A/N: Surprise post! As requested, here's my take on the prompt given by Blushing Cherry and seconded by many. Technically, it fits into the Six Dawns series after 'Measures of Reconciliation', but can be read as a standalone one-shot. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke
"Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation for the spirit is willing, but the body is weak." –Mark 14:38
"Listen, I just…uh- I just need to get some air."
Sharp blue eyes shadowed with weariness and softened with concern watched the hunter go, feet dragging against the fraternal instinct instilled in his very being ever since he ran out of a burning house twenty-seven years ago, hugging his baby brother to his chest and staring wide-eyed as his mother's screams stopped and his father's began. Dean's shoulders hunched up against Sam's agonized cries for Dean, Dean, Dean as he trudged stoically away from the panic room; fingers that once stroked through his little brother's dark curls now clenched tightly around the neck of a whiskey bottle, half of whose contents were already flowing through his bloodstream.
"Guys? Dean! Please, help! Cas!"
He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, leaning his weight against the door, head bowing as if attempting to make himself as small as possible – an entirely too human gesture – for angels of the Lord were stalwart soldiers, always standing ramrod straight at attention, the shoulders of their vessels squared, eyes directed straight ahead. Castiel's vessel was a slight man, possessing a slender frame corded with lean muscle but as of right now, he felt heavy, dense and laden down like the meat sitting in his vessel's stomach.
The animal flesh had been raw and bloody, even, disgusting viscosity that scraped past his teeth and slid down his esophagus, so hungry had his body been for the red meat that close to the end, he hadn't even been chewing before swallowing. With a twinge of shame, Castiel found himself believing that the sin of gluttony ranked up at the top alongside disobedience. He hadn't even been able to stop when his charge needed him; he'd only been able to give into the remnants of his vessel's gourmand ways, sinking to his knees before demon and Horseman alike, shoving another hunk of raw flesh into his mouth so as not to succumb to the gnawing emptiness inside his soul – for that was where his true yearning lay, buried and bound by sinew and bone, the longing for communion with his brothers and sisters in the presence of the Lord-
"What's your hunger?"
He was growing weak.
"Castiel?" A heavy but comfortingly solid hand pressed against his chest, another grip encircled his arm and waist, holding his form upright. "Hey, hey – whoa, whoa, whoa!" His vessel's limbs were refusing to cooperate; the bones supporting his skeletal framework seemed to have melted into something liquid and insubstantial. "We've got you," Sam Winchester's voice rumbled out very close to his ear and Castiel felt an odd surge of pride, of accomplishment because Anna had not succeeded in killing the young hunter.
"Cas?! You son of a bitch, you made it."
And here was Dean; strong, stubborn, resilient Dean whose hazel green eyes were wide with worry and the angel was suddenly struck with the irrational urge to placate the other's fears. No matter that he'd rebelled against Heaven; Castiel was still an angel of the Lord and a soldier for God's will. It had been his choice to turn renegade and he wanted to reassure his charge that he would continue to fight until his wings withered, until there was no more breath left to draw into his vessel's lungs, until every last spark of his grace was snuffed out-
Yes, such had been his choice to follow Dean and to protect the Creation his Father so loved and treasured, but Castiel was no fool. He'd stood the silent observer of the favored children of the Lord for over countless millennia, and although he could no longer peer intently into the souls of humanity, he knew that Dean was growing weary. Sam was now trapped behind an iron door, in a Hell of his own making. So much for "Team Free Will" (yes, he had heard that too; funny what one could sense while almost drained of one's grace).
Michael and Lucifer's respective vessels were strong, and yet they were still only human. Were they straining under the weight of the responsibility impressed upon them by reason of blood? Had they become like him, breaking slowly with each desperate, failed attempt to locate God, grace and hope and faith seeping through the cracks? His fingers curled in the black leather cord of the amulet in his pocket. He hadn't the resolution or heart to loop it back around his neck yet and the angel exhaled slowly, a tired sigh of frustration and waning resolve filling up the surrounding silence.
Silence? The angel's brow furrowed. He reached for the deadbolt, the pads of his vessel's fingers scraping against the roughness of salt-encrusted iron as concern overrode common sense and better judgment.
"They can hear you, you know. But they just don't care."
"Dean?! Cas? Guys, please!" His fist was sore, his knuckles torn from banging desperately against salt-encrusted iron walls; his voice was the hoarse croak of a dying man rasping for water, just one more drink of water. Except for the fact that Famine had decided to reawaken a thirst from deep within the core of his being, a thirst for something far darker, a thirst for something with which he thought he'd beaten. Exhausted, he sank to the floor, cheek pressed against the cool concrete. "Please…"
"Come on, Sam," She laughed, holding out an arm toward him enticingly. "I know you want it." The long slash along the inside of her arm leaked a steady trail of crimson, sliding down along the length of pale skin and falling plip plip plip to the ever-increasing puddle on concrete floor. "You know you want it." She waggled her fingers like a streetwalker seeking out her next client; blood flicked off in droplets here and there. "So come and get it."
"No," He ground out from in between gritted teeth. His nails were biting ridges of crescent-shaped indentions into his palms as he hugged his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth slowly in a morbid rhythm to the thrum of demon blood pounding through his system. "You're dead. You aren't even real." She wasn't real, and she wasn't here. He knew that. He'd seen her corpse, seen the blood pooling around…seen the blood – oh, God. Pressing his forehead to his kneecaps, he breathed in slowly through his nose, exhaling with forced calm before another round of tremors wracked his frame.
"Like that's ever stopped us before?" The demon asked slyly, coyly dragging a hand along the broad width of his shoulders and down the length of his back, leaving behind trails of crimson slickness. "You didn't seem to mind screwing a dead girl back when I was still around and kicking. "Now I'm just two different kinds of dead. What does it matter?" Ruby smiled, a wide stretching of the lips more reminiscent of a Chelsea grin a la the Black Dahlia then sweet reassurance. "Come on, Sammy. Don't you remember how much fun we used to have together?" Insubstantial fingers that were oh so cold and yet warmed by blood raked through his hair; a droplet of blood slid slowly down his forehead. "Don't you remember how strong you used to be?"
Sam jerked away from her touch, disgusted that he could have ever sought comfort and solace in the other's embrace or blood, crawling on his hands and knees away from the apparition that he knew to be merely a hallucination of his mind, although that didn't stop it from being any less real here and now. "Y-you get away from me Ruby," he sputtered, trying to focus his eyes on anything but the blood that seeped from every orifice of the other's form, vision spinning blurrily as he tried to resist the urge to scramble over and drink her dry. "Dean!" His brother must be out of earshot. "Cas!" The angel would make short work of her, Sam knew Castiel would. "Please!"
Ruby raised an eyebrow at the ringing silence that followed the younger Winchester's piteous cries, turning her head this way and that mockingly. "Well, so much for that," she scoffed, in a manner so much like Ruby that Sam shuddered, burrowing his face in the crook of his arm. She'll go away. There're just hallucinations; they're not real. She's not real. Just breathe, man. Breathe. His tongue felt three sizes too big for his mouth and he swallowed thickly, trying to quell the sudden feeling of nausea and the bile rising up in the back of his throat. "No one's coming for you, Sam." Her breath was cold upon his ear. "No one at all."
As if on cue, the door to the panic room slowly swung open inwards, revealing a tan trench coat, sharp blue gaze, and ever-serious expression; Sam's hands dropped away from his face and he nearly cried with sheer joy and relief. "Cas?" He chanced a quick glance around the interior of the panic room and it seemed as if Ruby – or the hallucination of the dead demon, rather – had vanished and the younger Winchester straightened, surprised to find that he no longer felt like he had a hangover on top of a migraine on top of multiple stomach ulcers on top of feeling like utter shit. "Is it over?" he choked out, real tears closing up his throat now. "Am I – am I clean?"
It had seemed quicker this time, but Sam sure as hell wasn't complaining because Castiel was actually granting him a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth and with the angel, that equated a full-fledged grin of congratulations from any other normal human being. "Yes," Castiel affirmed quietly. He stepped aside, clearing the doorway and inclining his head ever so slightly at the space outside. "Do not call anything impure that God has made clean."
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Sam frowned, straining his ears because he thought he'd heard something…regular and strong, like a… Never mind. He chalked it up to just having gotten clean again, and the general weirdness of having Castiel around because seriously? Angel of the Lord, and not even a membership to Team Free Will or rubbing shoulders with the rest of humanity had gotten entirely rid of the certain alien-like quality Cas seemed to exude at all hours of whenever he decided to pop in to deliver another harrowing tragedy of the Apocalypse-
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. His footsteps faltered and Sam glanced around uncertainly, with the shifting eyes of a cornered animal, or a hunter seeking out the closest escape route. What the hell? "Uh…Cas?" He started uneasily when he saw nothing, turning back to the angel, "do you hear something?"
Castiel's brow furrowed and his lips pulled downwards in the same why are you so confusing, you difficult human fashion as he too turned slightly, tilting his head to one side in a manner very reminiscent of an inquisitive cocker spaniel – and it was then that Sam saw it, heard it, and felt the insane hunger flaring to life with a vengeance so strong that his knees buckled. Oh, no.
"Oh yes," Ruby purred in his ear, a smile curving her lips as Sam stared at the pulse thrumming steadily in Castiel's neck, fingers itching to tear open the skin and through the meatsuit's jugular vein, to taste the sweet and slightly tangy and copper of the blood seeping through his teeth and down his throat- "Moving on up the food chain, huh Sammy? I like it."
"Cas-" He bit out sharply, breath catching in his chest and feeling his face and neck flush an unhealthy red, "Cas, you have to get out of here." His feet were dragging themselves forward despite his best attempts to root his heels into the floor and his fingers were bending at the joints, stiffening and then clenching inwards in desperation because Sam didn't know where this craving for the blood of something pure, something holy was coming from, but he wouldn't – he wouldn't indulge it. Or he would try his damnedest not to. "Cas, please, GO!"
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"Sam," Castiel said simply, eyes widening in realization as he took a step backward and brought up a hand in a gesture that was all too human, as if on instinct in an abortive attempt to hold the younger Winchester back. All Sam could hear was the dull thump-thump of the blood pumping stronger and stronger, faster and faster because even thought angels of the Lord felt no fear, the sympathetic nervous systems of their meatsuits still kicked into overdrive and that meant an increased force and rate of contraction of the heart, oxygenated blood flowing to the body through arteries and deoxygenated blood being forced into the four chambers: atrium, ventricle, right, left, thumpthumpthumpthump-
He sprang like a wild animal, literally pouncing upon the other and forcing Castiel's vessel's slighter frame to the floor with both his height and weight advantage and his momentum. There was no right or wrong here, there was no angel of the Lord or vessel of the Devil, there was no good or evil or what should or should not happen as Sam sent a fist flying into Castiel's chin, forcing the angel's head back in a solid crack against the concrete. His back ached like a panther and reason didn't exist anymore, there was only the rabid need for the iron of blood on his tongue burning and craving torturous paths through him.
His teeth were sharper than any knives, rending and tearing through the parchment-thin skin at his victim's throat and he lowered his head to drink, aware of what felt like weak resistance in the form of a hand trying feebly to push him away and with a low growl, he grabbed the limb and twisted sharply until the joint popped out of its socket. That nuisance now dismissed, he reached out and ripped at the flesh with his fingers, rocking backwards to cup the blood to his mouth and just so happening to drop his gaze to-
"Oh my God."
Castiel's throat was torn completely open and his eyes were dulling as he gurgled and gasped for air; dark crimson pooled out around his head in a morbid parody of a halo and bubbled out of the corner of his mouth, flowing down his chin. Terror and disbelief were written in the pained lines of his face, and betrayal so finely and exquisitely carved into the features that used to be schooled into an omnipotent poker face of unfeeling stoniness – it hurt to see so much emotion, damn it.
"Cas? Oh God, Cas." Sam choked, weaving his hands into his hair and gripping them tightly until his scalp burned because he couldn't believe what had just come over him, what had possessed him to do this. His blood-drenched hands matted his hair to his skull and he bent double over his knees, pressed his forehead to his kneecaps, and howled. "NO!!"
The tops of the cheap men's dress shoes were worn, rubbed down to a dull shine from having trudged through the dusty back roads of ghost towns in the Midwestern United States and wading through the shallow banks of the Yellow River; the thin soles were ones that had scuffed across the frozen tundra of Siberia, and now they moved in measured, quiet steps over sigils and symbols burned into a concrete floor with smooth grace, brining their wearer closer to the other individual in the room. The huddled mass of a man curled in upon himself gave a low, faint, shuddering moan at the newcomer's presence and the steps halted.
Castiel gazed downwards at the younger Winchester, slowly lowering himself into a crouch and reaching out with one hand to brush away the matted mass of hair plastered to Sam's face by the salt and moisture of sweat and tears. Halfway there, he retracted his hand. The hunter's eyes were halfway rolled back into his skull, his brow was contorted in lines of terrible pain and his muscles twitched under the onslaught of the demon blood seeping slowly out of his system; blood and saliva trickled down his chin from where he'd bitten his tongue in a convulsive fit and the front of his jeans were soaked in a result of his bladder letting go.
It was a picture of indignity, of weakness, of the primitive squalor of a so-called mudmonkeys who reveled in their own filth. Surely this was what Zachariah and Uriel saw when they cast their multitudes of eyes upon humanity and as an angel of the Lord, the image should have repulsed him, too. Furthermore, this man in particular was a monster, a blasphemy in the eyes of Heaven perhaps even more so than those of the Host who had fallen; he was Lucifer's true vessel and had willingly consumed the life force of evil, had craved and tasted and drunk of the blood of the damned. And thus says the Lord: This is a lasting ordinance for the generations to come: you must not eat the blood of any creature. If anyone eats blood, I will set my face against him and that person must be cut off from his people.
Heaven had decreed that Sam Winchester was an abomination, and he deserved even more than what he was suffering through now.
Yet, as he stooped there, having already fallen so far, Castiel felt his borrowed heart give a strange sort of twinge in his chest. The heaviness he felt magnified tenfold, dragging his hand downward to the earth with lead weights until his fingers came to rest atop the crown of the younger Winchester's head. "Sam." The dark shadows encircling the hunter's mind bristled viciously, unwilling to relinquish the grip on their captive and Castiel surprised himself with the ferocity with which his grace flared.
You are not taking Sam Winchester. The voice of an angel shot through the hollow chamber of the panic room, reverberating off the walls and ricocheting off of the molecules in the air, sound waves crashing in upon each other and inaudible to any living creature of flesh and blood. This time though, there was no command of Heaven or order from above behind his voice to grant authority, only righteous fury for the sake of a lowly human who lay in a supine, crumpled heap on the floor. I won't let you.
Lucifer had heard these very words once, and yet the darkness was not deterred and from Sam's throat came a reply in the sibilant, oily hiss of a serpent. Why do you defend him? He's not of your kind. He is my master's vessel.
Castiel glowered, if the sudden darkness of his features could even be called that and his other arm encircled Sam's heavy frame in vain protection against the raging fire flowing sluggishly through the other's bloodstream, drawing upon his grace to allow his eyes to pierce past the flesh and into the soul, where the tightly coiled adversaries lay in waiting, seeking the most opportune moment to strike. Release him. From somewhere not of the visible plane and out of realm of humanity's imagination, there arose the sound of wings molded of holy fire and light arching and unfurling threateningly.
He's a sinner! The many voices of the servants of the Abyss screeched aloud in one long, drawn out cry and the legions cowered away from the might of a soldier of the Lord, spitting and shrieking. He's hollow. Fangs bared in a snarl of animalistic delight and Sam's back arched upwards in a convulsive spasm, mouth falling open in a strangled, choked off scream. He's filled with nothing but us now.
Sam Winchester my friend. Neither Hell nor Lucifer will have him. It was more frightening than a threat because it sounded dangerously like a promise – and the servants of righteousness were bound to their word. Most of the time, anyway.
Then cast us out, angel. It was shot back smugly, knowingly. If you can…
Sam's muscles were tensing, tendons and ligaments snapping tight, his spine curving like the bend of a bow and Castiel's jaw tightened; he knew what was about to happen. The angel stretched out his grace as thin as possible, unfurled his wings, and tightened his grip on the human he held in his arms as, in the next instant, Sam's remaining vestiges of self-control broke. His limbs jerked out and flailed, swinging wildly as he fought and struggled against an unseen entity and the victorious ululations of the demons within sprang from his mouth amongst the blood and spittle. The six foot four, two hundred plus pound grown man howled in pain like a child crying for his mother long dead and gone, shaking uncontrollably and bucking against the light surrounding him like a shelter, a fortress; a refuge of blue eyes, tan trench coat, and enormous sable wings outstretched twenty-five feet on either side, keeping vigil and murmuring prayers in tongues long dead and faded from both memory and existence.
"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo…"
Sam's eyes moved rapidly under their lids and then cracked open ever so slightly, bloodshot eyes squinting up to see a halo of pure light expanding outwards from the impossibly bright center; Castiel's face was cast in bronze and glinting diamond, gold melded together with burnished steel and the suffering younger Winchester croaked hoarsely, trying to turn his head away from the remarkable sight because there was no way someone as imperfect and tainted as him could look upon a creature of holiness who, diminished as he was, still literally shone. Twin shafts of blue iridescence turned downward toward him and the brilliant energy pulsed even stronger as a hand (or what could have passed for a hand, it was kind of hard to tell when lying nearly immobile in a heap of your own urine, sweat, and shame) passed over his brow. Sam wanted to cry then, because he couldn't remember ever feeling this type of mercy before, not even when Jess used to stroke his hair on lazy Sunday afternoons on the sofa, not even when Dean took care of him as a kid – and he was sure he would've started bawling if he wasn't already doing so.
This, this was forgiveness, kindness, and compassion divine from an angel of the Lord and as his muscles unclenched, his mind cleared, and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, Sam inadvertently clutched the ever-constant thick material of the tan trench coat embracing him and prayed.
"…Amen."
He awoke to the warmth of sunlight across his cheek, the feel of a soft mattress under him cushioning his aching muscles, and the smell of pancakes and bacon wafting in through the doorway. Lifting his head from the balled up jacket that served as a poor substitute for a pillow under normal circumstances (like detoxing from demon blood could be considered normal in any way, shape, or form) he carefully swept his legs off the side of Bobby's old couch and let his elbows rest on his knees, hands dangling wearily. Carefully, he inhaled a lungful of air musty with a combination of the smell of ancient books, faded liquor, and breakfast – without a single pang of hunger, without any craving for blood, without the slightest hint of evil stirring in the pit of his stomach. Thank god.
"Mornin' Sleeping Beauty."
Dean's lean against the doorjamb was casual and his tone jovial enough, but his eyes were bloodshot and the three-day scruff on his face made the older Winchester look just about the same as the younger felt, but the smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes and lit the mischievous fire in those hazel green orbs Sam recognized so well was one of genuine relief and elation. "How we doin', Sammy?"
Sam sucked in a lungful of air, braced his hands on his kneecaps, and cracked a reassuring grin. "Good." Standing slowly, his eyes flickered toward the kitchen and caught a glimpse of a dark tan trench coat and the grin grew. "We're good."
There might have been all sorts of nasty creatures going bump in the night and hell-bent on torching the entire world just to watch it burn as well as the demons (or angels) clawing up the insides of each of their minds and souls – but here for just one small instant, there was no evil to be mentioned, none to be found as the angel and two burdened hunters gathered together; no damnation or decision – only faith and friendship.
A/N: Blushing, I hope this did your prompt justice! I know, it got a little sappy there at the end, but it was badly needed for all three boys after "My Bloody Valentine." Scripture used included Acts 10:15, Leviticus 7:26-28, and obviously the Lord's Prayer.
Thanks for reading and please drop a review! I'm open to any other prompts as well!