Supernatural fic: things hoped for
things hoped for [Supernatural, Dean, Sam, PG-13, coda to 4x01, 1,808 words. Thanks go to vinylroad for the thoughtful beta.]
"Wings? You're fucking kidding, right?" Sam's standing in Dean's space. He can see them both out of the corner of his eye, in the hotel mirror. They look like strangers.
Dean shakes his head wearily, and Sam's sorry if Dean's pissed off or bored, but really, you don't spring shit like this on someone and not expect questions. "Nope," Dean says, and he sounds more tired than irritated. "He glowed like some freaking lightshow, and then-then there were these wings, shadows of wings behind him."
"What does Bobby think?" Sam asks, because it's the safest of the questions he has.
"Bobby didn't see it." Dean shrugs and tries to move around Sam towards the bed, but the room's small and Sam's not moving, not yet.
"Oh, right, because this angel of God knocked him out. Like angels do." He laughs as though it's a bad joke. But he thinks of Jacob wrestling an angel. He thinks about God's way of teaching lessons, and maybe it's not so far-fetched that it was an angel who appeared to Dean tonight. Who dragged him out of Hell. Who saved him for a reason. He doesn't say that though.
"Bobby's fine. We'll talk to him tomorrow," Dean promises.
"So, what, you believe this creature, this Castiel? You believe he's an angel?" Sam's pushing, and he knows it. It feels like he's waiting for Dean to push back. Spoiling for a fight and he's only just got Dean back.
"Sam, you know what? I don't know what I believe, and right now I don't care because I'm gonna guess I haven't slept in four months-I sure feel like I haven't slept for that long-and all I care about right now is you moving your ass and letting me crawl into bed. Capiche?"
Sam nods.
He moves. Dean gets into bed and Sam follows, one bed because that's all they've got. Dean turns his back on Sam, and Sam does the same.
*
Sam believes.
He believes in many things. Things seen and unseen.
He has faith.
Demons believe and shudder.
He thinks of God's purpose for Dean, and doesn't sleep.
*
Every morning for the last four months, Sam's prayed. He's prayed and begged and cajoled and threatened. He's offered himself in exchange. Down on his knees, he's prayed until he was hoarse, and then he's prayed silently. He's lit candles in every church he's passed, asked for the prayers of every priest and minister he's met, prayed to Mary, prayed to every saint he can name.
This morning he doesn't pray.
He doesn't offer up thanks.
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches Dean dress-pulling out clothes from Sam's duffle, too big on him-and doesn't take his eyes off the handprint burned into his arm until Dean covers it up. Even then Sam can't stop staring.
"You gonna get moving any time soon, Sammy, or are you just gonna keep staring at my fine ass all day?"
"What does he want?" Sam asks. Spits out the words like they're poison.
"How the hell would I know?"
"Well, what did he tell you?"
"Nothing more than I've already told you."
"You sure?"
"What, you're accusing me of lying?"
"Omitting."
"No, Sam, I'm not omitting-"-Dean squeezes his fingers together in Sam's face, putting the word in sarcastic air quotes- "anything. Well, except his offer to join the angelic choir. I'd get a pair of wings, a harp, and free medical. What'd you think? Would wings suit me? I've definitely got the shoulders for them." He checks himself out in the mirror. Preens.
Sam has never been happier to have Dean there, yanking his chain again. He wants to hit him. He takes a deep breath instead.
"I'm just-I'm just worried, is all, Dean. He appears out of nowhere, marks you up, leaves a bombsite behind at your grave, and then tells you he's sent by God." He's being reasonable.
"You're the one who's always believed in that shit. So why're you having so much trouble believing now?"
"Yeah, I believed. Believe." Sam corrects himself. "I prayed every single day while you were gone. While you were stuck in Hell, suffering God only knows what. And yeah, God probably did know, might have been watching you all the time for all we know, but did He answer me? Did He help me get you out? No."
"So, what? You're pissed at this guy, you're pissed at an angel, because he pulled me out of Hell and you couldn't? Seriously, Sam? Because you know that makes you sound about ten years old, except, no, even you weren't that petty when you were a kid."
Sam opens his mouth to deny it. Except he can't. He's pissed off at this Castiel, this angel or whatever the fuck he is, when he should only be feeling relief, maybe even gratitude. He has Dean back. No deals, no soul for a soul, no one else hurt.
"I'm sorry," he says, head in his hands.
"What?" Dean sounds genuinely confused.
"Last year, I promised I'd find a way out of the deal, and I didn't. Then I swore I'd get you out of Hell. And I tried everything, Dean." He lifts his head, looks at Dean, knows he sounds desperate. "I tried every damn thing I could think of. But I failed. Everything failed."
"Sam, I'm here. Alive."
"I let you down."
"Am I going to have to shake that thick skull of yours until you get it? It doesn't matter."
"It does. It matters to me. It matters that you went to Hell because of me, to save my life, and I couldn't do a damn thing for you in return."
"So the balance is uneven, is that it? You can't take owing me your life or something?"
Dean's not getting it, and Sam doesn't know how to make him. "It isn't that, Dean, no. You're my brother and I'd do anything for you, just like you'd do anything for me. I know that. And we don't keep score, not for stuff like that. I just-" Sam fades out, presses his fingers to his temples. He has a headache.
"You just what?" Dean prompts eventually.
"I just wanted it to be me." Sam laughs, a harsh sound.
Dean sits down heavily. The old mattress sags under him and tilts Sam towards him.
Dean doesn't speak for ages. When he does, he sounds distant. "When you died," he starts. He clears his throat and stares at the wall. "When you died, if someone else had offered to make a deal for you, I wouldn't have let them."
Sam reaches out. Touches his arm. When Dean doesn't move away, Sam rolls the tee-shirt up. The scarring is raised and livid.
"Does it hurt?" Sam asks, just looking, not touching.
Dean shrugs. "A little. It itches, like an old burn."
Sam touches it, places his hand over the scar. His hand covers it, larger than the print. He feels some bizarre pleasure in that.
He tilts his head to one side. Ponders. "Is this the only mark he left? Did he do anything else to you?"
Dean looks up, startled. Sam thinks he might not have considered that.
He lifts his tee-shirt, exposes his belly and chest. The tattoo is still there, like Sam's. "No scars," Dean says.
If he closes his eyes, Sam can see the wounds still. He cleaned Dean's body before he buried him. Stitched him up and carefully wiped away the blood. He remembers each tear and slice the hell hounds left. Ten crooked lines all down his belly, deep enough that Dean's guts showed. A row of five over his heart. It took Sam three hours to finish stitching him, tiny, neat little sutures. Because Dean would need his body again. He didn't want Dean bitching him out for a botched job. So he sewed slowly and carefully, even when he could barely see what he was doing.
"No scars," Sam repeats, and runs his fingers down smooth skin. Marvels. Better than he could have done for Dean. "Nothing else feels different?" he asks. Dean's shivering, still holding his tee-shirt up like he's frozen in place. Sam pulls his hand back and Dean drops his shirt. They're still too close, but Sam doesn't move.
"I've been through this already with Bobby. I'm not a demon or revenant or anything else. I'm me."
"Human."
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Sam, I'm sure."
"Because those wings don't look very human to me," Sam says, eyes wide open and concerned.
Dean twists around so fast he nearly falls over, hand over his shoulder to feel. Nothing there, his hand waving around in the air. "Oh, thank you very much. Very funny, you little shit-face."
Sam licks his finger and paints the air and grins and then Dean's tackling him, shoving him face first into the bed. Both laughing. Only it isn't going to work, not when Sam's had four months to work out and keep fit and be ready for anything. Dean's flat on his back under Sam in seconds, Sam grinning down. Two fingers in the air this time.
He drops his head to Dean's shoulder and rests there a moment. Just a moment. It felt good to laugh-they needed it.
"I'm still me," Dean says eventually, and Sam lets him go and slides off him. Then thinks fuck it and leans over and grabs hold of Dean and hugs him, holds him tight and doesn't let go. No one here this time to count the seconds.
"Yeah, I know, I'm irresistible," Dean mutters, but he's holding on too, face in the crook of Sam's shoulder.
Four months.
Sam bites his tongue on the stream of words that he can't let slip out. Doesn't realize he's crying until Dean's pulled away and wiping his face, pad of his thumb rough against Sam's cheek.
"Fuck," Sam says, and looks away, wipes his face properly with the back of his sleeve.
*
Nothing's free. There's always a price.
There's always sacrifice.
If it's him, if it's Sam, he'll pay. Anything.
Anything.
*
"When am I going to meet your angel?" Sam asks. They're on the road, Bobby heading home, Ruby left behind-she'll find him in her own time, and Sam will tell Dean about her in his own time-just the two of them.
"He's not my angel," Dean says, and Sam laughs at the embarrassment in Dean's voice.
"Your own personal guardian angel." He bumps up against Dean, easy, casual.
"Knock it off, Sam," Dean says, but there's no real heat behind the words. One hand on the wheel, the other tapping the dash. He leans towards Sam and there's no space between them.
They drive.
//
"Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for, the evident demonstration of realities though not beheld." (Hebrews 11:1)
"Wings? You're fucking kidding, right?" Sam's standing in Dean's space. He can see them both out of the corner of his eye, in the hotel mirror. They look like strangers.
Dean shakes his head wearily, and Sam's sorry if Dean's pissed off or bored, but really, you don't spring shit like this on someone and not expect questions. "Nope," Dean says, and he sounds more tired than irritated. "He glowed like some freaking lightshow, and then-then there were these wings, shadows of wings behind him."
"What does Bobby think?" Sam asks, because it's the safest of the questions he has.
"Bobby didn't see it." Dean shrugs and tries to move around Sam towards the bed, but the room's small and Sam's not moving, not yet.
"Oh, right, because this angel of God knocked him out. Like angels do." He laughs as though it's a bad joke. But he thinks of Jacob wrestling an angel. He thinks about God's way of teaching lessons, and maybe it's not so far-fetched that it was an angel who appeared to Dean tonight. Who dragged him out of Hell. Who saved him for a reason. He doesn't say that though.
"Bobby's fine. We'll talk to him tomorrow," Dean promises.
"So, what, you believe this creature, this Castiel? You believe he's an angel?" Sam's pushing, and he knows it. It feels like he's waiting for Dean to push back. Spoiling for a fight and he's only just got Dean back.
"Sam, you know what? I don't know what I believe, and right now I don't care because I'm gonna guess I haven't slept in four months-I sure feel like I haven't slept for that long-and all I care about right now is you moving your ass and letting me crawl into bed. Capiche?"
Sam nods.
He moves. Dean gets into bed and Sam follows, one bed because that's all they've got. Dean turns his back on Sam, and Sam does the same.
*
Sam believes.
He believes in many things. Things seen and unseen.
He has faith.
Demons believe and shudder.
He thinks of God's purpose for Dean, and doesn't sleep.
*
Every morning for the last four months, Sam's prayed. He's prayed and begged and cajoled and threatened. He's offered himself in exchange. Down on his knees, he's prayed until he was hoarse, and then he's prayed silently. He's lit candles in every church he's passed, asked for the prayers of every priest and minister he's met, prayed to Mary, prayed to every saint he can name.
This morning he doesn't pray.
He doesn't offer up thanks.
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches Dean dress-pulling out clothes from Sam's duffle, too big on him-and doesn't take his eyes off the handprint burned into his arm until Dean covers it up. Even then Sam can't stop staring.
"You gonna get moving any time soon, Sammy, or are you just gonna keep staring at my fine ass all day?"
"What does he want?" Sam asks. Spits out the words like they're poison.
"How the hell would I know?"
"Well, what did he tell you?"
"Nothing more than I've already told you."
"You sure?"
"What, you're accusing me of lying?"
"Omitting."
"No, Sam, I'm not omitting-"-Dean squeezes his fingers together in Sam's face, putting the word in sarcastic air quotes- "anything. Well, except his offer to join the angelic choir. I'd get a pair of wings, a harp, and free medical. What'd you think? Would wings suit me? I've definitely got the shoulders for them." He checks himself out in the mirror. Preens.
Sam has never been happier to have Dean there, yanking his chain again. He wants to hit him. He takes a deep breath instead.
"I'm just-I'm just worried, is all, Dean. He appears out of nowhere, marks you up, leaves a bombsite behind at your grave, and then tells you he's sent by God." He's being reasonable.
"You're the one who's always believed in that shit. So why're you having so much trouble believing now?"
"Yeah, I believed. Believe." Sam corrects himself. "I prayed every single day while you were gone. While you were stuck in Hell, suffering God only knows what. And yeah, God probably did know, might have been watching you all the time for all we know, but did He answer me? Did He help me get you out? No."
"So, what? You're pissed at this guy, you're pissed at an angel, because he pulled me out of Hell and you couldn't? Seriously, Sam? Because you know that makes you sound about ten years old, except, no, even you weren't that petty when you were a kid."
Sam opens his mouth to deny it. Except he can't. He's pissed off at this Castiel, this angel or whatever the fuck he is, when he should only be feeling relief, maybe even gratitude. He has Dean back. No deals, no soul for a soul, no one else hurt.
"I'm sorry," he says, head in his hands.
"What?" Dean sounds genuinely confused.
"Last year, I promised I'd find a way out of the deal, and I didn't. Then I swore I'd get you out of Hell. And I tried everything, Dean." He lifts his head, looks at Dean, knows he sounds desperate. "I tried every damn thing I could think of. But I failed. Everything failed."
"Sam, I'm here. Alive."
"I let you down."
"Am I going to have to shake that thick skull of yours until you get it? It doesn't matter."
"It does. It matters to me. It matters that you went to Hell because of me, to save my life, and I couldn't do a damn thing for you in return."
"So the balance is uneven, is that it? You can't take owing me your life or something?"
Dean's not getting it, and Sam doesn't know how to make him. "It isn't that, Dean, no. You're my brother and I'd do anything for you, just like you'd do anything for me. I know that. And we don't keep score, not for stuff like that. I just-" Sam fades out, presses his fingers to his temples. He has a headache.
"You just what?" Dean prompts eventually.
"I just wanted it to be me." Sam laughs, a harsh sound.
Dean sits down heavily. The old mattress sags under him and tilts Sam towards him.
Dean doesn't speak for ages. When he does, he sounds distant. "When you died," he starts. He clears his throat and stares at the wall. "When you died, if someone else had offered to make a deal for you, I wouldn't have let them."
Sam reaches out. Touches his arm. When Dean doesn't move away, Sam rolls the tee-shirt up. The scarring is raised and livid.
"Does it hurt?" Sam asks, just looking, not touching.
Dean shrugs. "A little. It itches, like an old burn."
Sam touches it, places his hand over the scar. His hand covers it, larger than the print. He feels some bizarre pleasure in that.
He tilts his head to one side. Ponders. "Is this the only mark he left? Did he do anything else to you?"
Dean looks up, startled. Sam thinks he might not have considered that.
He lifts his tee-shirt, exposes his belly and chest. The tattoo is still there, like Sam's. "No scars," Dean says.
If he closes his eyes, Sam can see the wounds still. He cleaned Dean's body before he buried him. Stitched him up and carefully wiped away the blood. He remembers each tear and slice the hell hounds left. Ten crooked lines all down his belly, deep enough that Dean's guts showed. A row of five over his heart. It took Sam three hours to finish stitching him, tiny, neat little sutures. Because Dean would need his body again. He didn't want Dean bitching him out for a botched job. So he sewed slowly and carefully, even when he could barely see what he was doing.
"No scars," Sam repeats, and runs his fingers down smooth skin. Marvels. Better than he could have done for Dean. "Nothing else feels different?" he asks. Dean's shivering, still holding his tee-shirt up like he's frozen in place. Sam pulls his hand back and Dean drops his shirt. They're still too close, but Sam doesn't move.
"I've been through this already with Bobby. I'm not a demon or revenant or anything else. I'm me."
"Human."
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Sam, I'm sure."
"Because those wings don't look very human to me," Sam says, eyes wide open and concerned.
Dean twists around so fast he nearly falls over, hand over his shoulder to feel. Nothing there, his hand waving around in the air. "Oh, thank you very much. Very funny, you little shit-face."
Sam licks his finger and paints the air and grins and then Dean's tackling him, shoving him face first into the bed. Both laughing. Only it isn't going to work, not when Sam's had four months to work out and keep fit and be ready for anything. Dean's flat on his back under Sam in seconds, Sam grinning down. Two fingers in the air this time.
He drops his head to Dean's shoulder and rests there a moment. Just a moment. It felt good to laugh-they needed it.
"I'm still me," Dean says eventually, and Sam lets him go and slides off him. Then thinks fuck it and leans over and grabs hold of Dean and hugs him, holds him tight and doesn't let go. No one here this time to count the seconds.
"Yeah, I know, I'm irresistible," Dean mutters, but he's holding on too, face in the crook of Sam's shoulder.
Four months.
Sam bites his tongue on the stream of words that he can't let slip out. Doesn't realize he's crying until Dean's pulled away and wiping his face, pad of his thumb rough against Sam's cheek.
"Fuck," Sam says, and looks away, wipes his face properly with the back of his sleeve.
*
Nothing's free. There's always a price.
There's always sacrifice.
If it's him, if it's Sam, he'll pay. Anything.
Anything.
*
"When am I going to meet your angel?" Sam asks. They're on the road, Bobby heading home, Ruby left behind-she'll find him in her own time, and Sam will tell Dean about her in his own time-just the two of them.
"He's not my angel," Dean says, and Sam laughs at the embarrassment in Dean's voice.
"Your own personal guardian angel." He bumps up against Dean, easy, casual.
"Knock it off, Sam," Dean says, but there's no real heat behind the words. One hand on the wheel, the other tapping the dash. He leans towards Sam and there's no space between them.
They drive.
//
"Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for, the evident demonstration of realities though not beheld." (Hebrews 11:1)