Fic: Sanctified (Castiel/Sam, misc. other, NC-17)
Title: Sanctified
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Castiel/Sam, allusions to Dean/Castiel, mentions of canon Sam/Ruby and Dean/Anna
Prompt: "Orgasm control/denial" at kink_bingo on Dreamwidth
Word Count: ~6000
Kinks/Warnings: Male masturbation, orgasm control, possible coercion. Also, gratuitous character introspection.
Spoilers: Up to and including 4.22
Summary: "Sam doesn't know how he got here. Or rather, he doesn't know why he let himself get here, on his knees in some shitty offbeat motel with a broken A/C, shirtless and trembling, while Castiel faces away from him, stance rigid and straight, hands in the pockets of his trench coat like usual." Or, in which faulty promises are made, a plan is set in motion, and an angel questions why.
Disclaimer: All characters, objects and places belong to their logical owners.
Author's Note: The text of the prayer in Aramaic I snatched from what looked like a reliable source online; I think it's mostly correct, but if it's not, my apologies!
Castiel looks down at Earth and observes.
(He should not have any stake in the fate of this world. Better to worry about the heavenly sphere, the preservation of the holiness of the Lord, the balance between light and darkness, as a true angel would do, as he once did. No, he shouldn't care. But he does, and that is the problem.)
Humans puzzle Castiel, and fascinate him, and frighten him at a depth so intense he rarely if ever acknowledges it, even to himself. To be able to experience sensation and emotion as they do, in ways Castiel had never thought possible, seems overwhelming, as he knows from experience; in a vessel, he's more vulnerable, susceptible to itches, papercuts, shivers. But he finds it - intoxicating, to play at being human. Unlike that of his true self, human flesh is as easily ripped as the delicate scales of moths' wings, the resulting pain a hot shimmer up the spine; and so like pain is pleasure, too, whether found in the distilled bitterness of chocolate or in the sticky hot embrace of another body - experiences not rooted merely in the flash of neurons and convulsion of nerves, but ones that grow from a deeper, more mystical place: these are the sensations that spark hate, and love, and lust, irritation and embarrassment and a thousand more passions that are entirely unique to the human self - ones that Castiel would crave, if he were capable of desire, or allowed himself to be so, which he never does. He is not like them. But even with all the constraints he places upon himself, he still settles into his vessel with ease. It's...unnerving.
(Dean Winchester has the ability to slay the Devil. The Host would take him, use him, watch as their former brother-in-arms is slaughtered at the hands of this human, and then throw him away like so much refuse as the earthly realm burns below. Heaven needs him; Castiel does as well, and must he be forced to choose between the two?
No matter; Castiel's decision is made for him. The feathers of his wings may be blackened and frayed, but they still mark him for what he is: an angel of the Lord, and he was created to serve Heaven.)
Saints, he knows, are driven by the hope that suffering flagellation and maiming and other visceral tortures will provide clarity, help guide their souls to ascendance as God wills. It's a point of view he understands. They are people of goodness and light, devoted to the Lord, beacons in times of darkness - times like these. Post-Apocalypse, they could do with a saint. But God, as they say, has left the building, and there are no martyrs left, anyway. Not with Dean as he is, cracked at the fundament, more fragile than he would ever admit. Useless, and he knows it, and it breaks his heart in a sense so sharp as to be almost literal. Hanael says there is no way to help him, no way he can be fixed.
(No, Castiel thinks, that is a lie.)
Not ten feet away from him, shoulders hunched, the son of Azazel stands silhouetted by the fluorescent lights leaking through a dirty motel window. His hands are in fists, as they nearly always are now. Guilt simmers in his veins, a fine companion to the demon blood. Despite what Dean has said and not said in those half-choked gestures of forgiveness, Sam is full of self-loathing, bitter anger, and fear. So much fear Castiel is swamped by it when he looks in Sam's eyes - which is rarely, now; Sam avoids Castiel's gaze as if he can hide his sins from the angel. He shrinks away from Dean's touch, too, treating any miniscule contact as a condemnation of his actions. Castiel can see it wearing on Dean, his brother's heartsickness weighing him down. This is not good, which is itself an understatement. As Sam shatters, so does Dean, and perhaps Castiel has been too long in this vessel, for he rather thinks he would go to the limits of Hell to help these brothers even if Dean weren't the savior of all worlds.
(That doesn't matter. He knows what he has to do, for Sam - to Sam, for every martyr must make a sacrifice, and when the task is done - well. When the task is done, they won't require Dean's happiness and compliance or Sam's life, so it doesn't matter.)
It has to be Sam, for the possibilities he holds in his soul are bountiful and endless, and those possibilities will in turn give Dean the strength he needs to survive, to succeed. Castiel knows down in the heart of his true self where his Grace sits that Sam must be purified for this plot to succeed. He calls it exorcism, an effort to make Sam holy (no matter how unorthodox the tactics), because that's the only way he could have justified it in the eyes of the Host, were they interested in his views as opposed to his blind obedience. He has trouble justifying it to himself, not in the least because of the frisson of excitement he feels at the idea; yes, he’s been too long in this vessel, for the wonders of physicality are beginning to entice him as no angel should be.
He is too afraid - yes, afraid; it is a sign of a sick world when an angel bows his neck to fear - to tell Dean of his plans. Luckily for Castiel, Dean obliges him and brings it up himself.
"Cas, you've got to do something about Sam," he says, and Castiel can sense the tremor in his voice. His hands clench convulsively and relax; under his mask he is heartbroken. This is, Castiel recognizes, a roundabout way of giving him permission. Do what you must, Dean's posture tells him. Just fix him.
"You may not like my methods," Castiel warns, voice level. He is unsure how much longer his rigid control over his vessel's emotions will last; already he is far too human.
Deans shakes his head, very slightly. "I don't care."
Castiel remains still; he watches Dean, sees the flinch in his shoulders, sees the resolve solidifying in his eyes.
"I don't care what you do," he says again, and Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement of Dean's consent. "Just bring my brother back."
Later, Castiel will force Sam to look into his eyes, and hold his gaze until Sam flushes with rage and confusion. There's no time for the sinner to be crafted into a saint, but he can be of use. A pawn, to be thrown away when they have achieved what they desire and they don't require the Winchester brothers any longer. It hurts, but Castiel has faith in the plan.
He has to.
. . .
Sam doesn't know how he got here. Or rather, he doesn't know why he let himself get here, on his knees in some shitty offbeat motel with a broken A/C, shirtless and trembling, while Castiel faces away from him, stance rigid and straight, hands in the pockets of his trench coat as is customary for him. Sweat trickles from his hair down his neck, between his shoulder-blades.
What are you doing? he demands of himself, over and over. You don't know what the fuck you're doing, that's what. So stand up, tell Cas where to stick it and go find Dean.
He can't. He can't face Dean, not after what he did. He can barely stand to be in the same room as doing, know what he did - how he's tainted.
No, I wouldn't have done it, not on purpose. It's Ruby's fault, all of it.
Bullshit. She didn't make him do anything he didn't want to do - things he still wants to do. He can taste the memory of blood in his mouth, demon blood, warm and bitter and tinged with an unearthly power; it makes his tongue curl, how much he wants it.
He can't think about it any more, or else he'll lose it.
"Cas," he asks, "what the hell?"
"Be silent," the angel says, and each syllable is a command.
Sam doesn't obey. Why should I? he asks himself, a terrible sort of smirk on his face. It's not like Heaven has any jurisdiction over me now.
"Not until you tell me what - " he begins, starting to rise, but the angel wheels around and smacks him in the face, sending him (already slightly off-balance) sprawling. Sam rolls onto his back, a snarl contorting his lips, before he sees Castiel's face. Cold, distant, he stares at Sam as if he were a particularly ugly bug that requires dissection. His eyes are empty mirrors; they make Sam's breath catch in his throat.
"Get up," he commands, and Sam crawls to his knees. He is lost in Castiel's eyes, and not in a good way; they seem like the sky, blank and featureless and stretching into space. There is no air, no pity, in those eyes, only the unfathomable cold of the dead space between the stars.
"You wonder why I hit you," he says. Sam can't reply; this isn't Castiel as he's known him before, the stiff-necked, exasperating, kick-ass angel on Dean's shoulder - this is Castiel, warrior of God, and despite the vessel he wears with such ease Sam knows he is other, not human, something more than Sam can really comprehend. The idea that this much power is in the same room as him - and not exactly pleased, either - makes goosebumps ripple on Sam's skin, although whether they're from fear or something else entirely he's not sure.
"I hit you," continues Castiel, voice dark, "because of what you are." He crouches in a fluid motion, in front of Sam, and examines Sam's face with an analytical curiosity, and maybe a little hate. Sam can't tell if he's projecting that or not. "Because of what you've let yourself become."
Sam flinches, just a bit, tries to look away, but Castiel grabs his jaw and refuses to let him cower like he wants to. His grip is hard enough to bruise.
"It hurts you to hear me say it," he murmurs, "but you don't deny it."
How can I? Sam asks mentally, and shudders as Castiel leans closer, eye to eye, close enough to kiss. His touch is a spark, the same kind of jolt Sam sometimes felt when fucking Ruby, but purer, not tinged with shame and deceit. Sam leans into it, just slightly, even though he doesn't deserve this little touch of grace.
"What are you going to do to me?" he whispers. Castiel's body tenses - Sam can feel it, they're that close - and he knows, suddenly, blackly, that Castiel is going to kill him. Going to beat him to death - and it's better this way, that Dean doesn't have to deal with him any more, that he won't be a danger to Dean now - but Castiel lets go of his jaw, drags his fingers down Sam's neck, runs his thumb delicately over Sam's throat, caressing where he could have been crushing, and Sam shivers for entirely different reasons than before.
"I won't kill you," replies Castiel. "Death would only be a release. Hell wants you to rule. There is no punishment there."
His lips, following the trail of his fingers, ghosting over Sam's skin. Sam can hardly breathe, every nerve twitching at the touch of Castiel's fingers, the electric bursts of power in his palm.
"I must deliver retribution," Castiel whispers against Sam's skin; his body is fuzzy around the edges, distorted by the angel's true form leaking through. Something like panic (but not quite) thrums in Sam's veins; he thinks of Pam's screams as Castiel burnt her eyes out. It - God, it turns him on, the thought of pain like that, experiencing pain like that at Castiel's hands.
Castiel mouths the curve of his shoulder, teeth leaving the slightest indentations, a preclude to a bite, one hand on the floor, maintaining his balance, and the other curved around Sam's ribs. His skin against Sam's is too hot, feverish, and Sam almost whimpers at the touch.
"Undress," Castiel commands, and he rises to stand behind Sam as he fumbles with his fly, half-standing to push his jeans and boxers down his narrow hips. Maybe there's an intake of breath from behind him as he does, or maybe not; he doesn't really know or care. He can't believe he's doing this. Demons are one thing, but this - this is an angel. He can't believe he's got a hard-on in front of one; it seems wrong, somehow. But he's done a lot of wrong things recently, so what does it matter?
"Do you pray?" asks Castiel, voice hoarse. Sam almost turns to face him, but he can't, not yet. He has to clear his throat before he answers.
"I know a few." His voice wavers, barely enough to notice.
"Say them." Castiel's hands touch Sam's sides lightly, skimming the skin, examining the muscle corded over smooth bone. Sam's voice wobbles on the first word of the prayer.
"O - our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed is thy name - "
Castiel joins him, speaking low and rough in a language Sam doesn't recognize. "Tih-teh mal-chootukh. Nih-weh tzevyanak."
Castiel's breath, hot against his neck. This shouldn't be happening, not while he's saying these words - shame uncoils in his stomach like a formerly dormant snake. Castiel pinches his nipple, and Sam stutters in surprise and an edge of pain and loses the thread of the prayer.
"Hanan sha-bookan l'hayavine olow te-la han lan-esyana," continues Castiel, and he stills his hands. Sam can feel his fingers, gripping his hips. He wants them to touch him - touch him everywhere, indiscriminately, and he'll do anything to feel it. Ruby taught him much about greed.
"Finish it," Castiel growls into his ear.
"Lead us not into temptation," Sam gasps, scrambling to find the end of the prayer, "but deliver us from evil."
"Amen," Castiel hisses into his ear, the angel's skin burning hotter.
"Amen," whispers Sam, and feels a tremor run through his body as Castiel reaches around, strokes his fingers down Sam's belly, and cups his cock in his hands. Sam's mouth opens, but he can't make a sound; he arches his back and curves against Castiel, his hot skin, wishing he could touch the angel that bleeds through the skin of the vessel, as if by doing so he could reach - what? Orgasm? Enlightenment?
"Please," Sam chokes out, and as soon as he whispers the word, Castiel steps back, taking his hands and his grace away from Sam, and when Sam turns to look at him (to beg), Castiel is staring at him with those cold-mirror eyes.
"You need to learn obedience," Castiel states, and lowers his eyes to Sam's crotch, where Sam is so gently, so lightly stroking the sensitive skin of his shaft. "Don't touch yourself. If you - come - " a slight catch in his voice, as if it's the first time he's used the word in this context, " - I will know. And I will not be pleased."
Blood, pulsing in Sam's skull, the beat echoed in his wrists, the strain of his cock. He feels light-headed, as if his world has suddenly warped in ways he doesn't understand - which it has, just not in any obvious sort of way. He can't take his eyes off Castiel's mouth, the hollow of his throat scarcely hidden by the loose twist of his tie. Castiel's head tilts, as if he's listening to some whistle beyond Sam's frequency, and says, "Dean is coming. Put on your clothes and don't speak of this."
"You didn't need to tell me that," says Sam, a little shakily, but Castiel has already blinked out of sight, as swiftly as a camera shutter or the blinds of an empty window.
And Sam stumbles into the bathroom, starts the shower, and stands under the cold water and wills himself to relax. It doesn't work, he knows it won't, not when even the icy droplets on his swollen flesh make his cock twitch, make him whimper, Castiel's words repeating themselves in his head - don't touch yourself, don't - and the torment is horrible, and it feels disgustingly good. He barely hears Dean walk into the motel, or call his name.
Two days later, while Dean sleeps in the Impala and Sam paces outside he gives in, stops denying himself; he touches his cock in long strokes, gasping in between twists of his wrist, visions like a skin flick playing on his closed eyelids, all focused on Castiel's touch.
. . .
Castiel flickers into being, trembling and overheated, the emotions of his vessel running high; the chemicals in his brain stutter and start, jumping faster from neuron to neuron than Castiel can control. He feels - flooded, inundated with a glut of feeling he's scrambling to catch hold of, no longer able to disassociate his angelic spirit from the body he possesses - and when his feet finally find solid ground, he stumbles and has to brace himself against a tree. Somewhere, in the quiet, detached part of his mind that doesn't seem to be in communication with the rest of him, he's cataloguing his surroundings, placing himself in the schema of Earthly terrain - he's in a dense forest, in western Nepal, relatively safe from scrutiny - but the primary directive his human brain is screaming at him is, Touch, taste, sigh, and a scattering of quicksilver images (Jimmy Novak's memories): human forms, caught in embraces and sweaty wrestling, undignified things Castiel has observed but never fully understood.
Until now. Now, when his skin is sweat-prickled and the rasp of his shirt against his nipples is almost too much to bear; now, when with each pump of plasma through his veins he is excruciatingly aware of swollen flesh constrained by his trousers; now, when he's gnawing on his lower lip as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his fly with fingers quavering from the rush of adrenaline surging through his system - now he understands why humans would do such ridiculous things, anything to satisfy this agonizing ache -
(Across the space between them, through the mental link he's established without anyone knowing, he can feel Sam's need, the urgency and arousal, which the human held back for so long but couldn't resist, Sam's craving for that sunburst of pleasure at once wholly a part of him and also completely distant - the thought of Sam waiting, obeying his orders, trembling but refusing to touch, not yet, it spurs him on, makes him unable to draw back, makes him lose control at the thought of Sam's hands on his own flesh, so frantic, so undeniably human - )
And oh, oh, yes, he knows that Sam does this often, Dean too, perhaps even more so, Castiel's seen them, touching themselves furtively in ill-light stalls at sleazy rest stops, under the hot spray of the shower in motel bathrooms - he holds those images in his inner vision, not understanding the heat that radiates through him at the sight (and sound, and scent - Castiel is finding that his imagination is extremely scrupulous about the details) of his humans in the thrall of such vicious pleasures, but enjoying it all the same. His humans, yes, that's how he thinks of them, oh -
(His pants are around his ankles, the bark of the pine scratching his buttocks, his shirt open and the cool breeze making his sweat-soaked skin shiver into goosebumps - his nails scrape at his own skin, along the tender skin at the joining of his inner thigh to torso; he curls his fingers, wet with saliva, around his cock with no heed to style or rhythm and jerks - )
And when Sam and Dean spill their seed over their own hands in his imagination, he comes too, his climax making his true self curl up into a ball of tearful bliss deep within his brain's amygdala, and allows the feeling to thunder over him.
. . .
Sam has never been so glad to deal with a job in his life - especially since this one doesn’t have the whole life-or-death, heaven-versus-hell-with-Winchesters-in-
between flavor their jobs have had of late. No, this is just harpies, a bunch of vicious harpies living in the Oregon woods and occasionally eating hapless male tourists who wander across their path. Nothing they can’t handle, of course, but tricky enough to be interesting - with the added bonus of giving him something to take his mind off what he did a scant week ago. It’s not the sex he’s worried about (after all, the angel instigated it) but what he did after. He disobeyed. Not right away, not for a long while afterward, but he did. In fact, he disobeyed a direct order from a messenger of God, which doesn’t sit well with his already-guilt-ridden religious conscience.
Secretly, he’s looking forward to the punishment.
“Sam!”
Sam twitches and twists to meet Dean’s eyes. His brother looks sublimely irritated, as if he’s been calling Sam’s name for a while.
“Seriously, man, you’d think the impending threat of demonic destruction would keep you on your toes or something,” he says, but there’s an edge of humor in his voice (sarcastic humor, but that’s better than nothing). “You’ve been zoning out nonstop for a week. What’s up?”
Sam gives a smile which he knows is completely half-assed, and says, “Sorry. It’s just, you know, the impending threat of demonic destruction or whatever you said. Keeps me up at night.”
Dean studies him for a moment, probably seeing straight through the lie, but shrugs, apparently deciding not to push it.
“Someday you’re gonna tell me the truth,” he warns, and Sam smiles, a true smile this time, and nods. “Speaking of truth - or something - where the hell is Cas? What’s the point of a guardian angel if he’s always screwing around?”
“You might want to ask the Creator that question,” says a gravelly voice behind them, and they both jump before they turn to face Castiel. He’s standing in his customary position, hands in pockets, looking stern as always, but with that barely-there ghost of a smirk stretched thin across his face. “But I hear he’s not in his office now.”
“Speak of the devil - well, angel,” Dean amends, and gives Castiel a tight, feral smile. “How the hell have you been, buddy?”
Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement of the greeting, and says, “I’ve been gathering information on Lucifer’s whereabouts and what he might do next. And I’ve been in contact with my former garrison. With a bit more convincing they would be willing to work with us, against the armies of Hell.”
“Wait a minute,” says Sam, holding up his hand, and the inscrutable look Castiel gives him is almost enough to derail his train of thought - but just almost. “You’re suggesting that we ally with the people who got us into this situation in the first place?”
“Sam - ” Dean begins, sounding faintly exasperated, but Castiel cuts him off.
"Don't forget, Sam, the reason why Lucifer is free and walking the earth today."
"Cas, lay off him!" Now Dean sounds more than faintly exasperated, and perhaps a touch enraged.
"Are you blaming me for Lucifer's escape?" Sam asks, quite reasonably if he may say so, but the words sound tinny and barely discernible over the pulse of his blood in his head, whispering he's right, he's right like a demented Greek chorus.
Castiel tilts his head slightly - a gesture that leaves him looking oddly perplexed - and answers, "If you cannot find it in you to forgive yourself, do you really expect the rest of us to?"
Sam's mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything. He can't. He's vaguely aware of Dean standing stock still, staring at the two of them, but he can't really find it within himself to move until Castiel strides forward and presses two fingers against Sam's forehead.
Sam grabs at the angel's wrist - no way you're knocking me out now - but instead of fainting it seems like the world gets sharper; the edges of the needles on the trees suddenly seem individual; he can tell the difference between every shade of blue in the sky. He takes a step back and stumbles against the Impala, the resulting thud loud in the eerie silence; when he turns to look at Dean, his brother's frozen, eyes weirdly shut as if caught in the middle of a blink.
"What the hell did you do?" Sam demands, wheeling on Castiel, who stands there, head cocked, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
"Stopped time," he says, and while Sam stares at him, he continues: "We need to talk, Sam."
"Look, I don't think the last time we talked worked out really well." Sam shakes his head, a weird half-guffaw struggling to escape his throat (that mouth, those hands) at the memory.
"No," says Castiel, "it didn't."
That's it, just the negative, and Sam looks everywhere but at the angel. The dirt road he's standing on seems particularly interesting today.
"I gave you punishment, like you asked, and you disobeyed," comes the angel's quiet voice. "I promised you retribution, and you didn't take it." Sam can feel his eyes on him; they make his skin prickle. "That isn't what you need."
"What is, then?" asks Sam, almost inaudibly. Castiel is wrong, and Sam knows it; Sam could spend a lifetime in hell and still not have paid for his sins against Dean.
"You need trust. You need faith, in something other than the evil you think you carry in your veins."
"And you're the one I should put it in?"
"Do you have any other candidates?"
Sam's eyes slide to Dean, like they always do. Castiel shakes his head slightly and says, "No. Dean has enough burdens to bear without the full brunt of yours."
"I don't know what you want me to say." What you want me to do, he means, and thinks about the last time he trusted something as alien as Castiel. He'd told Ruby the same thing, once, with the same bubble of fear and arousal in his stomach that he has now. This is my body, she'd said, with a wicked laugh as he pressed himself between the parting of her thighs. She'd sliced her arm open, and held it to his lips to drink. This is my blood.
"You should never have loved her," Castiel tells him, and his voice is so damn cold, so clinical, like he's merely stating a fact of life that has nothing to do with the precipice Sam's emotions are teetering on, like the knowledge of how badly Sam has screwed up isn't curdling his guts like acid in milk.
"Fuck you," Sam hisses, and turns away. "You know nothing about love, so fuck off."
Castiel ignites - there's no other word for it, the way the angel inside the vessel literally flares into being, like his human body's being lit from the inside by hot blue-white flame - and grabs Sam by the shoulder, spins him and slams him into the Impala, and the heat in his eyes hurts Sam's retinas, but he doesn't look away.
"I know everything of love," Castiel growls, in the voice Sam has only heard him use once, hoarsely and reverently in a foreign prayer. "I have loved my brothers and sisters as you cannot even comprehend, and I have felt the pain as they were ripped out of Creation, and I have worked in sorrow to mend the wounds their absence left behind. I have devoted myself to your brother, and to you, and to your cause, out of love for my Father and the creation he's abandoned, and by doing so broken my only connection to the Host - to those like me. Your sacrifices are nothing compared to what I have sacrificed over the past millennia. So do not speak of what you don't understand, Sam Winchester."
He takes up all the space left in the world; the righteous anger of his presence is overwhelming, an avalanche of power that torches Sam's blood and scalds his skin with a brilliant blaze like nothing Sam has experienced before, like the force of every orgasm he's ever had exploding along his neural pathways. Sam clings to him. He wishes the heat of Castiel's skin would burn him up, scorch the dirt and sin from his blood and soul and let him let go. He rocks against him; he's so needy, the heat is searing away his thoughts and regrets and inhibitions. Castiel's arms wrap around him, phantom wings swoop down and shield them from the world. It's so hot in here, so dry, the otherworldly glow of Castiel's skin has burned away the oxygen, and Sam is dizzy and gasping and he can see Castiel, not just the vessel, he can really see him, the skull beneath the skin, freakishly beautiful and it hurts Sam so badly, God it hurts, but he won't shut his eyes. Can't shut his eyes, like Pam couldn't pull back once she first got a glimpse of Castiel as he truly is. This is so much more than Hell, he thinks, his thoughts one melting whirl, this is so much more than any demon could ever be -
Castiel draws back, not physically but in some other realm; it's almost like he shrinks, pulling back into himself, shoving the edges inside his vessel until all that remains of the striking beauty he emanates is the fever in his skin and the steady blue flame of his eyes, God's glory in his irises.
"Do you see what I offer you?" he asks Sam, and Sam doesn't really answer, just wraps a hand around the back of Castiel's neck and holds on like it's the only anchor to the world he's got left.
"Do you trust me?" and Castiel's lips are on his cheek, breath whispering into his ear. Sam's skin is tingling, all the blood rushed to the surface, and he's flushed on his face and neck and chest and even though the rest of his body is sparking with the need to be touched, the throb of his cock tells him where the only touch that can offer true release needs to go, and he is willing to let Castiel satisfy that ache without any of the reservations he had with Ruby. Sam nods violently against Castiel's shoulder, twisting his body into the reach of those heated hands.
"Do you give yourself over, wholly and entirely, to the service of God and his angels?" Castiel's voice is urgent, Sam can hear it even through the haze of pleasure enveloping him, encouraged by the little jolts of power in Castiel's fingertips over his chest, his hips, the backs of his thighs, everywhere but where he needs them - Oh angel, he thinks, or maybe he says it, oh my angel. These aren't words he would say, not really, but he will now - just like how he'll say yes to Castiel's demand - because it's worth it to just believe in God again, just for a little while, just for a moment.
"Yes," Sam croaks, and "please, please," and Castiel's mouth is on his neck, and finally his hands are where Sam needs them to be, finally, and it really doesn't matter what he just agreed to or what will happened next because he's shuddering into oblivion, quietly, with only a whimper and a convulsion against Castiel's body, and he doesn't have to worry because Dean is safe and Castiel is whispering in his ear, "There is always hope for redemption, Sam. Always."
. . .
Castiel is a practiced liar.
There is always hope for redemption, Sam.
(And what does redemption mean, when there is no God to grant you clemency? What is the point of confession, and cleansing yourself of sin, if nothing awaits you but the void, the black abyss where the conflicted dead go?
Does he truly frame these questions out of concern for Dean or Sam, or out of a selfish desire to question the path he must follow?)
Castiel does not grit his teeth as he watches Sam, hand on Dean's shoulder, laughing like he hasn't in a year and a half, nor does he clench his hands into fists. His first attempt was successful, after all - already their bond is reconstructing, already are their souls lighter, Dean's free from the fret and worry about his little brother, Sam learning to let go of his guilt. It has been placed on Castiel's shoulders, and his task has only just begun.
His, now, both the Winchesters - although more properly, they belong to the Host. Sworn and sanctified, they now fight on the side of the light, even if drawn there through subterfuge and sex. It has made Castiel cold, deadened on the inside.
A whisper of a breath on his cheek; Hanael's presence. He has forgotten that she, too, has done what he has done, even if she utilized subtler methods.
"The hurt will stop eventually," she breathes, a voice heard not in his ear but in his mind. He wonders how she knows, if she ever really hurt like this. She never had to betray Dean like he has; she could still hide under her guise as a human. As Anna.
"Is what we're doing right?" he asks her, needing her to say yes, needing the assurance she and only she can give him.
Her hesitation is answer enough. He turns away, and pulls himself tighter into his human vessel. It's safe there. Warm. Her reply whispers on the wind, but he doesn't hear it, or chooses not to. He still has work to do. Sam's eyes catch on his, but he can't hold the gaze; all the little betrayals he's committed can't amount to what he's done to Sam. There is always hope for redemption. He had no right to say that, a scheming falsehood, no right to manipulate them like that. Neither brother could ever forgive him. Soon, only Dean will have the chance to do so.
(He cannot disobey. He is an angel. His duty is to Heaven; his only love is for God. This he knows.)
This is the emptiest he's ever felt.
(He also knows that repeating a statement doesn't make it fact.)
Castiel lies. It's what's necessary for the plan. He has to.
(His duty is to Heaven, but there is the crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the smell of pine in the air; the mosquito bites, the backaches, the existence of solid things. His only love is for God - but there is Dean Winchester, and there is Sam Winchester, but mostly, there is Dean.)
He hides it from his garrison, from Hanael, from himself, but there's an itch in the back of his mind that begs him to choose the truth.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Castiel/Sam, allusions to Dean/Castiel, mentions of canon Sam/Ruby and Dean/Anna
Prompt: "Orgasm control/denial" at kink_bingo on Dreamwidth
Word Count: ~6000
Kinks/Warnings: Male masturbation, orgasm control, possible coercion. Also, gratuitous character introspection.
Spoilers: Up to and including 4.22
Summary: "Sam doesn't know how he got here. Or rather, he doesn't know why he let himself get here, on his knees in some shitty offbeat motel with a broken A/C, shirtless and trembling, while Castiel faces away from him, stance rigid and straight, hands in the pockets of his trench coat like usual." Or, in which faulty promises are made, a plan is set in motion, and an angel questions why.
Disclaimer: All characters, objects and places belong to their logical owners.
Author's Note: The text of the prayer in Aramaic I snatched from what looked like a reliable source online; I think it's mostly correct, but if it's not, my apologies!
Castiel looks down at Earth and observes.
(He should not have any stake in the fate of this world. Better to worry about the heavenly sphere, the preservation of the holiness of the Lord, the balance between light and darkness, as a true angel would do, as he once did. No, he shouldn't care. But he does, and that is the problem.)
Humans puzzle Castiel, and fascinate him, and frighten him at a depth so intense he rarely if ever acknowledges it, even to himself. To be able to experience sensation and emotion as they do, in ways Castiel had never thought possible, seems overwhelming, as he knows from experience; in a vessel, he's more vulnerable, susceptible to itches, papercuts, shivers. But he finds it - intoxicating, to play at being human. Unlike that of his true self, human flesh is as easily ripped as the delicate scales of moths' wings, the resulting pain a hot shimmer up the spine; and so like pain is pleasure, too, whether found in the distilled bitterness of chocolate or in the sticky hot embrace of another body - experiences not rooted merely in the flash of neurons and convulsion of nerves, but ones that grow from a deeper, more mystical place: these are the sensations that spark hate, and love, and lust, irritation and embarrassment and a thousand more passions that are entirely unique to the human self - ones that Castiel would crave, if he were capable of desire, or allowed himself to be so, which he never does. He is not like them. But even with all the constraints he places upon himself, he still settles into his vessel with ease. It's...unnerving.
(Dean Winchester has the ability to slay the Devil. The Host would take him, use him, watch as their former brother-in-arms is slaughtered at the hands of this human, and then throw him away like so much refuse as the earthly realm burns below. Heaven needs him; Castiel does as well, and must he be forced to choose between the two?
No matter; Castiel's decision is made for him. The feathers of his wings may be blackened and frayed, but they still mark him for what he is: an angel of the Lord, and he was created to serve Heaven.)
Saints, he knows, are driven by the hope that suffering flagellation and maiming and other visceral tortures will provide clarity, help guide their souls to ascendance as God wills. It's a point of view he understands. They are people of goodness and light, devoted to the Lord, beacons in times of darkness - times like these. Post-Apocalypse, they could do with a saint. But God, as they say, has left the building, and there are no martyrs left, anyway. Not with Dean as he is, cracked at the fundament, more fragile than he would ever admit. Useless, and he knows it, and it breaks his heart in a sense so sharp as to be almost literal. Hanael says there is no way to help him, no way he can be fixed.
(No, Castiel thinks, that is a lie.)
Not ten feet away from him, shoulders hunched, the son of Azazel stands silhouetted by the fluorescent lights leaking through a dirty motel window. His hands are in fists, as they nearly always are now. Guilt simmers in his veins, a fine companion to the demon blood. Despite what Dean has said and not said in those half-choked gestures of forgiveness, Sam is full of self-loathing, bitter anger, and fear. So much fear Castiel is swamped by it when he looks in Sam's eyes - which is rarely, now; Sam avoids Castiel's gaze as if he can hide his sins from the angel. He shrinks away from Dean's touch, too, treating any miniscule contact as a condemnation of his actions. Castiel can see it wearing on Dean, his brother's heartsickness weighing him down. This is not good, which is itself an understatement. As Sam shatters, so does Dean, and perhaps Castiel has been too long in this vessel, for he rather thinks he would go to the limits of Hell to help these brothers even if Dean weren't the savior of all worlds.
(That doesn't matter. He knows what he has to do, for Sam - to Sam, for every martyr must make a sacrifice, and when the task is done - well. When the task is done, they won't require Dean's happiness and compliance or Sam's life, so it doesn't matter.)
It has to be Sam, for the possibilities he holds in his soul are bountiful and endless, and those possibilities will in turn give Dean the strength he needs to survive, to succeed. Castiel knows down in the heart of his true self where his Grace sits that Sam must be purified for this plot to succeed. He calls it exorcism, an effort to make Sam holy (no matter how unorthodox the tactics), because that's the only way he could have justified it in the eyes of the Host, were they interested in his views as opposed to his blind obedience. He has trouble justifying it to himself, not in the least because of the frisson of excitement he feels at the idea; yes, he’s been too long in this vessel, for the wonders of physicality are beginning to entice him as no angel should be.
He is too afraid - yes, afraid; it is a sign of a sick world when an angel bows his neck to fear - to tell Dean of his plans. Luckily for Castiel, Dean obliges him and brings it up himself.
"Cas, you've got to do something about Sam," he says, and Castiel can sense the tremor in his voice. His hands clench convulsively and relax; under his mask he is heartbroken. This is, Castiel recognizes, a roundabout way of giving him permission. Do what you must, Dean's posture tells him. Just fix him.
"You may not like my methods," Castiel warns, voice level. He is unsure how much longer his rigid control over his vessel's emotions will last; already he is far too human.
Deans shakes his head, very slightly. "I don't care."
Castiel remains still; he watches Dean, sees the flinch in his shoulders, sees the resolve solidifying in his eyes.
"I don't care what you do," he says again, and Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement of Dean's consent. "Just bring my brother back."
Later, Castiel will force Sam to look into his eyes, and hold his gaze until Sam flushes with rage and confusion. There's no time for the sinner to be crafted into a saint, but he can be of use. A pawn, to be thrown away when they have achieved what they desire and they don't require the Winchester brothers any longer. It hurts, but Castiel has faith in the plan.
He has to.
. . .
Sam doesn't know how he got here. Or rather, he doesn't know why he let himself get here, on his knees in some shitty offbeat motel with a broken A/C, shirtless and trembling, while Castiel faces away from him, stance rigid and straight, hands in the pockets of his trench coat as is customary for him. Sweat trickles from his hair down his neck, between his shoulder-blades.
What are you doing? he demands of himself, over and over. You don't know what the fuck you're doing, that's what. So stand up, tell Cas where to stick it and go find Dean.
He can't. He can't face Dean, not after what he did. He can barely stand to be in the same room as doing, know what he did - how he's tainted.
No, I wouldn't have done it, not on purpose. It's Ruby's fault, all of it.
Bullshit. She didn't make him do anything he didn't want to do - things he still wants to do. He can taste the memory of blood in his mouth, demon blood, warm and bitter and tinged with an unearthly power; it makes his tongue curl, how much he wants it.
He can't think about it any more, or else he'll lose it.
"Cas," he asks, "what the hell?"
"Be silent," the angel says, and each syllable is a command.
Sam doesn't obey. Why should I? he asks himself, a terrible sort of smirk on his face. It's not like Heaven has any jurisdiction over me now.
"Not until you tell me what - " he begins, starting to rise, but the angel wheels around and smacks him in the face, sending him (already slightly off-balance) sprawling. Sam rolls onto his back, a snarl contorting his lips, before he sees Castiel's face. Cold, distant, he stares at Sam as if he were a particularly ugly bug that requires dissection. His eyes are empty mirrors; they make Sam's breath catch in his throat.
"Get up," he commands, and Sam crawls to his knees. He is lost in Castiel's eyes, and not in a good way; they seem like the sky, blank and featureless and stretching into space. There is no air, no pity, in those eyes, only the unfathomable cold of the dead space between the stars.
"You wonder why I hit you," he says. Sam can't reply; this isn't Castiel as he's known him before, the stiff-necked, exasperating, kick-ass angel on Dean's shoulder - this is Castiel, warrior of God, and despite the vessel he wears with such ease Sam knows he is other, not human, something more than Sam can really comprehend. The idea that this much power is in the same room as him - and not exactly pleased, either - makes goosebumps ripple on Sam's skin, although whether they're from fear or something else entirely he's not sure.
"I hit you," continues Castiel, voice dark, "because of what you are." He crouches in a fluid motion, in front of Sam, and examines Sam's face with an analytical curiosity, and maybe a little hate. Sam can't tell if he's projecting that or not. "Because of what you've let yourself become."
Sam flinches, just a bit, tries to look away, but Castiel grabs his jaw and refuses to let him cower like he wants to. His grip is hard enough to bruise.
"It hurts you to hear me say it," he murmurs, "but you don't deny it."
How can I? Sam asks mentally, and shudders as Castiel leans closer, eye to eye, close enough to kiss. His touch is a spark, the same kind of jolt Sam sometimes felt when fucking Ruby, but purer, not tinged with shame and deceit. Sam leans into it, just slightly, even though he doesn't deserve this little touch of grace.
"What are you going to do to me?" he whispers. Castiel's body tenses - Sam can feel it, they're that close - and he knows, suddenly, blackly, that Castiel is going to kill him. Going to beat him to death - and it's better this way, that Dean doesn't have to deal with him any more, that he won't be a danger to Dean now - but Castiel lets go of his jaw, drags his fingers down Sam's neck, runs his thumb delicately over Sam's throat, caressing where he could have been crushing, and Sam shivers for entirely different reasons than before.
"I won't kill you," replies Castiel. "Death would only be a release. Hell wants you to rule. There is no punishment there."
His lips, following the trail of his fingers, ghosting over Sam's skin. Sam can hardly breathe, every nerve twitching at the touch of Castiel's fingers, the electric bursts of power in his palm.
"I must deliver retribution," Castiel whispers against Sam's skin; his body is fuzzy around the edges, distorted by the angel's true form leaking through. Something like panic (but not quite) thrums in Sam's veins; he thinks of Pam's screams as Castiel burnt her eyes out. It - God, it turns him on, the thought of pain like that, experiencing pain like that at Castiel's hands.
Castiel mouths the curve of his shoulder, teeth leaving the slightest indentations, a preclude to a bite, one hand on the floor, maintaining his balance, and the other curved around Sam's ribs. His skin against Sam's is too hot, feverish, and Sam almost whimpers at the touch.
"Undress," Castiel commands, and he rises to stand behind Sam as he fumbles with his fly, half-standing to push his jeans and boxers down his narrow hips. Maybe there's an intake of breath from behind him as he does, or maybe not; he doesn't really know or care. He can't believe he's doing this. Demons are one thing, but this - this is an angel. He can't believe he's got a hard-on in front of one; it seems wrong, somehow. But he's done a lot of wrong things recently, so what does it matter?
"Do you pray?" asks Castiel, voice hoarse. Sam almost turns to face him, but he can't, not yet. He has to clear his throat before he answers.
"I know a few." His voice wavers, barely enough to notice.
"Say them." Castiel's hands touch Sam's sides lightly, skimming the skin, examining the muscle corded over smooth bone. Sam's voice wobbles on the first word of the prayer.
"O - our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed is thy name - "
Castiel joins him, speaking low and rough in a language Sam doesn't recognize. "Tih-teh mal-chootukh. Nih-weh tzevyanak."
Castiel's breath, hot against his neck. This shouldn't be happening, not while he's saying these words - shame uncoils in his stomach like a formerly dormant snake. Castiel pinches his nipple, and Sam stutters in surprise and an edge of pain and loses the thread of the prayer.
"Hanan sha-bookan l'hayavine olow te-la han lan-esyana," continues Castiel, and he stills his hands. Sam can feel his fingers, gripping his hips. He wants them to touch him - touch him everywhere, indiscriminately, and he'll do anything to feel it. Ruby taught him much about greed.
"Finish it," Castiel growls into his ear.
"Lead us not into temptation," Sam gasps, scrambling to find the end of the prayer, "but deliver us from evil."
"Amen," Castiel hisses into his ear, the angel's skin burning hotter.
"Amen," whispers Sam, and feels a tremor run through his body as Castiel reaches around, strokes his fingers down Sam's belly, and cups his cock in his hands. Sam's mouth opens, but he can't make a sound; he arches his back and curves against Castiel, his hot skin, wishing he could touch the angel that bleeds through the skin of the vessel, as if by doing so he could reach - what? Orgasm? Enlightenment?
"Please," Sam chokes out, and as soon as he whispers the word, Castiel steps back, taking his hands and his grace away from Sam, and when Sam turns to look at him (to beg), Castiel is staring at him with those cold-mirror eyes.
"You need to learn obedience," Castiel states, and lowers his eyes to Sam's crotch, where Sam is so gently, so lightly stroking the sensitive skin of his shaft. "Don't touch yourself. If you - come - " a slight catch in his voice, as if it's the first time he's used the word in this context, " - I will know. And I will not be pleased."
Blood, pulsing in Sam's skull, the beat echoed in his wrists, the strain of his cock. He feels light-headed, as if his world has suddenly warped in ways he doesn't understand - which it has, just not in any obvious sort of way. He can't take his eyes off Castiel's mouth, the hollow of his throat scarcely hidden by the loose twist of his tie. Castiel's head tilts, as if he's listening to some whistle beyond Sam's frequency, and says, "Dean is coming. Put on your clothes and don't speak of this."
"You didn't need to tell me that," says Sam, a little shakily, but Castiel has already blinked out of sight, as swiftly as a camera shutter or the blinds of an empty window.
And Sam stumbles into the bathroom, starts the shower, and stands under the cold water and wills himself to relax. It doesn't work, he knows it won't, not when even the icy droplets on his swollen flesh make his cock twitch, make him whimper, Castiel's words repeating themselves in his head - don't touch yourself, don't - and the torment is horrible, and it feels disgustingly good. He barely hears Dean walk into the motel, or call his name.
Two days later, while Dean sleeps in the Impala and Sam paces outside he gives in, stops denying himself; he touches his cock in long strokes, gasping in between twists of his wrist, visions like a skin flick playing on his closed eyelids, all focused on Castiel's touch.
. . .
Castiel flickers into being, trembling and overheated, the emotions of his vessel running high; the chemicals in his brain stutter and start, jumping faster from neuron to neuron than Castiel can control. He feels - flooded, inundated with a glut of feeling he's scrambling to catch hold of, no longer able to disassociate his angelic spirit from the body he possesses - and when his feet finally find solid ground, he stumbles and has to brace himself against a tree. Somewhere, in the quiet, detached part of his mind that doesn't seem to be in communication with the rest of him, he's cataloguing his surroundings, placing himself in the schema of Earthly terrain - he's in a dense forest, in western Nepal, relatively safe from scrutiny - but the primary directive his human brain is screaming at him is, Touch, taste, sigh, and a scattering of quicksilver images (Jimmy Novak's memories): human forms, caught in embraces and sweaty wrestling, undignified things Castiel has observed but never fully understood.
Until now. Now, when his skin is sweat-prickled and the rasp of his shirt against his nipples is almost too much to bear; now, when with each pump of plasma through his veins he is excruciatingly aware of swollen flesh constrained by his trousers; now, when he's gnawing on his lower lip as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his fly with fingers quavering from the rush of adrenaline surging through his system - now he understands why humans would do such ridiculous things, anything to satisfy this agonizing ache -
(Across the space between them, through the mental link he's established without anyone knowing, he can feel Sam's need, the urgency and arousal, which the human held back for so long but couldn't resist, Sam's craving for that sunburst of pleasure at once wholly a part of him and also completely distant - the thought of Sam waiting, obeying his orders, trembling but refusing to touch, not yet, it spurs him on, makes him unable to draw back, makes him lose control at the thought of Sam's hands on his own flesh, so frantic, so undeniably human - )
And oh, oh, yes, he knows that Sam does this often, Dean too, perhaps even more so, Castiel's seen them, touching themselves furtively in ill-light stalls at sleazy rest stops, under the hot spray of the shower in motel bathrooms - he holds those images in his inner vision, not understanding the heat that radiates through him at the sight (and sound, and scent - Castiel is finding that his imagination is extremely scrupulous about the details) of his humans in the thrall of such vicious pleasures, but enjoying it all the same. His humans, yes, that's how he thinks of them, oh -
(His pants are around his ankles, the bark of the pine scratching his buttocks, his shirt open and the cool breeze making his sweat-soaked skin shiver into goosebumps - his nails scrape at his own skin, along the tender skin at the joining of his inner thigh to torso; he curls his fingers, wet with saliva, around his cock with no heed to style or rhythm and jerks - )
And when Sam and Dean spill their seed over their own hands in his imagination, he comes too, his climax making his true self curl up into a ball of tearful bliss deep within his brain's amygdala, and allows the feeling to thunder over him.
. . .
Sam has never been so glad to deal with a job in his life - especially since this one doesn’t have the whole life-or-death, heaven-versus-hell-with-Winchesters-in-
between flavor their jobs have had of late. No, this is just harpies, a bunch of vicious harpies living in the Oregon woods and occasionally eating hapless male tourists who wander across their path. Nothing they can’t handle, of course, but tricky enough to be interesting - with the added bonus of giving him something to take his mind off what he did a scant week ago. It’s not the sex he’s worried about (after all, the angel instigated it) but what he did after. He disobeyed. Not right away, not for a long while afterward, but he did. In fact, he disobeyed a direct order from a messenger of God, which doesn’t sit well with his already-guilt-ridden religious conscience.
Secretly, he’s looking forward to the punishment.
“Sam!”
Sam twitches and twists to meet Dean’s eyes. His brother looks sublimely irritated, as if he’s been calling Sam’s name for a while.
“Seriously, man, you’d think the impending threat of demonic destruction would keep you on your toes or something,” he says, but there’s an edge of humor in his voice (sarcastic humor, but that’s better than nothing). “You’ve been zoning out nonstop for a week. What’s up?”
Sam gives a smile which he knows is completely half-assed, and says, “Sorry. It’s just, you know, the impending threat of demonic destruction or whatever you said. Keeps me up at night.”
Dean studies him for a moment, probably seeing straight through the lie, but shrugs, apparently deciding not to push it.
“Someday you’re gonna tell me the truth,” he warns, and Sam smiles, a true smile this time, and nods. “Speaking of truth - or something - where the hell is Cas? What’s the point of a guardian angel if he’s always screwing around?”
“You might want to ask the Creator that question,” says a gravelly voice behind them, and they both jump before they turn to face Castiel. He’s standing in his customary position, hands in pockets, looking stern as always, but with that barely-there ghost of a smirk stretched thin across his face. “But I hear he’s not in his office now.”
“Speak of the devil - well, angel,” Dean amends, and gives Castiel a tight, feral smile. “How the hell have you been, buddy?”
Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement of the greeting, and says, “I’ve been gathering information on Lucifer’s whereabouts and what he might do next. And I’ve been in contact with my former garrison. With a bit more convincing they would be willing to work with us, against the armies of Hell.”
“Wait a minute,” says Sam, holding up his hand, and the inscrutable look Castiel gives him is almost enough to derail his train of thought - but just almost. “You’re suggesting that we ally with the people who got us into this situation in the first place?”
“Sam - ” Dean begins, sounding faintly exasperated, but Castiel cuts him off.
"Don't forget, Sam, the reason why Lucifer is free and walking the earth today."
"Cas, lay off him!" Now Dean sounds more than faintly exasperated, and perhaps a touch enraged.
"Are you blaming me for Lucifer's escape?" Sam asks, quite reasonably if he may say so, but the words sound tinny and barely discernible over the pulse of his blood in his head, whispering he's right, he's right like a demented Greek chorus.
Castiel tilts his head slightly - a gesture that leaves him looking oddly perplexed - and answers, "If you cannot find it in you to forgive yourself, do you really expect the rest of us to?"
Sam's mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything. He can't. He's vaguely aware of Dean standing stock still, staring at the two of them, but he can't really find it within himself to move until Castiel strides forward and presses two fingers against Sam's forehead.
Sam grabs at the angel's wrist - no way you're knocking me out now - but instead of fainting it seems like the world gets sharper; the edges of the needles on the trees suddenly seem individual; he can tell the difference between every shade of blue in the sky. He takes a step back and stumbles against the Impala, the resulting thud loud in the eerie silence; when he turns to look at Dean, his brother's frozen, eyes weirdly shut as if caught in the middle of a blink.
"What the hell did you do?" Sam demands, wheeling on Castiel, who stands there, head cocked, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
"Stopped time," he says, and while Sam stares at him, he continues: "We need to talk, Sam."
"Look, I don't think the last time we talked worked out really well." Sam shakes his head, a weird half-guffaw struggling to escape his throat (that mouth, those hands) at the memory.
"No," says Castiel, "it didn't."
That's it, just the negative, and Sam looks everywhere but at the angel. The dirt road he's standing on seems particularly interesting today.
"I gave you punishment, like you asked, and you disobeyed," comes the angel's quiet voice. "I promised you retribution, and you didn't take it." Sam can feel his eyes on him; they make his skin prickle. "That isn't what you need."
"What is, then?" asks Sam, almost inaudibly. Castiel is wrong, and Sam knows it; Sam could spend a lifetime in hell and still not have paid for his sins against Dean.
"You need trust. You need faith, in something other than the evil you think you carry in your veins."
"And you're the one I should put it in?"
"Do you have any other candidates?"
Sam's eyes slide to Dean, like they always do. Castiel shakes his head slightly and says, "No. Dean has enough burdens to bear without the full brunt of yours."
"I don't know what you want me to say." What you want me to do, he means, and thinks about the last time he trusted something as alien as Castiel. He'd told Ruby the same thing, once, with the same bubble of fear and arousal in his stomach that he has now. This is my body, she'd said, with a wicked laugh as he pressed himself between the parting of her thighs. She'd sliced her arm open, and held it to his lips to drink. This is my blood.
"You should never have loved her," Castiel tells him, and his voice is so damn cold, so clinical, like he's merely stating a fact of life that has nothing to do with the precipice Sam's emotions are teetering on, like the knowledge of how badly Sam has screwed up isn't curdling his guts like acid in milk.
"Fuck you," Sam hisses, and turns away. "You know nothing about love, so fuck off."
Castiel ignites - there's no other word for it, the way the angel inside the vessel literally flares into being, like his human body's being lit from the inside by hot blue-white flame - and grabs Sam by the shoulder, spins him and slams him into the Impala, and the heat in his eyes hurts Sam's retinas, but he doesn't look away.
"I know everything of love," Castiel growls, in the voice Sam has only heard him use once, hoarsely and reverently in a foreign prayer. "I have loved my brothers and sisters as you cannot even comprehend, and I have felt the pain as they were ripped out of Creation, and I have worked in sorrow to mend the wounds their absence left behind. I have devoted myself to your brother, and to you, and to your cause, out of love for my Father and the creation he's abandoned, and by doing so broken my only connection to the Host - to those like me. Your sacrifices are nothing compared to what I have sacrificed over the past millennia. So do not speak of what you don't understand, Sam Winchester."
He takes up all the space left in the world; the righteous anger of his presence is overwhelming, an avalanche of power that torches Sam's blood and scalds his skin with a brilliant blaze like nothing Sam has experienced before, like the force of every orgasm he's ever had exploding along his neural pathways. Sam clings to him. He wishes the heat of Castiel's skin would burn him up, scorch the dirt and sin from his blood and soul and let him let go. He rocks against him; he's so needy, the heat is searing away his thoughts and regrets and inhibitions. Castiel's arms wrap around him, phantom wings swoop down and shield them from the world. It's so hot in here, so dry, the otherworldly glow of Castiel's skin has burned away the oxygen, and Sam is dizzy and gasping and he can see Castiel, not just the vessel, he can really see him, the skull beneath the skin, freakishly beautiful and it hurts Sam so badly, God it hurts, but he won't shut his eyes. Can't shut his eyes, like Pam couldn't pull back once she first got a glimpse of Castiel as he truly is. This is so much more than Hell, he thinks, his thoughts one melting whirl, this is so much more than any demon could ever be -
Castiel draws back, not physically but in some other realm; it's almost like he shrinks, pulling back into himself, shoving the edges inside his vessel until all that remains of the striking beauty he emanates is the fever in his skin and the steady blue flame of his eyes, God's glory in his irises.
"Do you see what I offer you?" he asks Sam, and Sam doesn't really answer, just wraps a hand around the back of Castiel's neck and holds on like it's the only anchor to the world he's got left.
"Do you trust me?" and Castiel's lips are on his cheek, breath whispering into his ear. Sam's skin is tingling, all the blood rushed to the surface, and he's flushed on his face and neck and chest and even though the rest of his body is sparking with the need to be touched, the throb of his cock tells him where the only touch that can offer true release needs to go, and he is willing to let Castiel satisfy that ache without any of the reservations he had with Ruby. Sam nods violently against Castiel's shoulder, twisting his body into the reach of those heated hands.
"Do you give yourself over, wholly and entirely, to the service of God and his angels?" Castiel's voice is urgent, Sam can hear it even through the haze of pleasure enveloping him, encouraged by the little jolts of power in Castiel's fingertips over his chest, his hips, the backs of his thighs, everywhere but where he needs them - Oh angel, he thinks, or maybe he says it, oh my angel. These aren't words he would say, not really, but he will now - just like how he'll say yes to Castiel's demand - because it's worth it to just believe in God again, just for a little while, just for a moment.
"Yes," Sam croaks, and "please, please," and Castiel's mouth is on his neck, and finally his hands are where Sam needs them to be, finally, and it really doesn't matter what he just agreed to or what will happened next because he's shuddering into oblivion, quietly, with only a whimper and a convulsion against Castiel's body, and he doesn't have to worry because Dean is safe and Castiel is whispering in his ear, "There is always hope for redemption, Sam. Always."
. . .
Castiel is a practiced liar.
There is always hope for redemption, Sam.
(And what does redemption mean, when there is no God to grant you clemency? What is the point of confession, and cleansing yourself of sin, if nothing awaits you but the void, the black abyss where the conflicted dead go?
Does he truly frame these questions out of concern for Dean or Sam, or out of a selfish desire to question the path he must follow?)
Castiel does not grit his teeth as he watches Sam, hand on Dean's shoulder, laughing like he hasn't in a year and a half, nor does he clench his hands into fists. His first attempt was successful, after all - already their bond is reconstructing, already are their souls lighter, Dean's free from the fret and worry about his little brother, Sam learning to let go of his guilt. It has been placed on Castiel's shoulders, and his task has only just begun.
His, now, both the Winchesters - although more properly, they belong to the Host. Sworn and sanctified, they now fight on the side of the light, even if drawn there through subterfuge and sex. It has made Castiel cold, deadened on the inside.
A whisper of a breath on his cheek; Hanael's presence. He has forgotten that she, too, has done what he has done, even if she utilized subtler methods.
"The hurt will stop eventually," she breathes, a voice heard not in his ear but in his mind. He wonders how she knows, if she ever really hurt like this. She never had to betray Dean like he has; she could still hide under her guise as a human. As Anna.
"Is what we're doing right?" he asks her, needing her to say yes, needing the assurance she and only she can give him.
Her hesitation is answer enough. He turns away, and pulls himself tighter into his human vessel. It's safe there. Warm. Her reply whispers on the wind, but he doesn't hear it, or chooses not to. He still has work to do. Sam's eyes catch on his, but he can't hold the gaze; all the little betrayals he's committed can't amount to what he's done to Sam. There is always hope for redemption. He had no right to say that, a scheming falsehood, no right to manipulate them like that. Neither brother could ever forgive him. Soon, only Dean will have the chance to do so.
(He cannot disobey. He is an angel. His duty is to Heaven; his only love is for God. This he knows.)
This is the emptiest he's ever felt.
(He also knows that repeating a statement doesn't make it fact.)
Castiel lies. It's what's necessary for the plan. He has to.
(His duty is to Heaven, but there is the crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the smell of pine in the air; the mosquito bites, the backaches, the existence of solid things. His only love is for God - but there is Dean Winchester, and there is Sam Winchester, but mostly, there is Dean.)
He hides it from his garrison, from Hanael, from himself, but there's an itch in the back of his mind that begs him to choose the truth.