “TB.”
“You’re sure?”
“Love him.” He touches the cat’s ear. TB bats at his own head.
“Dean’s going to find out, you know.”
“Don’t tell…”
“I won’t, but…Sam, he’s going to notice you’re sick.”
Sam pulls the blanket over his face. “Always sick.”
“Baby, don’t hide.”
His shoulders shake. Castiel pulls the blanket away carefully. Sam’s rubbing at his face, eyes and nose red and leaking, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s crying or not.
Castiel hesitates, then spreads his wings and wraps them around Sam, pulling him close, letting the feathers tickle his face, and Sam gasps and grips Castiel’s wrists and gasps and gasps and sneezes until he’s sagging in Castiel’s arms.
“Seventy-two,” Castiel says, tucking his wings away, and Sam smiles up at him through tear-filled eyes.
***
For three days, Castiel spends every hour Sam’s not awake on his computer, reading about cat allergies.
By the end of the third day he understands what needs to be done.
It’s a matter of removing a few proteins, but changing the molecular structure of an organism is risky. He sits with TB on his lap and scratches him behind the ears, feels the soft rumble that means the cat is happy. He watches, alert, ready to backtrack if anything seems wrong.
When all the essential proteins are gone, he lies on his back in the grass and lets the clouds pass over his head and the cat play on his stomach, and he thinks of heaven, thinks of all the angels by name and doesn’t love any of them the way he loves his human. The way he loves this silly, surprisingly important, rumbling little cat.
That night, TB sleeps on Sam’s pillow, and he wakes up with clear eyes and a smile.