Sam tried to block everything out – the sounds of whistles and bells, a thousand footsteps all at once, overlapping conversations cheerful and sorrowful alike. He tried to shut it all off, like the girls in the trashy romance war novels he read in secret because Cas didn't like that he read them. But while the soldier held tight in his arms was his main focus, he couldn't bring himself to just forget that everything else was there. It was too real, as if he had hoped this entire time that the whole thing would turn out to be an elaborate joke, and now that he was here, it was a giant slap in the face from reality.
Another whistle blew, much closer to them than the others, and Sam clutched Cas tighter. Despite how terrible he felt then – how his heart had been hollowed out and replaced with fear and premature grief – he didn't want it to end, knowing that he would only feel worse when he got home. The apartment would feel too spacious. The bed would be cold and empty. The news would always be on, whether on the television at home or the radio at work. His free time would consist of writing letters obsessively and checking the mail every few hours, even on Sundays.
But the last thing Sam wanted to think about was what he would do and how he would feel when right now, he was already forcing back tears and breathing as much of Cas's scent as possible.
"Cas," he began weakly, his voice strained with sadness.
"Don't," Cas interrupted, and it damn near sounded like a plea. "Please, let's not."
Of course. This wasn't the first time Cas had left, but it would be the for the longest period of time, and to an area much more dangerous than previous deployments. Sam couldn't imagine that saying goodbye could get any more difficult, but apparently, with something more than a handful of weeks or a few months hanging over their heads, it was impossible to treat this like previous times.
After an indeterminable amount of time – no matter how long it was, it wasn't long enough – the call came for train eighty-one to Chicago, and Sam couldn't help the tears that slipped down his cheeks. When they pulled away, still holding each other at arm's length, he saw that Cas was still struggling to hold his tears back, finally failing when he saw the distress written plainly on Sam's face.
"Sam," he choked out. "I have to go."
"I know. Just . . . " He pressed their lips together desperately, clinging to the sliver of comfort it provided. Cas's lips were as soft and warm as before; that hadn't changed. "Please, Cas, just come back to me in one piece."
Cas sighed shakily. They had never discussed the possibility that he might not come back. Not aloud, anyway. Then again, he had never been sent to the heart of the battle before. "I promise."
The warning whistle for Cas's train blew, and Sam stole one more kiss before taking a step back, lest he be tempted to cling to Cas and never let go.
"I'll be praying for you," he promised.
"Of course," he smiled sadly, slowly backing away and slinging his bags over his shoulder. "And I for you. I'll write first. And Sam?" He stopped for a moment to be sure he had Sam's attention, as if he could bring himself to focus on anything else in that moment. "I'll see you soon." Then he turned and sped to the train, joining his fellow soldiers to war before Sam could even conjure up a proper response.
He stood on the edge of the platform and waved as the train passed, even though he was almost certain Cas wouldn't be able to see him. He waved until he couldn't see the train any more. Then he returned to his overly spacious apartment with his cold and empty bed.
Sam didn't get out of bed the next day. It was Sunday, which meant he had work the next morning, but that was fine. He normally needed something to do to keep his mind off things. His job, volunteering, painting, whatever.
But not today. Today was his designated day to just lay in bed and be sad. He hadn't slept on Cas's side of the bed, no matter how much he wanted to, because he knew that eventually, his scent would fade from the sheets, and Sam wanted to prevent that for as long as he could. But he did take the toy soldier from Cas's bedside table and play with it for a good portion of the day.
The toy used to be his as a child, a gift to Cas for their first anniversary. In exchange, Cas had given him an old stuffed bear with a white gown and golden angel wings, affectionately named Calfreisen. The exchange of possessions with high sentimental value was supposed to be a symbol of trust and of something meant to last. Now it just seemed like irony that Sam had just so happened to give him a little green army man, the only one salvaged from the ashtray of his brother's car. Sam tried not to think about what the angel bear symbolised.
Cas had been deployed to the same camp as many of his brothers and sisters. It probably wasn't intentional, but more due to the fact that war ran in the Novak family's blood. They were all born-and-raised fighters, but Cas . . . well, to be perfectly honest, so was Cas, but while he was perfect for the theory of war, he was far too empathetic for the practice of it. Sam just prayed that his siblings would watch over him.
Sam did a lot of that too: Praying. He prayed on-and-off for most of the day, having to stop and think of something positive when he dissolved into tears.
Then the sun went down, and Sam fell asleep ridiculously early, but fitfully. He woke up before the sun rose.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Despite his tone, Sam knew that Dean was not angry, but concerned.
"It's Monday," Sam said simply, avoiding eye contact and making a beeline for his office at the back of the auto shop. Dean followed him anyway, shutting the door behind him gently as Sam started up his dinosaur of a desktop.
"Yeah, it is," Dean replied in a much softer tone. "And Cas left Saturday evening. So I repeat: What the hell are you doing here?"
"Dean," Sam tried weakly.
"No, Sam, listen to me. You look like shit. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. How much sleep did you get last night?"
"I stayed in bed all day," Sam muttered, slightly ashamed at the admission.
"That's not what I asked."
"No, but that's the answer you're getting."
"Sam." Dean reached over and turned the screen off. "Go home. Get some rest. Do you're artsy thing, I don't care. Just . . . take it easy for a while. Okay?"
"No. Not okay. Dean," Sam sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, finally working up the courage to look Dean in the eyes and not at all ashamed of the raw despair and desperation he knew was on his face. "I spent all day yesterday taking it easy. Today, I just need to work. Take my mind off it. Okay?"
Dean sighed but nodded slowly, as if it were physically painful for him to be agreeing. "Yeah. That's fine. But you're taking the eighth off, whether you want to or not. I will change the locks on your office."
Sam wanted nothing more than to argue but kept his mouth shut, knowing it would be a lost battle from the start.
"You want a distraction?" Dean continued, his entire demeanour changing in an instant. "We just got three classics in from a collector for remodelling. They've got a lot of potential, but," he whistled lowly, "They're gonna need a lot of work to just get them up and running again."
"You get a down from him?" Sam asked, already grabbing a pen and his clipboard.
"Told 'im we'd do a diagnosis first. I don't think he'll have any problems paying for it, but I figured we should see what exactly needs to be done."
Sam stood and followed Dean out to look at the cars. When he was younger, he had hated the idea of going into mechanics like the rest of his family, but now that he was working the books rather than with the actual cars, he could honestly say it was a work he enjoyed. It definitely kept him busy enough.
Sam got Cas's first letter just over a week after that, which was a lot sooner than he had expected. He tried not to appear too excited as he ripped it open.
Dear Sam,
As promised, I am writing first because I thought you might like to know that I arrived safely to camp. Only Balthazar and Uriel are in my camp, although most of my other brothers are in adjacent camps in the same location. Anna was recently removed from direct combat, and although I am happy that she has been removed from the worst of the danger, I am also slightly upset that I did not get to see her. I know she is probably unhappy with the new arrangements as well, but more due to her love of battle than any desire to see me. You will remember she is the one who protested passionately against us moving in together.
Gabriel is not here, which is strange. No one knows where he is, either, and there are already some people grumbling about abandonment. I would not put it past him, as Gabriel has never been fond of war, especially since his closest brother crossed sides, but I hope more than anything that it isn't true. The price for abandonment is high, but it is even higher should one of my siblings find him before authorities do.
We are allowed a few personal items, as always, but I did not pack any with me. So when we were waiting for our flight out of the country, I found time to pick up a package of army soldiers (although I only really needed one, so I gave the rest of the package to a small child, with his mother's permission, of course) and one of those war romances you're always reading. It is called Dear John, by Nicholas Sparks (that is the author, right? You confided in me once the name of a cliché romance author that you were embarrassed to enjoy reading). You know I don't approve of those books, as they put ideas in your head, but I thought I could read this one, and it will remind me of you. And maybe provide a good laugh as well. The army man should be self-explanatory, although I would never even consider jeopardising the one you gave me.
I eagerly await your response, although it may take some time to reach me, as I am stationed somewhere that is much farther behind in technology than I am normally accustomed to.
I love you,
Castiel
Sam couldn't stop smiling, feeling like a preteen with a crush, passing love notes in class. He wanted nothing more than to sit down and write Cas a reply, but it was Wednesday, and he had a job to do, so he just folded the letter up and slid it into his back pocket with a huge grin plastered onto his face.
"Have you heard from Cas yet?"
It was a silly question, considering how much Sam's spirits had lifted compared to Sunday, but Sam felt the need to object anyway. "You do realise he's stationed overseas, right? It's going to take a while for any of his letters to get here."
"Oh, whatever!" Amy shoved at him playfully. Out of habit, Sam's eyes swept around the room, making sure that none of the children in their Wednesday class saw the gesture. Thankfully, they were all preoccupied.
"You've been smiling like an idiot since you got here. You cannot tell me that you haven't heard from him."
"Okay, fine, I have. I got his letter just before I left."
"Then what are you doing here!" she whispered theatrically so as to not disturb the children watching television just past the door. "You should be writing him back!"
"It's fine, Amy, I can do that when I get back. I couldn't just leave you hanging."
Amy gave him a look that plainly declared him an idiot. "They're watching a freaking cartoon, Sam. Half of them are asleep and the other half are braiding each other's hair. I think I can handle it."
"Yeah, okay," Sam shot back playfully. "Say the girl who couldn't even help them make felt ichthys for the Chrismon tree."
Amy shook her hair, which had grown quite a bit since she had been forced to chop it short due to a wad of glue that had gotten stuck there. "Don't even try to tell me I can't pull off a bob."
Sam just laughed. He stayed for the duration of the Wednesday program anyway, despite Amy's insistence.
My Angel,
I got your letter a lot faster than I thought I would. If the postal system develops this trend, I think I'll be able to handle the time you're away a lot better.
I'm glad you arrived safely (obviously), and I'm happy that you have family nearby, especially family you get along with (you do get along with Balthazar, right? I remember you saying that Uriel was one of the youngest and most rebellious, but all I remember you saying about Balthazar was that he's an "interesting character." In any case, I'm glad you're among familiar company.) As for Gabriel, I haven't heard from him either, which is strange because you know how he loves to embarrass me. On the one hand, I'm also worried about his disappearance, but on the other, we both know how Gabriel can be. Maybe he just missed his train. I'm sure it will sort itself out soon.
Meanwhile, your little green army man remains on his place of honour atop the snooze button of your alarm clock, and Calfreisen has migrated from the bedside table to your half of the bed. It's strange trying to sleep without another person in the room, and while Calfreisen isn't any kind of replacement for Castiel, he certainly helps when I can't sleep at night.
Everyone is trying to go easy on me since you left, which used to be annoying, but now that I know you're safe, I just find kind of funny. Both Dean and Benny tried to send me home last week, and today Amy almost convinced me to skip church so I could write you back. I know you have a tendency to worry about me, so I just want you to know that I'm in good company, as always. Dean and Benny both are making me take November 8 off work, which would be frustrating if I didn't have so much to do. They're keeping me busy, which is a blessing in and of itself, and the church commissioned me to make a series of advent paintings, so I'll have my hands full for a while at least.
I've been praying for you every day, like I promised, and I'll admit I've been a little selfish in asking for your safe and speedy return. I just miss you so much.
I love you,
Sam
Oh, and P.S. – It isn't Nicolas Sparks, it's John Green, who doesn't write war stories as far as I know. But you were right in saying his stories are a guilty pleasure of mine. I've never read Dear John, but I've seen the film, which I wasn't overly fond of. I've heard the book was better. You should let me know what you think of it.
Sam had loved to paint in college. Jess had initially gotten him into it, showing him the different techniques and noticing that he had a lot of natural potential for oil painting. She was the one who took him to his first art show and the reason his piece won the sweepstake for the painting category at the Douglas County fair.
After the fire he had stopped for a while, as the mere thought of painting brought back painful memories. It wasn't until Cas (before they started dating) suggested that painting might be a therapeutic – and symbolic – way of overcoming his grief that he picked it up again and hadn't stopped since. There was an entire room in their apartment dedicated to Sam's art, and even the walls had suffered from his technique.
He was painting a series of five pieces that corresponded with the themes of each advent candle. The first one was the purple Hope candle, so Sam painted the entire canvas with a neutral purple and gradually took away pain where needed.
Cas was right when he said that it was therapeutic. Painting had helped him come to terms with almost every obstacle in his life since the second fire, and it was certainly working now.
Dear Sam,
I hope this gets to you before the 8th. If it doesn't, I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I happen to have some free time on that day between 16:00 and 20:00, so if you would like, Balthazar has graciously offered the use of his phone during that time. I have missed the sound of your voice since the moment I stepped onto the train.
I do so hope you send pictures of your paintings in future letters. I'm so happy that you're still painting, as it is not only one of your favourite hobbies, but also a way to let out your emotions. You probably think I don't know how you make a habit of suppressing your emotions when I am not around, but I know you too well to think otherwise.
I heard a rumour that the camps in this area sometimes get sent poinsettias for the Christmas season. Odd that it's been going around, considering it's not even November yet, but the thought still makes me smile.
Still no news about Gabriel, although his disappearance is now being treated as an abandonment, and there is an investigation in progress. I do not doubt that Gabriel would not wish to fight, but I cannot believe that he would enlist with the sole intention of being AWOL from the start.
As for the others, they are all well, although I've heard that Lucifer is trying to gain Michael's sympathies. I don't know if I ever mentioned that Michael is not taking an active part in this war, but rather is working behind the scenes, pulling strings. I fear for both of them, for I'm sure judgement will be cast before either of them get the chance to explain why contact was made in the first place.
One of the children in the area traded me a full Kodiak camera and an extra two packs of film in exchange for an MRE and a bottle of water. Apparently, he had found the camera and the film in an abandoned shop, the previous owners of which had been gunned down some months prior. He wanted the meal to take home to his sister, who is very ill. I wish I could have given him more, but I had no medicine with me at the time. He was happy for what I gave him anyway. He reminded me of the children you watch over in your Wednesday night class. I guess childhood is a universal thing. In any case, I now am in possession of a camera and will undoubtedly be sending pictures.
I am always praying for you, and I am glad to hear that you are praying for me too. When times are especially difficult here, my belief is sometimes shaken, but you have such strong and amazing faith, Sam, that I am reassured.
I love you,
Castiel
"It's time to start planting the poinsettias," Benny reminded him in that drawl that could make anything sound endearing. Even poinsettias. "You remember how to do it?"
"Of course," Sam confirmed confidently. "But I have to say, it's barely November. I know flowers take time to bloom, but two months?"
Benny smiled a little sadly. "Yeah, well, it's a little colder this year than usual. Means it'll take some time for the little guys to bloom, and we gotta put in a little more TLC, make sure they don't get root rot. But, we'll worry about that when we get to it."
With that, Benny left him to it. Sam had taken to helping out at Benny's flower shop when he had free time. At first, it had been at Dean's suggestion, at a time when Sam did not approve of Benny in the least and he was already high strung from Cas's first deployment. He wasn't dealing with anything well, so Dean had suggested (read: Forced) he work at the shop, not only to keep his mind off Cas but also in order to get to know Benny better. It had worked, to say the least. While they weren't best friends or anything, they got along just fine and had a sort of respectful acquaintanceship. They still made little jabs at each other sometimes. Such as now. Benny knew Sam hated poinsettias.
Still, he wasn't willing to let the plants suffer just because he wasn't fond of them. So he planted the flowers and set them up along the perimeter of the greenhouse (not too close, though, lest the plants touch the cool glass when they grow). It was a simple task, but it took most of his afternoon to complete, considering how many pots he had to fill.
"Sam?"
He jumped at the sound of his name, spilling the soil he had been pouring.
"Shit," he muttered scooping up what was spilled with cupped hands and depositing it into the pots. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come up."
"It's fine. I shouldn't've startled you."
"Well, what's up? I'm just about finished here, so."
"Things're pretty slow today. I was thinking you should go home a little early. I can finish up."
Sam looked up in confusion. There was an unreadable expression on Benny's face just behind his kind smile, but he could think of no reason why Benny would want him gone. But he really didn't want an argument about it.
"I mean . . . if you really don't need me . . . "
"Like I said, it's slow today." Was that relief in his voice? "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Uh, yeah," Sam agreed as he stood, his knees and spine cracking from being on his knees all afternoon.
"Have a good one," Benny called as Sam left.
"Yeah. You too."
Hours later, Sam still had no idea why Benny had been acting so strangely. Until Dean appeared at his door as he was heating up dinner.
He was shifty and refused to make eye contact, obviously a bit less accustomed to awkward situations than Benny.
"Uh, hey, Sammy."
Sam raised an eyebrow in question but otherwise didn't let on to his curiosity. "Hey, Dean. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
There was no doubt in his mind that Dean picked up on the sarcasm, but he said nothing about it. "I just thought I'd drop by to see how you're doing. Make sure you're okay. You know, like usual."
It was true that Dean was often overly protective of him and made a habit of worrying too much, but something felt off this time. In the past, Dean had always called to check up on him, never dropped by unannounced. Not that Sam minded, it was just –
The realisation hit him hard, and the bottom of his stomach fell out at the realisation that he had forgotten what day it was. How could he have forgotten?
"Shit," he muttered, covering his face with his hands, more to avoid looking at his brother than anything. "Shit, Dean, I completely forgot."
"Hey, hey, it's okay – "
"No, it's not! How the hell could I forget?"
As soon as Sam let his hands fall back to his sides, he was being wrapped in Dean's arms, having his hair pet as if he were three again. Sam just let it happen, burying his face in Dean's neck and trembling with shock.
"God, Dean, I'm so sorry. I'm such a terrible person."
"No, you're not. C'mon, I don't blame you in the least. You don't need to beat yourself up every year. And anyway, you've been going through a lot recently."
"That's no excuse."
"You don't need an excuse. Look, I'm sorry I brought it up." Dean pulled back just enough to look Sam in the eyes and offer him a reassuring smile. "Hey, you're doing those Christmas paintings, right? Why don't you show me?"
Sam smiled back weakly. "Or, you could come to church with me."
"Now's not the time for jokes, Sammy. C'mon, lemme see 'em."
Maybe it was a bit weak, but Sam was thankful for the distraction. He showed Dean the first of the five paintings, the only one he had finished thus far. It was supposed to represent hope: The silhouette of a soldier with angel wings and a halo, entirely in shades of purple and blue. It was very obviously supposed to be Cas, but Dean didn't point it out, for which he was grateful.
The eighth was that Friday. He actually tried to show up to work for both Dean and Benny, but they had conspired against him for the purpose of keeping him at home: Dean had changed the locks to his office (which actually had needed to be done for a while) and, as Sam didn't actually possess a key to the greenhouses, all Benny had to do was lock the door. He thought about helping Amy out with the church's monthly meet-and-greet, but when Sam texted her asking if she needed help, all he got in reply was "Dammit, Sam, go home." Apparently, all his friends had communicated on this point.
It was a little frustrating, considering there was only so much painting he could get done in one sitting, and there wasn't anything else to do. It may have been his anniversary, but considering Cas wasn't there, there was no point in dressing up or going out, or even making anything more complicated than a Hot Pocket for dinner. Although, he considered cracking open a bottle of wine for the occasion.
Mostly, he spent the day trying to occupy himself and failing. When five o'clock finally rolled around, he was so on-edge that he couldn't sit still for more than a minute or two before he was pacing in front of the phone again.
Five came and went.
Then six.
When the clock struck seven, Sam was beginning to lose hope, as Cas said he only had until eight to talk. Finally, the phone rang at a quarter past seven, and he only considered letting it ring a while (so he didn't seem too eager) for a split second before he was answering.
"Cas!" he exclaimed, not even trying to mask his excitement. "Happy anni – "
"Okay, no, not Cas," said the person on the other line, who in fact sounded nothing like Castiel. "Is this Sam?"
Sam's heart sank. He had read enough to know what happens when a family member with a soldier abroad gets a phone call from a stranger. God, just the thought made him nauseous. "Y-yes, this is. Who – who – ?"
"Relax, kid, Cas is fine. This is Balthazar." Sam exhaled in relief and immediately felt light-headed. "Look, I'm sorry to say that Cas can't make it to the phone. Some CX went off on the lines earlier, and Cas got hit."
Sam had no idea what CX was, but his best guess was that it had to do with chemical warfare. Immediately, his mind was filled with past Google image search results for mustard gas and pulmonary agents, and he found it difficult to breath.
"Hey, kid!" Balthazar snapped. "Are you listening to me? I just said he was fine! Calm down, for Christ's sake." Sam took a few deep breaths. It didn't help much. "Now, he's got some pretty bad blisters and a sore throat, has a little bit of trouble breathing right now. Y'know, his sinuses are swollen to hell. But he's perfectly fine, no lasting damage. He'll be sitting on the side lines for a while, but he'll be back on his feet in no time."
"Can I talk to him?"
Balthazar hissed, and although Sam had never met him personally, he could imagine his expression as he tried to let him down gently. "I dunno. Phones aren't generally allowed in the medical tents."
"Please? I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I need to know that he's okay. Not that I don't trust you, just – "
"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's your anniversary, yeah? He wouldn't shut up about it all day. I'll see what I can do, but don't get your hopes up."
Sam tried not to, really, but it was so difficult knowing that Cas was so close to a phone. It had felt like ages since he had heard his voice, and he wanted nothing more in the entire world to hear it again.
A moment later, Balthazar returned. "So, he's not actually supposed to be speaking right now, because of his throat. But you've got maybe thirty seconds before the nurses come back. Make it quick."
As the phone was being passed, Sam heard the faintest sound of gunshots in the distance. He tried not to think about the environment that Cas was in right now.
"Sa-am?" Oh God. He sounded like shit, worse than when he had bronchitis and it hurt him to even swallow.
"Cas!" Sam exclaimed. "Oh God, I'm so glad you're alright. You are alright, yes?"
"Yes, Sam," Cas rasped. "I'm fine, I promise. I'm sorry. I was supposed to call you – "
"Don't you dare apologise for this, Castiel." He tried to come off as stern, but his eyes were stinging with tears from his relief. "I get to talk to you, and that's all that matters."
"I love you."
"I love you too," Sam most definitely did not sob. "Happy anniversary."
"I wish it could be spent on better terms."
"Me too. I'm just happy I can hear your voice again. I miss you so much."
Cas laughed a little, although it sounded more like a sob. "I wrote you another letter. I'm sorry I didn't wait for a reply, but I wanted to get it there as quickly as possible. I take it you haven't received it yet?"
"No, I haven't."
"That's too bad. I was hoping it would get there before now."
C'mon, Cas, wrap it up, someone's coming, Sam heard Balthazar warn.
"I'm sorry, Sam, I have to go," Cas rushed. "I love you, and I'll talk to you as soon as I can."
"I love you too. Be safe!" Sam wasn't sure that Cas heard the last part as the line cut off just as he was done speaking, but he figured it was implied. Cas had promised to return in one piece.
Sam went to bed early that night, unsure how to feel about the call.
The next thing he got from Cas was a package.
Dearest Sam,
I apologise for not waiting for your reply. I suppose that was a rude decision, but I wanted to get this to you as soon as possible.
Happy anniversary. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you. Rest assured, I am with you in spirit. (that just sounds morbid, doesn't it?) in my heart. I got you something for the occasion. They're natural hand-made paints from the children that live close by. I know you prefer oil, but I thought you might enjoy experimenting with these. Just add water until they are the desired consistency.
Speaking of, the children here have taken a liking to me. They come around quite often, carrying local fruits, handmade crafts, and sometimes recreational items (such as the camera), and even though I rarely trade with them, they have grown fond of me for some reason. A few of them have a basic understanding of English, and they call me "Blue" because of my eyes. They ask me for stories quite often, more specifically, stories about you. Once, they asked me to describe you, which I did as simply as I could to accommodate for their vocabularies. I struggled for a way to describe your eyes, as they would not understand the word "hazel," and I could not find a similar word. I eventually settled on saying that your eyes change with the sky, as that was the only way I could think to phrase it in a way they could understand. So they call you "Sky." Sometimes, when they ask me to talk about you, they chant something in their native language. I cannot understand them, but Uriel has been complaining that they are using a riddle or a turn of phrase that he does not understand the meaning of: "Blue cannot live without his Sky." While he tries to decode its meaning, I simply smile at the truth of it.
I cannot properly express with words how much I love you, Sam, and truthfully, I would like to keep it that way. There is no better feeling in the world than being overwhelmed in this way, except maybe being overwhelmed in this way in your company.
Happy anniversary,
Blue
Besides the paints, which were essentially bags of coloured powder, there was also a metal compass and an excerpt from a John Donne poem, one that Cas quoted to him often when he had to leave:
"If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and harkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun."
My dear Blue,
To be honest, I'm glad you decided not to wait for my reply with the last letter because I hadn't written one. I figured we would need something to talk about when you called. Unfortunately, that didn't go as well as either of us planned, but I'm still thrilled I got to talk to you, even if it was just for a minute.
Anyway, I made you something for our anniversary as well, but it's too large to send through the mail, so a picture will have to do until you come back to me. It is the first thing I used the paints you gave me for, and although it is crudely made (as it took me a while to find a fitting technique), it was done so with you in mind.
Also, there's also a few things in the box that are wrapped. Please don't open them until Christmas. I figured I would send them now, since it'll be almost Christmastime by the time I get your next letter, and I'd rather you get these early than late. There are also some things for the children you keep talking about. I have no idea how many there are, so I guessed.
Speaking of, you always say that you don't do well with children, despite the fact that nearly every child you've come in contact with has instantly loved you. You also helped raise your little siblings, so you can't tell me for a moment that you don't do well with kids. I wish I could see you with them. I bet your face just lights up like it does whenever you help me with my Wednesday church class. (Don't even deny that it does. You love kids and you know it.)
That's something that we haven't really discussed yet. Though, to be fair, I don't think we're at a point where we need to. I'm not trying to spring a serious conversation on you, as that would be entirely unfair under these circumstances, but I'm merely curious as to what you think about the topic. Do you see yourself ever having children?
Maybe I shouldn't be asking. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I won't hold your answer (whatever it is) against you, as I'm not too sure about where I stand on the issue. Again, merely curious.
Be safe,,
Sky
"Mr. Winchester?"
Sam immediately spun around and knelt down to meet the child eye-to-eye. He was still significantly taller, but close enough.
"Yes? Do you need help?"
"No," the small girl shook her head. "I was just wondering where Mr. Novak is. I haven't seen him in a long time and I want to give him something."
Sam's heart simultaneously swelled and sank. The kids loved Cas even when he wasn't there. "Mr. Novak is on a trip right now and won't be back for a long time. But if you want, you can give me the gift, and I can get it to him."
The girl's eyes got wide, and she smiled excitedly. "He's on a long trip too? Do you think he knows my mommy?"
Wondering if there was another soldier in the church's congregation, and by extension, someone else who was left behind, Sam smiled and asked, "Maybe. What kind of trip is your mommy on?"
"My daddy said that my mommy left with the angels when I was born and that I won't see her again for a long long time, until I'm all growed up. Did Mr. Novak go with the angels too?"
Sam stared at the little girl in front of him with some mixture of surprise and fear. He didn't have to look to know the colour was draining from his face.
Amy noticed and stepped forward to intercept the conversation, but Sam gave her a look that silently asked her to let him handle this. With some hesitation, she stepped back as he turned a sad smile to the girl.
"No, Mr. Novak isn't on that kind of trip," he explained gently. "But my mom left with the angels when I was a baby too. I bet she knows your mommy."
"Really?" she pressed ecstatically, a huge grin splitting her face in two. "Daddy told me my mommy liked to dance. I think she's dancing in Heaven."
"You know, my brother always told me my mom loved to sing. I bet the two of them are getting along great."
"What's your mommy's name?"
"Mary. Mary Winchester."
"Can I pray to her too?"
Sam felt tears springing to his eyes. He remembered when he was young, asking angels to pass on messages to those he had lost. "You pray to your mommy?"
"Every night before bedtime," she nodded emphatically.
"If you want to, you can pray to my mom. I'm sure she would love to listen."
"Thank you, Mr Winchester. And I'll pray for Mr. Novak too, ask my mommy to protect him. Until he gets back."
Sam smiled sadly and hugged the little girl gently, thinking that she had just made his entire Christmas.
Dear Sam,
Gabriel has been found, but not by proper authorities. The story goes, Lucifer found him completely by accident, and Gabriel pulled a knife on him when he realised his location had been compromised. This resulted in a short and fatal knife fight, which Gabriel inevitably lost. As all his family is currently deployed, there is some debate as to what to do with the body. A decision has yet to be reached, but under the conditions, it seems likely that Michael will opt for a funeral pyre. I wonder if Lucifer will be allowed to attend. Despite being the one to end his life, he was closer to Gabriel than anyone and must be distraught. In any case, he is still our brother, and I feel we should be able to come together to mourn one of our own.
I apologise for starting on such a low note, but I assumed you would want to know what had happened as, despite your complaints, I know you have grown fond of Gabriel.
Obviously, I am upset from this news, but otherwise, everything is going well. The children love the toys you sent (there were more than enough to go around. The extras went to some of my comrades, who enjoy them just as much). They want very much to meet you. I told them that wasn't possible, but perhaps you could send a picture or two? I also sent you a few pictures of some of them. The little girl in the Razorbacks shirt is Seven (that is what she calls herself for my sake; I cannot pronounce her real name), and she is the one who made the paints I sent. I am beginning to wonder where these children's parents are, as they seem to spend most of their time doing as they please.
About your question in the last letter. . . . I have to admit, it is a little awkward to answer. Of course I can see myself with children; as you said, I helped raise my younger siblings to some extent, and I sometimes help you with the children in your church class, and even now, I'm spending much of my free time with the kids that frequent the camps. But do I want children of my own? I'm not entirely sure. I suppose I am reaching the age where I should begin considering such things, but I never have before. Even as I cared for my siblings, as a gay man, I never gave much thought to it. So I guess this is just a roundabout way of saying I don't know. Somewhere down the line, maybe I will want them, or maybe I won't. I am more than happy to have you to myself, and I can confidently say that I will never feel like something is missing from my life if we never end up raising a child.
I do believe that's enough serious conversation for one letter. I have finished Dear John. I do not enjoy it either, but I think it has less to do with the personal nature of the topic and more with the fact that I genuinely do not like the story, nor the authors style.
In honour of the new year, as I cannot kiss you myself, I have kissed the bottom right corner of the page, right beneath my signature. Balthazar has informed me that this is very cheesy, and Uriel complains that "all this lovesick nonsense" is making him ill. It is worth the teasing, I believe.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,
Castiel
Sam smiled like an idiot – and okay, maybe he giggled a little – as he pressed his lips to the corner that Cas had indicated. It wasn't the same, not even close, but it would have to do.
New Year's Eve came and went along with most of the next year. Sam and Cas continued to exchange letters, and sometimes little gifts as well. Sam sent Cas two pictures, like he asked: One of himself and one of them together. Cas sent drawings that the children had made of them. For Valentine's Day, Cas sent some fair trade chocolate bars that tasted rather fruity, but were delicious nonetheless. At Easter, Sam sent Cas Peeps and bubbles, along with plastic eggs full of candy for the kids. They shared a legitimate phone call on the next Eighth of November and another cheesy mail kiss on New Year's. Life moved on.
The next April, while Sam was preparing for Cas's scheduled return, he received an official-looking letter that said his deployment had been extended indefinitely. That could mean another few months or another few years. Sam's heart positively shattered. He had been so excited, so ready to see his soldier again. Cas was safe now; who knew what could happen in any extra time?
In May, after over a month with no response, Sam received his answer:
Dear Sam,
Things are going very poorly, and for the first time, I am legitimately frightened.
Uriel double crossed us and was killed as punishment.
Balthazar took a bullet in his chest.
Samandriel was wounded in battle and perished in the medical tent.
The camp that Anna and Naomi were relocated to was bombed earlier today. Whether they are alive or dead is still unknown.
And, as we knew already, Gabriel is dead.
My siblings are dropping around me like flies. I've always thought them great warriors, nearly invincible, but now their (and my) mortality is startlingly real. Lucifer's army is advancing on us, and we have had no further instruction from Michael beyond "Stand your ground."
I have never feared for my life before. It is horrible; I would not recommend it.
I'm sorry. I don't want to frighten you. But everything turned so terrible so quickly that I feel as if anything might happen at any given time, so I want you to know –
At this point, Sam whispered, "No," and his vision became too blurred with tears to read the rest of the letter. He blinked and let the tears fall shamelessly.
- I want you to know that I love you so, so much. Too much, perhaps, but no matter how often I say it, it is never enough to express just how deeply my love for you runs. It is not so much "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day" as "Shall I compare a summer's day to thee." The cute little chant that the children made for us ("Blue cannot live without his Sky.") is so very true, and I need you to know that, if you didn't already. I cannot imagine life without you, and I do not want to face the possibility that you might ever leave. They say the pain that one experiences when the person you loved most leaves is like losing an arm. I do not speak from experience, nor do I ever want to, but I feel like this analogy is grossly inaccurate. Maybe watching my siblings die one by one is a pain equivalent to losing an arm, but Sam, you are so much more than that. If I were to lose you, it would be closer to losing my heart, which is not nearly as endurable.
By the time you are reading this, I'm sure the situation will have smoothed itself out, for the most part. But I am so very scared, like I've never been before, and I would rather have written this as merely a precaution than have died having never expressed how much I love you. As well as the English language allows me to, anyway.
Keep your ears open. Like I said, I am probably fine.
Castiel
Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another one, forcing it much smoother than the last. He couldn't break down, not just yet.
He stood up, very calmly, and walked to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, dialling Dean's number. The line only rang twice before he was greeted with Dean's gruff, "Hello?"
"Dean? It's Sam."
"Yeah, I know. You sound kind of wrecked, though. Is something wrong?"
"No, I'm fine. Just a cold, I think. Allergies, maybe. But that's why I'm calling. I'm probably going to be late to work tomorrow. Is that alright?"
"Yeah, man, if you're sick, stay home. Sure you won't need the entire day?"
"No, probably not even the whole morning. Thanks."
Dean chuckled gently, a sound that normally Sam would find comfort in just rattled painfully in his ears now. "Don't thank me for letting you off sick. I'll see you tomorrow. Get some rest."
"Yeah. See ya." He hung the phone back onto the receiver before sliding down the wall to sit on the cold kitchen floor. It wasn't fair to Dean that he didn't tell the truth about what was going on overseas. After all, Cas was Dean's best friend before he was Sam's significant other. But it was like Cas wrote: He was probably fine. The letter was a week old at the very least; things had probably gotten much better in that time. There was no soldier he didn't know knocking on his door to regret to inform him of anything.
But if Sam completely fell apart at the seams, dissolving into sobs and curling up on the kitchen tile, nothing but a pile of tears, snot, and pain . . . well, it was just precaution.
Sam woke up curled beside the refrigerator the next morning, feeling like he had been trampled by all of Hell's demons and then some.
Then, he heard what had woken him up: A knock on the door.
Sam immediately froze, holding his breath. No. No, this wasn't happening.
The knocking – more like pounding – came again, and he curled in on himself tighter, willing the visitor to take his message somewhere else.
"SAM!" He heard them shout, and in an instant, he realised it wasn't a bad-news-bearing soldier, but Dean. "SAM, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR, I'M KICKING IT DOWN."
Sam immediately picked himself off the floor and dusted himself off, only realising then how stiff he was from sleeping on the hard tile. He dragged himself over to the door and opened it just as Dean was stepping back in preparation for a kick. He really was planning on forcing the door down.
Dean's angry expression immediately softened when he caught sight of his brother. "Holy shit, Sam. What happened to you?"
"Hmm?" Sam responded oh so intelligently, still groggy from having just woken up. "I told you, 's just a cold or somethin'."
"Just a cold, my ass. Sammy, you look like you decided to take a nap on I-35 during rush hour."
"Thanks . . . "
"You know what I mean."
"What are you doing here, anyway?"
"You never showed up to work. I came to check on you during my lunch break and you didn't answer the door. Figured you were still resting, I didn't think you were in a freaking coma."
"'Coma'?" Sam parroted, finally stepping aside so Dean could some into his apartment. "What time is it?"
"About five-thirty at night. I just closed up shop for the day."
"Shit, I'm sorry," he groaned, shifting to lean against the bar counter only to realise that he was nowhere near it. The only reason he didn't fall on his ass was because Dean was quick enough to catch him.
"I seriously meant to show up this afternoon. I'm so sorry, Dean."
In lieu of answering, Dean pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, pulling back with a hiss. "Shit, Sammy, you're burning up."
"I'm sorry," he grumbled.
"Will you stop freaking apologising? Jesus Christ. Can you go lay down by yourself?"
"Dean, I'm a grown man. You don't need to take care of me like – "
"I am not leaving you alone like this," Dean replied sternly. "And I can't believe you think I would even consider it. Now go lay down, or so help me, I'll knock you out myself."
Sam mumbled something about overprotective brothers but ultimately followed the instruction. He was out again as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Dean informed him that he had a fever of 103.3 and rising. He also declared that if it got to 104, he was taking him to a hospital. Sam heard, but he wasn't listening. Truth be told, he knew he was delirious; he just didn't really care. He had no idea that emotional trauma could manifest itself like this. It must have been the shock.
"Dean," Sam said, his voice sounding weak and foreign to his own ears. "The radio in the corner there – could you turn it on?"
If Dean was confused by the request, he didn't show it, dutifully switching the power on, the station pre-set to NPR.
"Really, Sam?" he asked playfully in reference to his station choice, but there was still too much concern in his tone for the effect of joviality he was going for. Sam didn't care. He was listening for anything he might hear about the war.
He faded in and out of consciousness throughout the course of the day, his temperature steadily rising until the next morning. Just as Dean was preparing to load him into the Impala and speed to the hospital, his fever broke.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean sighed when the thermometer read 100.2 and declining, not bad at all for someone who usually ran hot. "You gave me a freaking heart attack. I thought something was seriously wrong."
"I'm sorry."
"Will you stop apologising? It's not your fault." Except it kind of was. "Are you gonna be okay by yourself now?"
Oh hell no, Dean was not going back to work after all that. He wasn't risking losing his brother too. "Dean. Call Benny, ask him to put up a sign at the shop or something, and stay. You've been awake since yesterday morning; I am not letting work around heavy machinery until you've gotten some sleep."
"Yes, mother," Dean scoffed, but he didn't argue as he climbed into the other side of the bed. For the first time in what felt like forever, Sam slept peacefully, as there was another presence in the room.
He returned to work immediately after that, and Dean finally accepted the excuse of a generic sickness (mild case of the flu, as a cold definitely wouldn't have been so severe).
He didn't hear from Cas again for the duration of May. He tried not to worry about it and failed miserably.
Dear Cas, Sam finally caved and wrote as June came to a close.
To be honest, I don't really know what to say here. I don't even know if you'll get this letter or if you're alive. All I've heard from the news is that the war is a mess and we're losing most of the battles raging right now. I can only pray that yours isn't one of them.
I'm sure some famous person once said that a man shows his true self when he faces death (or maybe I'm just making things up), so I believe everything you said in your last letter. I'm not dying, so you'll just have to take my word for it.
What the children say about how Blue and the Sky – it goes both ways. I mean, taking the phrase out of context, it even makes sense. What would the sky be without shades of blue? But it's more than that. Cas, when I got your last letter, it really hit me hard. I was terrified I was going to lose you, if I hadn't already. The emotional pain took such a physical toll on me that Dean was ready to drive me to a hospital (and you know it's bad when Dean willingly decides that's the best option). Eventually, my fever broke and I could function again, whether I wanted to or not. (Spoiler: I didn't.)
I have no idea where I'm going with this. Obviously, I'm not as articulate when I sit down and write to the love of my life as he is when he's scared for his life and jotting down his final thoughts. I guess I just wanted to say that everything you said goes for me too. Maybe even more so, as I face the possibility of your death every day. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that, should a military officer ever knock on my door bearing bad news, I don't think I could go on much longer afterwards. Not to say I'm suicidal, because I'm not. I just don't want to live in a world you're not in.
(And don't worry. Should it ever come to that, I know Dean would be by my side in a moment to ensure I don't do anything stupid.)
I guess that's all. I feel kind of numb right now because, as I said, I'm not sure if you're dead or alive. There's a piece of me that insists you're gone and tries to make me feel like shit, but I'm trying to be optimistic, hence the letter.
I love you so much,
so please, don't be dead.
Sam
End of July and still no response.
Sam began pouring himself into his work, pulled extensive overtime, volunteered more at the church, made sure he had as little time to himself as possible and was so exhausted by the time he got home that he passed out as soon as he hit the bed.
Dean, Benny, Amy – they all tried talking to him about it, but those conversations where always one-sided. Sam just let what they were saying wash over him, took it all without giving anything back. If they were violent, he took it. If they were gentle, he was slightly more uncomfortable, but he still took it. Until they ultimately stopped trying to get through to him with words and started taking action: Locking him out of his workspace when he tried to stay late, enforcing a limit on the number of hours he could put into the church each week, driving him home just to be sure he didn't try to occupy himself with anything else.
It was silly of them to assume that spending any time alone in the apartment was any good for him. He refused to go near his painting room, covered up the paintings and pictures and drawings hanging up in the bedroom and living room, stuffed the army man and the angel bear under the bed so he didn't have to look at them. The radio was never turned off, even when he slipped into a Nyquil-induced slumber, the only way he could bare spending any of his time.
Finally, Dean invited himself to Sam's house and forced him to sit down and talk. And as much as Dean could never say no to Sam's puppy dog eyes, so Sam could never deny Dean anything when he really wanted it.
"You've gotta tell me what's going on, Sammy," he pleaded. And really, that was all it took. "We're worried sick about you, and you won't talk to us."
"I know," Sam muttered towards the hands folded in his lap. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just tell me what's wrong."
Sam took a deep breath as if holding back tears, but tears wouldn't come in the first place. There was a hollow sort of ache in his chest, and Sam wondered if this was what Cas meant when he referenced losing his heart.
"I got a letter from Cas."
"Well, that's good, isn't it?"
Sam shook his head sadly. "I got a letter from Cas at the beginning of May and haven't heard anything from him since."
"Oh. Well I'm sure he – "
"That isn't it, though." He stood and motioned for Dean to stay sitting. "I'll be right back. I promise." He just needed to grab Cas's letter from its place on the night stand, where it lay completely flat from having been read over and over again until he could recite it verbatim.
"He starts out," Sam began, reclaiming his seat beside his brother, "By telling me how all his siblings are dying around him. Gabriel, Uriel, Balthazar, and Samandriel are dead, and Anna and Naomi are missing, but likely also dead. Then he talks about how he's come to terms with his mortality and says that, for the first time ever, he's scared for his life."
"Sam – "
"Then he says, 'Everything turned so terrible so quickly that I feel as if anything might happen at any given time, so I want you to know – '" Sam had to pause to take another breath. He always faltered at this part, and his voice trembled and broke trying to read it now. "Anyway, he goes on to say that he loves me. Mushy, chick-flick stuff, you know." Dean did not appear amused by his diversion. Sam continued in order to break the awkward silence he had created. "'I am so very scared, like I've never been before, and I would rather have written this as merely a precaution than have died having never expressed how much I love you.'"
"Oh my god."
"It was bad, when I first got the letter," Sam pressed, because Dean wanted answers and damn if Sam was going to stop now. "I kept expecting a soldier to come knocking on my door and tell me that Cas is . . . " He couldn't bear to finish the sentence, so he cleared his throat and moved on. "About a month ago, I wrote Cas back and still haven't heard from him. On top of that, we're losing the war, so I think it's a safe bet that he's not coming back."
"Sam," Dean started, pausing as if waiting for Sam to interrupt him again. He didn't. "C'mon, man, you can't think like that. I mean, I'm worried about Cas too, but you can't just assume the worst. You can't live your life like that."
"Why not?"
"Because if he were dead, you would know by now. Trust me."
Sam wanted to believe that. Really, he did, but it was just so much easier to assume the worst. If he was right in believing the worst and he heard that Cas had been killed, it would still be painful, but he would be prepared for it. If he was wrong, then that was a miraculous surprise. Whereas if he were to remain positive and be wrong, that was more heartbreak than he could handle.
But he couldn't expect Dean to understand that, so he nodded slowly, as if in acceptance, and Dean seemed happy with that.
As it turned out, Sam was, thankfully, amazingly, very wrong. Although he didn't find out until a few weeks later.
Sam,
Rest assured, I am not dead, as proven by the existence of this letter.
Honestly, this is the first time I have been able to get my hands on an envelope for months. The fighting is rough. I've been placed on the front lines in the place of my siblings. All the civilians in the area, including the children, have long since evacuated. While I am sad to be without their company, I could not be happier that they are out of harm's way.
Interestingly enough, we have heard nothing from Michael in a while, and rumour has it that Lucifer's troops have stopped receiving orders as well. For the time being, we keep fighting under the assumption that our previous commands still stand. I am fighting more often than not, and the only reason I am able to be back at camp now is because I was hit. Just a graze, but it appeared much worse on the battlefield.
Instead of better, the war is getting worse. We're severely down in number, and although we are strong and determined fighters, that does not make up for the fact that Lucifer's army is significantly larger and more organised.
But enough about the war; I would very much like to discuss what you said in your last letter. I am so, so sorry for frightening you to the point where you assumed I had died. That was not my intention in the least. But above that, I am concerned about you. You mentioned being violently ill upon the arrival of my last letter, and I just want to be sure that you are taking care of yourself. You seem to forget how well I know you, and that I know how you function when you're trying not to think or feel too much. Don't forget to eat well and let yourself rest. Not just sleep, but actual rest. Take some time off work and do something you love. Don't obsess over the news; if something happens, I promise to let you know about it in a letter. And for goodness sake, talk to your friends. You are so insistent that everyone else communicate about their feelings, but you rarely do so yourself.
My responses are sure to be few and far between, as I'm sure you've noticed, now that the battle is heating up. But I promise, I will always find time to reply sooner or later. In the meantime, do not hesitate to write whether my reply has arrived or not. You are the sole reason I keep fighting as hard as I do.
Love,
Castiel
After that, Sam's mood significantly increased. It wasn't as if he had ever lost hope – it seemed like a character flaw of his own that he wasn't truly able to let go of anything – but the letter had definitely boosted his morale overall. He did as Cas asked, writing letter after letter and sending them one right after the other. He must have sent twenty of them in August alone, enough that he had to stock up on stamps. Sam was reminded of that chick flick he and Cas had watched once upon a time, something about writing 365 letters, one for every day of the year. That didn't sound like a bad goal to work up to.
In October, he helped with the church's fall festival, which was a lot like a Halloween carnival except in the middle of the month and not scary. Amy insisted that all the workers had to be in costume, so they coordinated and went as Dorothy and the Scarecrow. He took a lot of pictures and sent them all to Cas in a manila envelope, along with a felt pumpkin one of the children had decorated for him with Sharpie and glitter glue. I wish I could send you some of the cupcakes Mrs. Cortese made, he wrote, but I'm pretty sure they wouldn't get to you in one piece.
Out of all the letters he sent, he only got one reply from Cas. It was short, just thanking him for all the letters, saying how much they mean to him, updates from the war. The intensity of the battle has not gone down in the least, although Michael and Lucifer have been confirmed missing, likely kidnapped. I feel like we are only fighting because we don't know what else to do.
Sam still feared for Cas's life, of course. That was a constant. But even if he worried a little more with each passing day sans response, writing on a nearly daily basis was calming. He began painting again as well, simply so he could send Cas updates on the progress of his works.
When November rolled around, Dean gently reminded him that the next day was November second and asked if he needed the day off. Sam proposed staying half a day before closing down shop and spending the rest of the day together. Dean looked oddly proud of him for thinking of it and agreed immediately.
Sam didn't forget to write to Cas about how the day went.
Everyone let Sam work on the eighth, which was a huge blessing because he was still subject to dramatic mood swings when it came to his feelings about Cas being gone, which ranged from Lonely-But-Manageable to Suicide-Risk. He didn't expect his sensitivity to any war-related news to change as long as Cas was away. Strangely, Dean had taken the afternoon off, saying that he had something to take care of. Sam didn't think much of it until he was locking up shop just as Dean pulled up in the Impala. Thank goodness, since Sam had walked to work and didn't really feel like walking back now that it was getting dark.
"Sam!" Dean shouted excitedly, hopping out of the car and practically skipping up to Sam, huge grin splitting his face.
"Dean?" He hadn't seen his brother this excited in a long time.
"C'mon, get in the car."
"What is it?"
"Just trust me. Come on!"
Dean jogged back to his car, and Sam followed curiously, shaking his head a little at his childlike excitement, although he couldn't deny he was happy to see it.
As soon as Sam had taken his rightful place in the passenger seat, Dean sped off – quite literally sped, his fingers tapping on the wheel impatiently until they arrived at their destination.
"Dean?" Sam questioned as his brother climbed out of the car. "This is my apartment."
"Yep, it sure is. C'mon, get out of the car."
Sam obliged, but he was still confused and a little wary.
"What's got you so excited?"
"Do you have Skype?" he asked instead.
Sam was not only taken aback by the abruptness of the question but also by the fact that Dean knew what Skype was.
"Yeah, why?" he questioned, leading the way into his home.
"Just set up your laptop, okay? Trust me."
"Dean, seriously, what the hell is going on?" he demanded when he had successfully brought up Skype, Dean having turned the computer towards himself and was typing away. "Does this have anything to do with what you were doing this afternoon?"
"Jesus, Sammy, can't you take a surprise? If you really want to know, I got you and Cas something for your anniversary."
Sam's irritation dissipated immediately, to be replaced with shock and disbelief. No way. This had to be a joke of some sort. Cas barely had time to write him; there was no way he had time to Skype, not to mention the fact that he didn't even have a phone with him, let alone a laptop.
But then Dean was turning the screen back towards him, and it was Cas's out-of-focus face staring back. Sam's heart flew to his throat.
"Sam?" Cas called, sounding confused but ecstatic.
"Oh my God, Dean," he smiled in lieu of a "Thank you." Dean understood, if his nearly maniacal grin was anything to go by.
"Oh my God, Cas!" Sam gasped, tears springing to his eyes instantly. It hit him just then that it had been a year since he had last heard his voice, twice that since he had seen his face. "Cas," he sniffed, "Hi. Happy anniversary."
"Happy anniversary, Sam," Cas grinned broadly, making Sam laugh softly in glee. It wasn't that he never smiled, but his smiles were always so small and private, reserved only for Sam and Dean, that it was a surprise.
It was dark where Cas was, the only light provided by the webcam and a streetlight in the background, and relatively silent. Sam had been able to hear gunshots when the war had been going well. Now that they were losing, shouldn't the background noise be even louder – bombs and planes and guns all at once? But there was nothing besides the sound of wind. When a car passed on a street behind him, Sam got suspicious.
"Cas . . . where are you? Were you relocated?" He felt kind of bad for not having known. He wondered if his last few letters would find him.
"Uh," he laughed – or rather, giggled. "I'm not at camp, you're right."
"Cas, what – " Sam cut himself off when he heard the front door opening. His heart skipped a beat. And then several. He forgot how to breathe, and his vision swam, which would account for why he thought he saw his soldier standing at the open door with a bouquet of jonquil flowers in one hand and Dean's smartphone in the other.
"Hello, Sam," he greeted.
Sam tripped over himself a time or two running to wrap Cas in a hug that was more like a tackle, hard enough to send Cas stumbling back out the door. He would feel bad for it except Cas was giving as much as he got. Sam couldn't breathe, and he wasn't sure if it was the shock and excitement, the relief, or how hard Cas was hugging him. It didn't much matter either, as Sam was currently sobbing into his soldier's shoulder. God, he missed him so much. The relief and pure glee he felt now was almost too much to bear, bordering on painful.
"Oh my God, Cas," he snivelled. "Cas, I missed you so much." He just kept repeating his name over and over like a prayer. Cas didn't seem to mind, as he was muttering litanies of his own, one arm wrapped tight around his waist and the other hand tangled in Sam's hair as if to keep him from escaping.
Sam had no idea how long they stood like that, but it didn't matter. At some point, Dean must have slipped out because he vaguely registered the rumble of the Impala as it backed out of the parking lot.
Finally, when the cold began to seep into their skin, they went back inside, linked by their hands, refusing to lose connection even for the briefest of moments. As soon as the door was closed, Sam cradled Cas's face in his hands and kissed him gently, but with passion, like he had been wanting to for the past two years. Cas fell into the motion easily, relaxing into the gentle touch and placing his hands on Sam's hips. It was almost as if he had never left.
"Sam," Cas gasped when they finally let themselves separate for air. "I . . . I don't want to overwhelm you, but it is our anniversary, and I can't think of a better time to do this." He grasped both of Sam's hands in his own and bent down onto one knee. Once again, Sam's heart stopped, and he thought briefly that Cas would be the death of him.
"Sam Winchester, will you marry me?"
"My God, you have to ask?" he breathed, falling to his knees and wrapping Cas in his arms again. "Yes! Oh my God, yes!"
Sam had no idea how Cas was even here or what was going on with the war and what it might mean that Cas had left. But he didn't care, either. Because Cas was with him again, and they were officially engaged. The apartment was no longer too spacious, their bed would no longer feel cold and empty, and Sam wouldn't feel the need to obsessively monitor the news. Cas was back where he belonged, and the piece of Sam's heart that he had taken with him overseas had clicked back into place.
"And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and harkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home."