FIC: the truth is in our natures
Title: the truth is in our natures
Author: pesha
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: mostly gen, Sam & Castiel, can be read pre-slash Sam/Castiel if you're in the mindset
Word Count: 1585
Rating: Mature, R-ish
Challenge: Written for sassy_otp's 31 Little Abominations event for August 8, 2011.
Warnings: a few bits of rough language and some harsh, naughty thoughts from RoboSam; present tense?
Spoilers: I'll go for the safe route and say all of season six, but especially 6.07 and 6.12 where I've taken bits of dialogue.
Summary: Sam knows he is not worthy of the attention of angels, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want it.
~*~
Rain falls in cold, spattering bursts from the clouds: uncensored tears falling from the confused, desensitized eyes of angels. Sam would cry with them if he could. He doesn't remember how to cry anymore.
He often thinks he doesn't remember how to feel anything anymore.
An angel's name slips from his lips with all the potency of the most vile of curses; Sam remembers that angels don't come for the likes of him. It was Dean they gathered around to fight and deliver from evil. They left Sam to fall under it and rot beneath its stinking weight.
"Sam!"
Good Ole Grandpa Campbell reminds him that he isn't alone. Sam leaves his ruminations to wash away with the rain and goes back to not caring about all the emotions he can't remember anymore or the host of angels who don't give a shit about him.
Abominations don't have to worry about Heaven anyway. Not when they can fuck their way through Hell instead.
~*~
An angel of the lord walks towards him and, for the first time, Sam believes that angel is there for him. His teeth grind down into the leather belt in his mouth and it tasted bittersweet as a victory given yet not won. It made an ironic sort of sense that the only time an angel would ever be interested in him was when he was empty of any trace of their god's influence.
Figures that an abomination could only be intriguing when he was beyond salvation.
Sam screams around the belt, his entire body alive with nerves that stretch deep into the yawning chasm inside himself where his soul had once been. He wants to do more than scream. A lightning strike of desire burns whitehot along his shrieking nerve-endings: he wants to fuck this goddamned angel of the lord raw to see how he likes it.
"It's his soul. It's gone."
Castiel pulls his sleeve back down and Sam swears it feels like the angel is rolling his skin back into place because he feels like he's been eviscerated, filleted wide open and left to heal from the inside out. It's unpleasant in a way that makes him oddly proud of the angel. Who knew Cas had the balls to do something that macabre only to top his angel-rape off with a side of it-wasn't-even-good-for-me?
He bares his teeth as the belt falls from his mouth and the angel's eyes meet his own. It isn't the first time Sam is reminded that angels can read minds, but it is definitely the first time he feels it.
It's been long enough since Sam felt anything at all that he tunes out the argument about how he has no soul, who could have done it, what should they do with him? What?
Sam makes a protest when he realizes that Dean is serious about trying to trap him.
He might be unable to remember being trapped in Hell, but Sam damn sure remembers that he doesn't want to be trapped anywhere ever again.
Proving that he can't be held is ludicrously easy, Sam doesn't even feel pride when his brother sizes him up and comes to the obvious conclusion that he can't be contained. It's a matter of fact for him.
The angel doesn't look at him when he "cleans him up" and Sam tells himself it doesn't matter.
~*~
Every nerve he has feels overstimulated. His clothes don't fit right, his skin feels abraded from the motel's cheap sheets, the glare from his computer screen is making his eyes throb in their sockets, and Sam doesn't know how he can possibly keep breathing when the air is so thick with humidity that it's like breathing water with every inhalation.
Drowning is beginning to sound like a good option when Sam realizes that he needs to do this. He needs to try because he's been gone for over a year to Hell and if anyone deserves a date with an angel it's him.
"Castiel..."
The angel's name feels heavy, sacred on his tongue and Sam can taste its purity through the soaked air of the room. He forces himself to continue and tries to ignore the tingle at the back of his mind that says he's called that name countless times with no answer before. Sam refuses to give any credence to the confusing whispers in his head that tell him "It's hopeless."
"Umm...I'm back. So! If you've got a minute..."
He is spared from finishing that plea by the sound of wings: hark the herald angels....whatever.
Sam feels his face flush with blood as he takes in the sight of Castiel, angel of the lord, coming to greet him after what has to be too long. It is strange to realize that he can still be moved by the thought of a real angel coming for him, but Sam is moved and he refuses to care about that. His brother can call him a pussy all he likes; Dean will never be able to fully appreciate how it feels to know something holy can care for someone whose very veins are filled with the vilest of unholy essence.
He knows he was never meant to be the hero in their story. Somehow seeing Castiel looking at him -looking at him in that way he only ever looks at Dean- makes the coldest, darkest parts of Sam warm, lighten with the thrilling knowledge that maybe he doesn't get to be the hero, but he's definitely not the villain anymore and that's good enough.
The angel is glad to see him. The angel is happy that he is alive. Castiel is stretching out his arms and he is about to touch him and Sam has to sit down.
Sam tries to explain, "Look. I--I would hug you but---"
The angel spares him once more with a finish to the thought he had no desire to voice.
"---that would be awkward."
He winces as he dares a glance at the angel's face and is struck with the bizarre thought that Castiel's mouth is entirely too pink and he'd still like to fuck him raw to see how he'd like to be felt up from the inside without as much as a by-your-leave. Sam rubs at his temples and tries to come back to himself. They've all been asking him if he's fine since he's gotten back from Hell; this is the first time Sam begins to truly wonder if he didn't come back wrong somehow.
Sam tries to show that he isn't crazy. He might have come back a little scrambled, but not wrong, surely not wrong. When Castiel asks him how it feels, Sam doesn't understand until suddenly he does and when he does it's amazing how it feels.
His eyes meet the angel's, meet Castiel's, and Sam stares at him while he tries to reconcile what it could mean that his body, his soulless body has been romping around the Earth without him. It doesn't occur to him in that moment that angels can read minds as easily as they can see souls, but it will occur to him later.
"You think maybe you could---walk me through?"
Castiel's gaze never wavers from his own and Sam is grateful, inhumanly, absurdly grateful for the moment when the angel nods his head in slow consent.
"Of course, Sam. Whatever you need."
Again Sam has to suppress half-conceived thoughts of violence, of rage, of pain towards the angel and he lowers his eyes slowly to try to pull himself back together. Castiel sits opposite him at the table and tilts his own head down to capture Sam's eyes once more.
"You are my friend, Sam. I am always---I will always come to help you."
Hearing an angel say that to him, much less Castiel who is his friend, who has bled and suffered and died with him, is enough to silence Sam's doubts possibly forever. The niggling thought that the angel is lying is pushed aside without any hint of trepidation on Sam's part.
It is ridiculous to believe the angel would lie. Even as an abomination, Sam knows that.
Castiel is the very epitome of what an angel of the Lord should be; Sam lets himself sit back and tries to keep calm as the stream of unflinching truth pours out of the angel's mouth, washing over him in drowning waves of righteousness.
He had thought he couldn't possibly feel less human, more loathsome, or less worthy of an angel's time and attention.
When Castiel is finished talking, Sam realizes that he'd been wrong.
He shudders slightly before thanking the angel for his help; Castiel grabs his arm with a fierce surety that forcibly reminds Sam of something.
His eyes jerk up to meet the blue glare of the angel.
"You are whole now, Sam. Do not doubt that."
Sam doesn't know what that means, but it must be something good in the angel's eyes. He finds himself nodding in reply. When Castiel leaves, Sam spends a few minutes reflexively rubbing his arm where he can still feel the angel's grip and trying not to get sick as thought after thought of how he'd like to fuck some respect into that uppity little angel runs through his head.
For the second time, Sam finds himself worrying that maybe even angels as good as Castiel could be driven to lie if the truth were as abominable as Sam himself; he is no longer comforted.
Author: pesha
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: mostly gen, Sam & Castiel, can be read pre-slash Sam/Castiel if you're in the mindset
Word Count: 1585
Rating: Mature, R-ish
Challenge: Written for sassy_otp's 31 Little Abominations event for August 8, 2011.
Warnings: a few bits of rough language and some harsh, naughty thoughts from RoboSam; present tense?
Spoilers: I'll go for the safe route and say all of season six, but especially 6.07 and 6.12 where I've taken bits of dialogue.
Summary: Sam knows he is not worthy of the attention of angels, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want it.
~*~
Rain falls in cold, spattering bursts from the clouds: uncensored tears falling from the confused, desensitized eyes of angels. Sam would cry with them if he could. He doesn't remember how to cry anymore.
He often thinks he doesn't remember how to feel anything anymore.
An angel's name slips from his lips with all the potency of the most vile of curses; Sam remembers that angels don't come for the likes of him. It was Dean they gathered around to fight and deliver from evil. They left Sam to fall under it and rot beneath its stinking weight.
"Sam!"
Good Ole Grandpa Campbell reminds him that he isn't alone. Sam leaves his ruminations to wash away with the rain and goes back to not caring about all the emotions he can't remember anymore or the host of angels who don't give a shit about him.
Abominations don't have to worry about Heaven anyway. Not when they can fuck their way through Hell instead.
~*~
An angel of the lord walks towards him and, for the first time, Sam believes that angel is there for him. His teeth grind down into the leather belt in his mouth and it tasted bittersweet as a victory given yet not won. It made an ironic sort of sense that the only time an angel would ever be interested in him was when he was empty of any trace of their god's influence.
Figures that an abomination could only be intriguing when he was beyond salvation.
Sam screams around the belt, his entire body alive with nerves that stretch deep into the yawning chasm inside himself where his soul had once been. He wants to do more than scream. A lightning strike of desire burns whitehot along his shrieking nerve-endings: he wants to fuck this goddamned angel of the lord raw to see how he likes it.
"It's his soul. It's gone."
Castiel pulls his sleeve back down and Sam swears it feels like the angel is rolling his skin back into place because he feels like he's been eviscerated, filleted wide open and left to heal from the inside out. It's unpleasant in a way that makes him oddly proud of the angel. Who knew Cas had the balls to do something that macabre only to top his angel-rape off with a side of it-wasn't-even-good-for-me?
He bares his teeth as the belt falls from his mouth and the angel's eyes meet his own. It isn't the first time Sam is reminded that angels can read minds, but it is definitely the first time he feels it.
It's been long enough since Sam felt anything at all that he tunes out the argument about how he has no soul, who could have done it, what should they do with him? What?
Sam makes a protest when he realizes that Dean is serious about trying to trap him.
He might be unable to remember being trapped in Hell, but Sam damn sure remembers that he doesn't want to be trapped anywhere ever again.
Proving that he can't be held is ludicrously easy, Sam doesn't even feel pride when his brother sizes him up and comes to the obvious conclusion that he can't be contained. It's a matter of fact for him.
The angel doesn't look at him when he "cleans him up" and Sam tells himself it doesn't matter.
~*~
Every nerve he has feels overstimulated. His clothes don't fit right, his skin feels abraded from the motel's cheap sheets, the glare from his computer screen is making his eyes throb in their sockets, and Sam doesn't know how he can possibly keep breathing when the air is so thick with humidity that it's like breathing water with every inhalation.
Drowning is beginning to sound like a good option when Sam realizes that he needs to do this. He needs to try because he's been gone for over a year to Hell and if anyone deserves a date with an angel it's him.
"Castiel..."
The angel's name feels heavy, sacred on his tongue and Sam can taste its purity through the soaked air of the room. He forces himself to continue and tries to ignore the tingle at the back of his mind that says he's called that name countless times with no answer before. Sam refuses to give any credence to the confusing whispers in his head that tell him "It's hopeless."
"Umm...I'm back. So! If you've got a minute..."
He is spared from finishing that plea by the sound of wings: hark the herald angels....whatever.
Sam feels his face flush with blood as he takes in the sight of Castiel, angel of the lord, coming to greet him after what has to be too long. It is strange to realize that he can still be moved by the thought of a real angel coming for him, but Sam is moved and he refuses to care about that. His brother can call him a pussy all he likes; Dean will never be able to fully appreciate how it feels to know something holy can care for someone whose very veins are filled with the vilest of unholy essence.
He knows he was never meant to be the hero in their story. Somehow seeing Castiel looking at him -looking at him in that way he only ever looks at Dean- makes the coldest, darkest parts of Sam warm, lighten with the thrilling knowledge that maybe he doesn't get to be the hero, but he's definitely not the villain anymore and that's good enough.
The angel is glad to see him. The angel is happy that he is alive. Castiel is stretching out his arms and he is about to touch him and Sam has to sit down.
Sam tries to explain, "Look. I--I would hug you but---"
The angel spares him once more with a finish to the thought he had no desire to voice.
"---that would be awkward."
He winces as he dares a glance at the angel's face and is struck with the bizarre thought that Castiel's mouth is entirely too pink and he'd still like to fuck him raw to see how he'd like to be felt up from the inside without as much as a by-your-leave. Sam rubs at his temples and tries to come back to himself. They've all been asking him if he's fine since he's gotten back from Hell; this is the first time Sam begins to truly wonder if he didn't come back wrong somehow.
Sam tries to show that he isn't crazy. He might have come back a little scrambled, but not wrong, surely not wrong. When Castiel asks him how it feels, Sam doesn't understand until suddenly he does and when he does it's amazing how it feels.
His eyes meet the angel's, meet Castiel's, and Sam stares at him while he tries to reconcile what it could mean that his body, his soulless body has been romping around the Earth without him. It doesn't occur to him in that moment that angels can read minds as easily as they can see souls, but it will occur to him later.
"You think maybe you could---walk me through?"
Castiel's gaze never wavers from his own and Sam is grateful, inhumanly, absurdly grateful for the moment when the angel nods his head in slow consent.
"Of course, Sam. Whatever you need."
Again Sam has to suppress half-conceived thoughts of violence, of rage, of pain towards the angel and he lowers his eyes slowly to try to pull himself back together. Castiel sits opposite him at the table and tilts his own head down to capture Sam's eyes once more.
"You are my friend, Sam. I am always---I will always come to help you."
Hearing an angel say that to him, much less Castiel who is his friend, who has bled and suffered and died with him, is enough to silence Sam's doubts possibly forever. The niggling thought that the angel is lying is pushed aside without any hint of trepidation on Sam's part.
It is ridiculous to believe the angel would lie. Even as an abomination, Sam knows that.
Castiel is the very epitome of what an angel of the Lord should be; Sam lets himself sit back and tries to keep calm as the stream of unflinching truth pours out of the angel's mouth, washing over him in drowning waves of righteousness.
He had thought he couldn't possibly feel less human, more loathsome, or less worthy of an angel's time and attention.
When Castiel is finished talking, Sam realizes that he'd been wrong.
He shudders slightly before thanking the angel for his help; Castiel grabs his arm with a fierce surety that forcibly reminds Sam of something.
His eyes jerk up to meet the blue glare of the angel.
"You are whole now, Sam. Do not doubt that."
Sam doesn't know what that means, but it must be something good in the angel's eyes. He finds himself nodding in reply. When Castiel leaves, Sam spends a few minutes reflexively rubbing his arm where he can still feel the angel's grip and trying not to get sick as thought after thought of how he'd like to fuck some respect into that uppity little angel runs through his head.
For the second time, Sam finds himself worrying that maybe even angels as good as Castiel could be driven to lie if the truth were as abominable as Sam himself; he is no longer comforted.