Alas, FML
title: Alas, FML
wordcount: 3338 HAHAHA.
pairing: Sam/Castiel
rating: PG-13
summary: Essentially, Castiel tries to woo Sam with outdated modes of courtship. Written for this lulzy Sam/Castiel meme for wanttobeatree's prompt: "after reading too many 18th century romance novels, Castiel goes to Dean and Bobby for their blessing before he pursues Sam. (Bonus points for 18thy century style wooing!)"
warnings: TOTAL, TOTAL CRACK. EXCEPT MAYBE FOR THE END? Oh, lord, I don't even know any more, you guys. MAKE OF IT WHAT YOU WILL. It's probably not safe for life.
notes: For those of you who don't know, the language of the fan is a real and terrifying thing. To translate that bit, check that site.
And there is now a podfic of this fic here! :D
-
"Forsooth and lackaday," Castiel says gravely. "Gentlemen, I would like to request an audience with you."
Dean looks at the beer and playing cards cluttering the table. The table is sticky where one of them spilled something earlier, and the playing cards have bikini-clad women on them. He looks back up at Castiel's intensely earnest face.
"Okay, Cas," he says, "shoot. These 'gentlemen' are ready to hear you." He tosses a grin in Bobby's direction, which merits him an eyeroll.
Castiel frowns. "No, Dean, I said I would like to discuss an important matter, not to shoot you--"
"Dude, it's an expression," Dean sighs. He nudges a third chair out from under the table. "Here. Pull up a seat and tell us what's on your mind."
Still frowning, Castiel takes a seat. He clasps his knees with his hands and peers at them both for a long, long minute--which is sorta freaky at the best of times, but now it's weirding Dean out even more than usual, because there's this extra level of focus, somehow.
"Uh, Cas?" he prompts, clearing his throat. "You said you had a question?"
Castiel purses his lips. "I was merely letting the dramatic tension build," he explains, and goes on before Dean has a chance to reply. "Dean Winchester and Robert Singer," he intones, staring fiercely into the distance at nothing. "I have come here today, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine, to request your permission to court your ward, who goes by the name of Samuel J. Winchester."
There's silence for a second, and then Dean blinks.
"What," he says.
Castiel frowns again, and turns his gaze on Dean. "I said, 'Dean Winchester and Robert Si--'"
"He heard you," Bobby says, thunking his beer down on the table. "What he meant is, what the hell did you mean by it, boy?"
"Is it not custom to ask the guardians of one's object of desire permission to visit and bestow gifts of affection upon said object of desire, before commencing with courtship?" Castiel asks, furrow in his brow deepening. "The books were all very clear on that," he mutters to himself.
Bobby narrows his eyes. "You wanna court Sam. He's your . . . your 'object of desire'?" he tries. Dean is too busy trying to get his brain to restart to say anything.
"Very much so," Castiel replies, expression going soft and adoring. He picks his hands carefully off his knees and knits them slowly together, then clasps them to his chest and stares into the distance again. "His astounding determination, his incredible intelligence, his broad, attractive shoulders--"
Dean makes a squeaky choking noise, which he'll deny forever, but which at least stops the flow of horrible words coming from Castiel's mouth.
"Breathe, dumbass," orders Bobby, clapping him on the back.
Dean nods and forces his lungs to cooperate. Blowing out a slow breath, he turns to Castiel. "You, uh--you're in love with Sam," he says, trying not to focus on how totally wrong those words sound.
"I believe I have stated so several times," Castiel says, sighing. "Have you been blinded to hearing the truth of such statments by the animosity between our two great houses?" he asks, perking up a little.
"What? No," Dean says. "I'm just--it's weird, Cas! I thought you were--y'know, angels and mortals and all that jazz--and then Sam--" he shudders.
"Sam Winchester is the most beautiful human to ever walk upon God's green Earth," Castiel says. "In this, I am completely adamant. I--" he frowns and breaks off, then turns over one of his hands to examine the palm. With a sinking feeling, Dean realizes he's written notes there. "I adore him," Castiel recites, words measured. "He is the moon to my sun, the stars to my sky; he inspires me to write a thousand sonnets--"
"Please don't," Dean mutters, mashing a hand over his eyes. "Okay, okay, just--let's get this over with so you can go away I can stop thinking about you being in love with my brother. You wanted our what?"
"Your permission to court him," Castiel says. "To shower him with my affection in the form of poetry, song, and gifts, so he may decide whether I am worthy of his love."
Dean makes a muffled noise, and Bobby takes over. "He's, uh, he's a big boy, Castiel," he says. "He can figure out who he wants to date by himself. We don't have too much say."
Castiel sits up straighter. "Am I to take this as consent?" he demands.
Bobby looks at Dean, raising his shoulders in a shrug. His grimace says, well, this is sick, but it's the best we got.
"Oh, God," Dean says, dropping his forehead to the table, "fine, whatever. Just--I don't want to have to see any of it, okay, Castiel? Not one flower or poem or gift, or I will fucking end you, swear to God."
"That is acceptable," says Castiel, and fuck, he sounds happy. Thankfully he vanishes before Dean has time to consider the implications of that.
He stares at the empty chair, then back at the table. "Okay, so," he says. "We're never talking about that again."
"Nope," Bobby agrees.
They go back to playing cards. If Dean shudders and drops his every so often, neither of them mention it.
*
Sam's alone in the motel room when it happens the first time, halfheartedly clicking through a couple tabs on his laptop from the local paper about the mayor's death.
He hears three taps at the window, soft and insistent. His mind goes into hunting mode instantly; he slides the laptop soundlessly off his lap and creeps to his feet. Ghosts are fond of tapping, he thinks, so it could be that--then again, could be a poltergeist or pixies or wraiths or any number of other things. He needs more info.
He grabs a salt-loaded gun from one of the duffels on the floor and inches over to window, leaning up against the wall to hear better. For a moment, silence; he waits without breathing, sure whatever it was isn't done with him yet.
Tap, tap, tap. "Sam? Are you within?" comes Castiel's voice through the thin wall.
Sam slumps a little against the wall, tosses the gun on the bed, and leans over to open the door. "Yeah, Cas, I'm in here," he says, sticking his head out into the chilly night. "Did you need something?"
Castiel turns to face him. "I need you to open the window."
Sam stares. "Is that a lute?" he asks. "Where did you get a lute?"
"It is of no concern," Castiel says. He shifts, and the lute strings twang softly. "The important thing is that I need you to open the window."
Sam frowns. "Why? And it doesn't open, anyway. Seriously, what's with the lute?"
Castiel frowns and looks down at the instrument. "In all the books I have read, it was a window," he mutters--to himself, Sam thinks--"but I suppose I can make do." He turns back to Sam and smiles.
Sam starts and almost falls, doorknob digging into his hip. It's about the weirdest thing he's ever seen. He didn't even know Castiel knew how to smile--he's actually not sure Castiel does, because whatever's on his face looks like the twisted lovechild of a grin and a grimace. (A grinmace, his brain supplies; shut up, he tells it.)
"Sam," Castiel says while Sam's fighting with his brain, "I have come to serenade you."
The words stop Sam cold. Castiel can't mean--he can feel his eyes bugging out of his head and his jaw dropping, but before he can string two words together, Castiel puts his fingers to the strings and lets loose a stream of heavenly chords.
"Thine hair is the color of caramel," he sings as he strums, soft and earnest. "Thine eyes are deeper than sky or sea. Sam Winchester, thou art the one that I love; I cherish my feelings for thee."
He follows this up with a two minute long, soulfully slow piece, interspersed every now and then with more praise of Sam's hair, eyes, legs, brain, and soul, along with declarations of undying love. (No, really. The actual words "undying love.") He finishes with a careful Picardy third, and then the silence of the cool night envelops them.
Sam stares. Castiel stands there, staring back at him, fingers splayed on the lute strings. He blinks at Sam, and tilts his head a little.
After a long moment, Sam closes the door mutely and stumbles backwards to sit on the nearest bed.
"Sam?" he hears. "Did you like my serenade? Sam?"
Sam plants his face in a pillow.
*
He tries to bring it up with Dean the next morning at breakfast, but Dean just sticks his fingers in his ears and goes "LA LA LA" really loudly, so that's a bust. He calls Bobby, next, which is--a little more enlightening, a lot more horrifying.
"He wants to what?"
"Court you," Bobby says. "Flowers, poems, the whole shebang. Believe me, Dean and I were just as surprised as you."
"Bobby, he serenaded me. With a lute. I don't think you're getting exactly how fucked up this is, here," Sam laughs, hysteria creeping up inside him.
"Oh, it's fucked up, all right," Bobby says. "What in you boys' lives isn't? Look, Sam, just tell him to forget it and we can all be done with this."
"Yeah," says Sam shakily, "yeah. I'll do that. Okay. Talk to you later, Bobby." He clicks the phone shut.
"Sam," says Castiel behind him.
"Jesus," says Sam, and spills his cold coffee all over his shirt. "Oh, fuck me. Don't," he says, whipping his head up to look at Castiel, scrabbling for a napkin to dry himself off. "Look, Cas, about last night--"
"Here," Castiel interrupts, and Sam's shirt is suddenly dry. Sam opens his mouth--to say what, he's not sure--but Castiel doesn't let him speak, anyhow. "Sam, I have written you a sonnet," he says, looking pleased.
"Um--" Sam starts.
Castiel clears his throat. "I will recite it for you now.
"When God created Earth and all mankind
He placed the angels far apart from all.
'Here there is no Temptation,' I recall
Him saying, with a tone both firm and kind."
He makes a sweeping, dramatic hand gesture before continuing:
"Perplexed by humans on Earth intertwined
In sin, the angels watched in total thrall--"
"Okay okay," Sam says, managing to find his voice in the midst of his horror. "You--yeah, you have to stop. I, um, I'm not interested," he says delicately, blush flaming over his face, "in any kind of uh, relationship with you, Castiel. Sorry," he tacks on awkwardly, hunching his shoulders and praying like hell that was clear enough.
Castiel opens his eyes to stare at Sam, mouth slightly open, for a moment. Sam is struck by the image of a bewildered fish, and bites his tongue in order not to laugh hysterically.
A long moment passes. "You do not like my sonnet," Castiel says finally, brows drawn low over his eyes.
Sam winces. "It's not--uh--" he starts, shifting, but he's stopped by the look of pure determination branding itself over Castiel's features.
"I will continue my endeavours," Castiel announces, bringing a fist to his chest. "This is merely the first test of my love for you!"
Sam's mouth falls open.
Castiel peers passionately into his eyes. "Sam, I will not cease my efforts until I find a declaration of love more pleasing to you than serenade or sonnet." He stands, and sweeps a bow. "For now, I shall simply bid you adieu." He vanishes.
Sam makes a strangled noise and thunks his head against the table.
He has a feeling his life just got a lot more horrible.
*
Yeah, he's not wrong about that one. Castiel's next move is flowers. To be precise, a boatload of yellow chrysanthemums in the Impala the next morning.
Dean's still asleep, and Sam decides to head over to the drive-thru to get them some breakfast, because he feels like an Egg McMuffin. He stops in his tracks when he spots the absolute explosion of flowers in the car. His mind starts racing: prank, spirit, something else? He edges closer, one hand on the gun underneath his jacket. What if they're not really flowers? What if they're dangerous? What if Lucifer--
That's when he spots the little piece of paper taped to the inside of the window. Blinking in confusion, he leans closer.
The note announces in flourishy calligraphic lettering:
DEAREST SAM,
IF YOU DO NOT KNOW, YELLOW CHRYSANTHEMUMS MEAN YOU HAVE A SECRET ADMIRER. I HOPE YOU WILL ACCEPT THIS TOKEN OF MY AFFECTION. IT IS A MERE DROP COMPARED TO THE WIDE OCEAN OF MY LOVE.
ETERNALLY YOURS,
THE PERSON WHO PENNED THIS MISSIVE
Sam looks closer. Underneath "person" is the scribbled-out word "angel."
Sam moans and rests his forehead on the roof of the car. His life? Officially sucks.
*
It doesn't stop there.
Sam squints out the window. "Bobby," he says, do you know anything about cursed fans?"
Bobby frowns. "What, like air conditioning?"
"No, like--" Sam flaps his hand-- "like old-fashioned fans, you know, church and the Old South and England."
"Huh. Not off the top of my head, no. No more than any other cursed object." He looks up from his demonology text. "Why'd y'ask?"
Sam clears his throat and nods his chin at the window.
Castiel is standing outside, a fan opened in front of his face. It's one of those cheap ones they sell at tourist traps; white and lacy, with a picture of mountains and a lake on it. Every so often, he lifts his head enough to peer over the frilled edge with his laser blue eyes.
Bobby and Sam stare for a moment, mesmerized; Bobby breaks out of it, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "Ignore him, Sam. Just--ignore him. He's gotta get tired of it eventually."
Sam watches as Castiel slowly closes the fan, then touches the handle to his lips.
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall to the desk.
"Wake me up when the Apocalypse is over," he mumbles into his notes on angel traps.
*
He's in the bathroom brushing his teeth that night when he finds a weird orange rose shoved in his face. He starts in surprise, chokes, and coughs up toothpaste all over the flower and Castiel's hand.
"Ranunculus, for your radiance," Castiel sighs, shaking flecks of toothpase off his sleeve.
"Sorry," Sam rasps miserably, rubbing his throat.
*
The next one is in the morning. He wakes up to a question: "Sam, may I have a lock of your hair?"
Sam falls face-first off the bed. "Mmf," he says emphatically into the gross motel carpet.
"What?"
"No," says Sam, spitting out questionable dust particles. He levers himself up off the floor. "Why the hell would you want a lock of my hair anyway, Cas?"
"As a token of your love," Castiel says, sighing with disappointment, shoulders slumping. "I could keep it in my locket."
"You don't have a locket."
Castiel ponders this. "I could get one," he says finally.
Sam groans and puts his face back into the carpet.
*
"I have brought you jasmine," Castiel announces later, holding a huge spray of pretty, pointy white flowers in his arms. "For your grace and elegance."
Sam trips over the doorjamb and falls on his ass in the motel room, managing to bruise his shin.
"Are you all right, Sam?"
*
He keeps it up: cards, poems, songs, and of course, flowers every day. He manages somehow to procure a gondola and traps Sam into travelling down the Hudson in it when they're working a case in New York; he hires a small child to strew flower petals where Sam walks; he appears every time Sam approaches a door to open it for him, even if it's the door to a bathroom.
It's really fucking annoying. It interferes with cases (the bard that follows Sam around, announcing their presence), and with Sam's sleep cycle (larks awaking him with birdsong). It interferes with his life, and it's also probably the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to him, ever. He's actually had to come up with a whole new level of embarrassment for a lot of the things Castiel does "in the name of love."
But.
Well.
If Sam's being completely honest?
Some tiny, tiny part of him likes it. Because no matter how stupid the things that Castiel's doing are, it means that he cares about Sam. That someone besides his brother and Bobby doesn't think he's a completely irredeemable evil Lucifer-vessel--that someone else thinks he's a decent human being.
And that's kinda nice.
But that doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. Really. It doesn't.
"Why are you blushing?" Dean asks, frowning over the newspaper.
"Allergic reaction," Sam mumbles, and sips at his coffee harder. "So, how 'bout that poltergeist?"
*
The last time, it's flowers again. Unfortunately, it's flowers all over Castiel, because Sam barges into the motel room without looking and bumps into him, spilling the water in the vase.
"Crap," he sighs, pulling his wet shirt away from his body. It's got water, harpy guts, and grave dirt all over it. It's his favorite shirt--the purple one with the whippet on it, though Dean would laugh forever if he knew--and Sam's pretty sure he's never going to get the stains out. He's exahusted, he's starving, and his hip is aching fiercely from that fall. Today has not been a good day, and this? This is decidedly not helping.
With a cut-off sigh, he heads over to his duffel to grab a change of clothes.
He hears Castiel shifting behind him. "Today," Castiel announces, "I bring red roses, as a declaration of my love for you, Sam. My love that is pure and true."
Sam closes his eyes; tries to gather himself together, smooth out the frustration curling in his chest so he doesn't snap at the angel. He thinks he has it after a moment. He breathes out slowly and reaches for his socks, meditating on the idea of a long, hot, calming shower.
"Sam?"
Sam punches the duffel bag. "Cas," he grits out, "no, okay? Just--fucking--I'm not interested! I'm never going to be interested, and I'm so sorry, but that's just--yeah. Sorry."
His breathing slows and his heartbeat calms; it feels good to say it out loud. The words have been rattling around in his head for weeks. There's silence behind him, too, so maybe--maybe Castiel finally gets it. God, he can only hope; he's going to go crazy if this doesn't stop, somehow. He grabs his socks, and stands to make that shower a reality.
He catches sight of Castiel on his way to the bathroom, and stops.
Castiel just--
He looks crushed, sitting there on the edge of the bed, his trenchcoat covered in sticky rose petals and water. He looks small, and alone, and sad. Defeated.
The part of Sam's heart that clenches when he sees puppies or kittens gives a twinge, and his stomach cramps up hard with guilt.
He sighs, and gives up.
"Okay, look," he mumbles. "One date. All right? One date."
Castiel's head comes up like a shot, expression smoothing into one of transcendent joy. "Really?" he asks.
Sam shrugs uncomfortably, and Castiel smiles again--a real smile, like he's learned how to, finally. He looks so cleanly, clearly happy that it actually makes something inside Sam flutter. He coughs to cover the feeling, fighting off the weird blush that's trying to creep over his cheeks.
"You have made me the happiest angel on Earth and in Heaven, Sam," Castiel says fervently. He peers up at Sam. "May I hold your hand?"
"Uh, no? No. Not yet," Sam amends, and oh God, did he really say that?
Castiel beams. "I will wait forever for you, Sam."
FML, thinks Sam, rubbing a hand over his heated face and clamping down on a completely nonsensical urge to smile.
wordcount: 3338 HAHAHA.
pairing: Sam/Castiel
rating: PG-13
summary: Essentially, Castiel tries to woo Sam with outdated modes of courtship. Written for this lulzy Sam/Castiel meme for wanttobeatree's prompt: "after reading too many 18th century romance novels, Castiel goes to Dean and Bobby for their blessing before he pursues Sam. (Bonus points for 18thy century style wooing!)"
warnings: TOTAL, TOTAL CRACK. EXCEPT MAYBE FOR THE END? Oh, lord, I don't even know any more, you guys. MAKE OF IT WHAT YOU WILL. It's probably not safe for life.
notes: For those of you who don't know, the language of the fan is a real and terrifying thing. To translate that bit, check that site.
And there is now a podfic of this fic here! :D
-
"Forsooth and lackaday," Castiel says gravely. "Gentlemen, I would like to request an audience with you."
Dean looks at the beer and playing cards cluttering the table. The table is sticky where one of them spilled something earlier, and the playing cards have bikini-clad women on them. He looks back up at Castiel's intensely earnest face.
"Okay, Cas," he says, "shoot. These 'gentlemen' are ready to hear you." He tosses a grin in Bobby's direction, which merits him an eyeroll.
Castiel frowns. "No, Dean, I said I would like to discuss an important matter, not to shoot you--"
"Dude, it's an expression," Dean sighs. He nudges a third chair out from under the table. "Here. Pull up a seat and tell us what's on your mind."
Still frowning, Castiel takes a seat. He clasps his knees with his hands and peers at them both for a long, long minute--which is sorta freaky at the best of times, but now it's weirding Dean out even more than usual, because there's this extra level of focus, somehow.
"Uh, Cas?" he prompts, clearing his throat. "You said you had a question?"
Castiel purses his lips. "I was merely letting the dramatic tension build," he explains, and goes on before Dean has a chance to reply. "Dean Winchester and Robert Singer," he intones, staring fiercely into the distance at nothing. "I have come here today, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine, to request your permission to court your ward, who goes by the name of Samuel J. Winchester."
There's silence for a second, and then Dean blinks.
"What," he says.
Castiel frowns again, and turns his gaze on Dean. "I said, 'Dean Winchester and Robert Si--'"
"He heard you," Bobby says, thunking his beer down on the table. "What he meant is, what the hell did you mean by it, boy?"
"Is it not custom to ask the guardians of one's object of desire permission to visit and bestow gifts of affection upon said object of desire, before commencing with courtship?" Castiel asks, furrow in his brow deepening. "The books were all very clear on that," he mutters to himself.
Bobby narrows his eyes. "You wanna court Sam. He's your . . . your 'object of desire'?" he tries. Dean is too busy trying to get his brain to restart to say anything.
"Very much so," Castiel replies, expression going soft and adoring. He picks his hands carefully off his knees and knits them slowly together, then clasps them to his chest and stares into the distance again. "His astounding determination, his incredible intelligence, his broad, attractive shoulders--"
Dean makes a squeaky choking noise, which he'll deny forever, but which at least stops the flow of horrible words coming from Castiel's mouth.
"Breathe, dumbass," orders Bobby, clapping him on the back.
Dean nods and forces his lungs to cooperate. Blowing out a slow breath, he turns to Castiel. "You, uh--you're in love with Sam," he says, trying not to focus on how totally wrong those words sound.
"I believe I have stated so several times," Castiel says, sighing. "Have you been blinded to hearing the truth of such statments by the animosity between our two great houses?" he asks, perking up a little.
"What? No," Dean says. "I'm just--it's weird, Cas! I thought you were--y'know, angels and mortals and all that jazz--and then Sam--" he shudders.
"Sam Winchester is the most beautiful human to ever walk upon God's green Earth," Castiel says. "In this, I am completely adamant. I--" he frowns and breaks off, then turns over one of his hands to examine the palm. With a sinking feeling, Dean realizes he's written notes there. "I adore him," Castiel recites, words measured. "He is the moon to my sun, the stars to my sky; he inspires me to write a thousand sonnets--"
"Please don't," Dean mutters, mashing a hand over his eyes. "Okay, okay, just--let's get this over with so you can go away I can stop thinking about you being in love with my brother. You wanted our what?"
"Your permission to court him," Castiel says. "To shower him with my affection in the form of poetry, song, and gifts, so he may decide whether I am worthy of his love."
Dean makes a muffled noise, and Bobby takes over. "He's, uh, he's a big boy, Castiel," he says. "He can figure out who he wants to date by himself. We don't have too much say."
Castiel sits up straighter. "Am I to take this as consent?" he demands.
Bobby looks at Dean, raising his shoulders in a shrug. His grimace says, well, this is sick, but it's the best we got.
"Oh, God," Dean says, dropping his forehead to the table, "fine, whatever. Just--I don't want to have to see any of it, okay, Castiel? Not one flower or poem or gift, or I will fucking end you, swear to God."
"That is acceptable," says Castiel, and fuck, he sounds happy. Thankfully he vanishes before Dean has time to consider the implications of that.
He stares at the empty chair, then back at the table. "Okay, so," he says. "We're never talking about that again."
"Nope," Bobby agrees.
They go back to playing cards. If Dean shudders and drops his every so often, neither of them mention it.
*
Sam's alone in the motel room when it happens the first time, halfheartedly clicking through a couple tabs on his laptop from the local paper about the mayor's death.
He hears three taps at the window, soft and insistent. His mind goes into hunting mode instantly; he slides the laptop soundlessly off his lap and creeps to his feet. Ghosts are fond of tapping, he thinks, so it could be that--then again, could be a poltergeist or pixies or wraiths or any number of other things. He needs more info.
He grabs a salt-loaded gun from one of the duffels on the floor and inches over to window, leaning up against the wall to hear better. For a moment, silence; he waits without breathing, sure whatever it was isn't done with him yet.
Tap, tap, tap. "Sam? Are you within?" comes Castiel's voice through the thin wall.
Sam slumps a little against the wall, tosses the gun on the bed, and leans over to open the door. "Yeah, Cas, I'm in here," he says, sticking his head out into the chilly night. "Did you need something?"
Castiel turns to face him. "I need you to open the window."
Sam stares. "Is that a lute?" he asks. "Where did you get a lute?"
"It is of no concern," Castiel says. He shifts, and the lute strings twang softly. "The important thing is that I need you to open the window."
Sam frowns. "Why? And it doesn't open, anyway. Seriously, what's with the lute?"
Castiel frowns and looks down at the instrument. "In all the books I have read, it was a window," he mutters--to himself, Sam thinks--"but I suppose I can make do." He turns back to Sam and smiles.
Sam starts and almost falls, doorknob digging into his hip. It's about the weirdest thing he's ever seen. He didn't even know Castiel knew how to smile--he's actually not sure Castiel does, because whatever's on his face looks like the twisted lovechild of a grin and a grimace. (A grinmace, his brain supplies; shut up, he tells it.)
"Sam," Castiel says while Sam's fighting with his brain, "I have come to serenade you."
The words stop Sam cold. Castiel can't mean--he can feel his eyes bugging out of his head and his jaw dropping, but before he can string two words together, Castiel puts his fingers to the strings and lets loose a stream of heavenly chords.
"Thine hair is the color of caramel," he sings as he strums, soft and earnest. "Thine eyes are deeper than sky or sea. Sam Winchester, thou art the one that I love; I cherish my feelings for thee."
He follows this up with a two minute long, soulfully slow piece, interspersed every now and then with more praise of Sam's hair, eyes, legs, brain, and soul, along with declarations of undying love. (No, really. The actual words "undying love.") He finishes with a careful Picardy third, and then the silence of the cool night envelops them.
Sam stares. Castiel stands there, staring back at him, fingers splayed on the lute strings. He blinks at Sam, and tilts his head a little.
After a long moment, Sam closes the door mutely and stumbles backwards to sit on the nearest bed.
"Sam?" he hears. "Did you like my serenade? Sam?"
Sam plants his face in a pillow.
*
He tries to bring it up with Dean the next morning at breakfast, but Dean just sticks his fingers in his ears and goes "LA LA LA" really loudly, so that's a bust. He calls Bobby, next, which is--a little more enlightening, a lot more horrifying.
"He wants to what?"
"Court you," Bobby says. "Flowers, poems, the whole shebang. Believe me, Dean and I were just as surprised as you."
"Bobby, he serenaded me. With a lute. I don't think you're getting exactly how fucked up this is, here," Sam laughs, hysteria creeping up inside him.
"Oh, it's fucked up, all right," Bobby says. "What in you boys' lives isn't? Look, Sam, just tell him to forget it and we can all be done with this."
"Yeah," says Sam shakily, "yeah. I'll do that. Okay. Talk to you later, Bobby." He clicks the phone shut.
"Sam," says Castiel behind him.
"Jesus," says Sam, and spills his cold coffee all over his shirt. "Oh, fuck me. Don't," he says, whipping his head up to look at Castiel, scrabbling for a napkin to dry himself off. "Look, Cas, about last night--"
"Here," Castiel interrupts, and Sam's shirt is suddenly dry. Sam opens his mouth--to say what, he's not sure--but Castiel doesn't let him speak, anyhow. "Sam, I have written you a sonnet," he says, looking pleased.
"Um--" Sam starts.
Castiel clears his throat. "I will recite it for you now.
"When God created Earth and all mankind
He placed the angels far apart from all.
'Here there is no Temptation,' I recall
Him saying, with a tone both firm and kind."
He makes a sweeping, dramatic hand gesture before continuing:
"Perplexed by humans on Earth intertwined
In sin, the angels watched in total thrall--"
"Okay okay," Sam says, managing to find his voice in the midst of his horror. "You--yeah, you have to stop. I, um, I'm not interested," he says delicately, blush flaming over his face, "in any kind of uh, relationship with you, Castiel. Sorry," he tacks on awkwardly, hunching his shoulders and praying like hell that was clear enough.
Castiel opens his eyes to stare at Sam, mouth slightly open, for a moment. Sam is struck by the image of a bewildered fish, and bites his tongue in order not to laugh hysterically.
A long moment passes. "You do not like my sonnet," Castiel says finally, brows drawn low over his eyes.
Sam winces. "It's not--uh--" he starts, shifting, but he's stopped by the look of pure determination branding itself over Castiel's features.
"I will continue my endeavours," Castiel announces, bringing a fist to his chest. "This is merely the first test of my love for you!"
Sam's mouth falls open.
Castiel peers passionately into his eyes. "Sam, I will not cease my efforts until I find a declaration of love more pleasing to you than serenade or sonnet." He stands, and sweeps a bow. "For now, I shall simply bid you adieu." He vanishes.
Sam makes a strangled noise and thunks his head against the table.
He has a feeling his life just got a lot more horrible.
*
Yeah, he's not wrong about that one. Castiel's next move is flowers. To be precise, a boatload of yellow chrysanthemums in the Impala the next morning.
Dean's still asleep, and Sam decides to head over to the drive-thru to get them some breakfast, because he feels like an Egg McMuffin. He stops in his tracks when he spots the absolute explosion of flowers in the car. His mind starts racing: prank, spirit, something else? He edges closer, one hand on the gun underneath his jacket. What if they're not really flowers? What if they're dangerous? What if Lucifer--
That's when he spots the little piece of paper taped to the inside of the window. Blinking in confusion, he leans closer.
The note announces in flourishy calligraphic lettering:
DEAREST SAM,
IF YOU DO NOT KNOW, YELLOW CHRYSANTHEMUMS MEAN YOU HAVE A SECRET ADMIRER. I HOPE YOU WILL ACCEPT THIS TOKEN OF MY AFFECTION. IT IS A MERE DROP COMPARED TO THE WIDE OCEAN OF MY LOVE.
ETERNALLY YOURS,
THE PERSON WHO PENNED THIS MISSIVE
Sam looks closer. Underneath "person" is the scribbled-out word "angel."
Sam moans and rests his forehead on the roof of the car. His life? Officially sucks.
*
It doesn't stop there.
Sam squints out the window. "Bobby," he says, do you know anything about cursed fans?"
Bobby frowns. "What, like air conditioning?"
"No, like--" Sam flaps his hand-- "like old-fashioned fans, you know, church and the Old South and England."
"Huh. Not off the top of my head, no. No more than any other cursed object." He looks up from his demonology text. "Why'd y'ask?"
Sam clears his throat and nods his chin at the window.
Castiel is standing outside, a fan opened in front of his face. It's one of those cheap ones they sell at tourist traps; white and lacy, with a picture of mountains and a lake on it. Every so often, he lifts his head enough to peer over the frilled edge with his laser blue eyes.
Bobby and Sam stare for a moment, mesmerized; Bobby breaks out of it, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "Ignore him, Sam. Just--ignore him. He's gotta get tired of it eventually."
Sam watches as Castiel slowly closes the fan, then touches the handle to his lips.
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall to the desk.
"Wake me up when the Apocalypse is over," he mumbles into his notes on angel traps.
*
He's in the bathroom brushing his teeth that night when he finds a weird orange rose shoved in his face. He starts in surprise, chokes, and coughs up toothpaste all over the flower and Castiel's hand.
"Ranunculus, for your radiance," Castiel sighs, shaking flecks of toothpase off his sleeve.
"Sorry," Sam rasps miserably, rubbing his throat.
*
The next one is in the morning. He wakes up to a question: "Sam, may I have a lock of your hair?"
Sam falls face-first off the bed. "Mmf," he says emphatically into the gross motel carpet.
"What?"
"No," says Sam, spitting out questionable dust particles. He levers himself up off the floor. "Why the hell would you want a lock of my hair anyway, Cas?"
"As a token of your love," Castiel says, sighing with disappointment, shoulders slumping. "I could keep it in my locket."
"You don't have a locket."
Castiel ponders this. "I could get one," he says finally.
Sam groans and puts his face back into the carpet.
*
"I have brought you jasmine," Castiel announces later, holding a huge spray of pretty, pointy white flowers in his arms. "For your grace and elegance."
Sam trips over the doorjamb and falls on his ass in the motel room, managing to bruise his shin.
"Are you all right, Sam?"
*
He keeps it up: cards, poems, songs, and of course, flowers every day. He manages somehow to procure a gondola and traps Sam into travelling down the Hudson in it when they're working a case in New York; he hires a small child to strew flower petals where Sam walks; he appears every time Sam approaches a door to open it for him, even if it's the door to a bathroom.
It's really fucking annoying. It interferes with cases (the bard that follows Sam around, announcing their presence), and with Sam's sleep cycle (larks awaking him with birdsong). It interferes with his life, and it's also probably the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to him, ever. He's actually had to come up with a whole new level of embarrassment for a lot of the things Castiel does "in the name of love."
But.
Well.
If Sam's being completely honest?
Some tiny, tiny part of him likes it. Because no matter how stupid the things that Castiel's doing are, it means that he cares about Sam. That someone besides his brother and Bobby doesn't think he's a completely irredeemable evil Lucifer-vessel--that someone else thinks he's a decent human being.
And that's kinda nice.
But that doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. Really. It doesn't.
"Why are you blushing?" Dean asks, frowning over the newspaper.
"Allergic reaction," Sam mumbles, and sips at his coffee harder. "So, how 'bout that poltergeist?"
*
The last time, it's flowers again. Unfortunately, it's flowers all over Castiel, because Sam barges into the motel room without looking and bumps into him, spilling the water in the vase.
"Crap," he sighs, pulling his wet shirt away from his body. It's got water, harpy guts, and grave dirt all over it. It's his favorite shirt--the purple one with the whippet on it, though Dean would laugh forever if he knew--and Sam's pretty sure he's never going to get the stains out. He's exahusted, he's starving, and his hip is aching fiercely from that fall. Today has not been a good day, and this? This is decidedly not helping.
With a cut-off sigh, he heads over to his duffel to grab a change of clothes.
He hears Castiel shifting behind him. "Today," Castiel announces, "I bring red roses, as a declaration of my love for you, Sam. My love that is pure and true."
Sam closes his eyes; tries to gather himself together, smooth out the frustration curling in his chest so he doesn't snap at the angel. He thinks he has it after a moment. He breathes out slowly and reaches for his socks, meditating on the idea of a long, hot, calming shower.
"Sam?"
Sam punches the duffel bag. "Cas," he grits out, "no, okay? Just--fucking--I'm not interested! I'm never going to be interested, and I'm so sorry, but that's just--yeah. Sorry."
His breathing slows and his heartbeat calms; it feels good to say it out loud. The words have been rattling around in his head for weeks. There's silence behind him, too, so maybe--maybe Castiel finally gets it. God, he can only hope; he's going to go crazy if this doesn't stop, somehow. He grabs his socks, and stands to make that shower a reality.
He catches sight of Castiel on his way to the bathroom, and stops.
Castiel just--
He looks crushed, sitting there on the edge of the bed, his trenchcoat covered in sticky rose petals and water. He looks small, and alone, and sad. Defeated.
The part of Sam's heart that clenches when he sees puppies or kittens gives a twinge, and his stomach cramps up hard with guilt.
He sighs, and gives up.
"Okay, look," he mumbles. "One date. All right? One date."
Castiel's head comes up like a shot, expression smoothing into one of transcendent joy. "Really?" he asks.
Sam shrugs uncomfortably, and Castiel smiles again--a real smile, like he's learned how to, finally. He looks so cleanly, clearly happy that it actually makes something inside Sam flutter. He coughs to cover the feeling, fighting off the weird blush that's trying to creep over his cheeks.
"You have made me the happiest angel on Earth and in Heaven, Sam," Castiel says fervently. He peers up at Sam. "May I hold your hand?"
"Uh, no? No. Not yet," Sam amends, and oh God, did he really say that?
Castiel beams. "I will wait forever for you, Sam."
FML, thinks Sam, rubbing a hand over his heated face and clamping down on a completely nonsensical urge to smile.