Author's Note: AU begins at the end of Season 4, Episode 4, 'Metamorphosis,' wherein Sam does not agree to stop drinking blood.
Warning: Suicide Attempt
Castiel didn't know what he expected to find in Reeducation Room 217. He knew Sam Winchester was inside. He knew Sam Winchester was still drinking demon blood, despite the warning Castiel had instructed Dean to pass on. He knew Heaven had been working around the metaphorical clock to get Sam Winchester to cooperate. He knew he had spent the last four days pretending to help Dean look for Sam Winchester, insisting whoever had him was powerful enough to hide him from angelic sight.
He knew he had never met Sam Winchester.
He knew what he had been told about Sam Winchester.
He knew what he expected from an abomination like Sam Winchester.
He knew the angels who performed the reeducation did so with the intent to make Sam Winchester antagonistic; make him more determined than ever to drink demon blood and rebel against Heaven; make him hate angels.
He knew he had been ordered to retrieve Sam Winchester from the reeducation wing alone.
Castiel opened the door and pushed it inward, squinting into the darkness of the room that so sharply contrasted the bright, white hallway outside. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, hearing a quiet gasp when the lock slid into place.
"Sam Winchester?" Castiel ignored the blood on the floor and walls, approaching the young man slouched in the corner. "Get up, Sam. It's time to go."
Sam's head jerked limply, and he curled protectively around his stomach, but he didn't respond or obey. Unsurprising, given the circumstances.
Castiel crouched down to get on Sam's level and reached out, nudging a bruised cheek. "Sam." He got a little more forceful. "Samuel Winchester, wake up."
Sam inhaled deeply and breathed out his reply, slurring his words. "M'normally 'lone longer…"
Castiel squinted and tilted his head, confused, and his eyes began to trail across Sam's body. It was clear from the bruises and blood-spattered clothing that a thorough reeducation had taken place, but Castiel had expected no less. Still, humans weren't accustomed to Heaven's Persuasion, so perhaps there was some lingering fear of angelic presence.
"I'm here early because it's time to leave. Your reeducation is over." Castiel reached out with the intention of touching Sam's forehead, but Sam curled up even tighter. "It's over, Sam."
"Y'na kill me?" Sam muttered, still collapsed in an awkward ball in the corner.
"Sam, I am not here to punish you. What part of this escapes your understanding?" Castiel reached again, but Sam once again retreated, making the angel sigh in frustration. "Sam Winchester, I am not here to kill you."
"Why not?" Sam barely breathed the question, but the tension started to leave his shoulders, so maybe he was beginning to realize he was safe.
"Those are not my orders." Castiel reached out again, and to his pleasant surprise, Sam didn't move away; still, he hesitated to make contact for fear Sam would overreact again, and he wound up dropping his hand despite the near success. "I cannot heal you, or you won't learn your lesson, but I can help you stand. Get up now, Sam."
Sam didn't move away, but he didn't get up, either. In fact, he didn't move at all. He wasn't breathing as heavily as someone so exhausted and frightened should have been, and despite the awkward position he was in, he seemed relatively relaxed; arms folded over his stomach, knees drawn up to his chest, body collapsed against the corner of the dimly lit room.
He looked almost peaceful.
Oh no.
Castiel pushed Sam's knees aside and grabbed at the folded arms. Sam gasped and resisted—really resisted—for the first time since Castiel arrived.
Resistance didn't stop Castiel from feeling the slick warmth of the wrists he was holding.
"Sam, what have you done?"
Sam flinched at the accusatory tone, but he kept his arms pressed tight to his midsection, one foot kicking weakly. Castiel allowed him his curled-up position and whatever comfort it brought him, giving the attack on his ribcage no more than a sideways glance. Sam screwed his eyes shut and pressed his head into the wall, jaw clenched tightly.
"Sam," Castiel raised his voice slightly, a sharp edge to his tone. "Why did you do this?"
Sam shook his head and kept himself pressed against the wall. "You couldn't…" he took a shuddering breath, shoulders quivering, "…couldn't have waited… just a little bit longer…"
Castiel healed the flesh beneath his fingers, and he denied himself the luxury of guilt when he heard the small whine that rose in Sam's throat. Fools. They went too far, and they did the exact opposite of what they were supposed to do. He'll never kill Lilith now.
"Just one more week… s'all I needed…"
Castiel frowned. One week? He was fairly certain humans bled out in hours, not days.
"It was gonna… be different… go to this field…" Sam moved his hand in a sloppy gesture, like he way trying to relay information but didn't know he was moving. "Dean took me there… n' we set off fireworks…"
Castiel frowned a little deeper. He had absolutely no idea what Sam was talking about.
"S'gonna drive out… in the 'mpala… leave a note so… everything went to Bobby, n' then…" Sam laughed, weak and broken and nothing like a living weapon was supposed to laugh. "Bang… quick… painless…"
Castiel tilted his head ever-so-slightly, and as he repeated the words in his mind, something clicked. "Sam, were y—"
Sam's body shook—shook the way bodies often did when humans wept, the way so many had in Castiel's peripherals while he stormed the gates of Hell, the way Castiel never thought Sam Winchester's would.
Sam held his head, fingers tangled through his already matted hair. "I can't leave him now that he's back… and I know… I know it's selfish, but… I thought…"
Castiel glanced at the door, but there was no one in sight, and he sensed no angels in the hall. So, moving cautiously, he sat down on Sam's right and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was pretty sure that was how humans sat when there weren't any seating arrangements.
Sam took a deep breath and let it out, the tears leaving as quickly as they came. "I… thought maybe… if I did it here… he'd blame Heaven… wouldn't know the truth…" Sam sniffed and shifted a bit, like he wanted to curl up further but couldn't.
He was already about as small as he could get.
"I don't know how to get up in the morning… I can't see a doctor… Dean would never let me live it down… and we travel too much for me to get prescriptions, anyway…" Sam sniffed again. "You… are you sure… you can't kill me?"
Castiel pondered the question for a few moments, and then he pondered the situation as a whole. If he wanted to obey orders and get Sam to hate Heaven, it seemed the quickest way to do so was to force Sam back into his brother's arms alive. However, there was no guarantee Sam would stay alive long enough to complete the task Heaven had for him if left in his current state. They could always bring him back, of course, but that would hardly make him fit enough to do what he had to do.
How to keep him alive and willing enough to live that he could destroy Lilith? That was the question.
"Sam, what do you need for your… problem?" Castiel looked at the young human sitting next to him. "Do you know what humanity has available that can help you?"
Sam heaved a sigh, head still hanging down, bangs moving slightly as the air from his lungs struck the tips. "Back… when I was at Stanford… I was on, um, Zoloft… and Wellbutrin…"
Castiel had no idea what that meant. "Where do I obtain the Zolofts and Wellbutrins?"
Sam shrugged. "Hospitals… pharmacies…"
"But you can tell me where, and you can tell me what, and you can tell me how much. Correct?" Castiel tried not to be impatient, but his tone seemed unaware of his attempts.
Sam nodded jerkily.
"I will provide you with what you need. Dean does not need to know—" and neither do my brethren, "—but perhaps it will facilitate survival for you."
Sam swallowed hard and spared Castiel a hesitant glance. Their eyes met for the first time, and Castiel was floored by how accurate the term 'Boy with the Demon Blood' was. Sam had the body of a man but the eyes of a child, and in that moment, he was a very frightened and miserable and lonely one. He was a child who hated himself very, very much.
"You would… do that?"
Castiel nodded, unsure of what to do with the ache in his chest.
Sam swallowed and looked away. "Can you…" He laughed, bitter and airy and condescending. "Never mind. Stupid. Sorry."
Castiel had no tolerance for human rituals of pride, so he took a look inside Sam's mind and previewed the unspoken request. "You would like me to bring you each 'dose' as you need it?"
Sam screwed his eyes shut, ashamed, but he gave the smallest of nods. "If I have them all with me… I might take them all and… finish what I started."
Castiel took a moment to process the complicated dancing-around-the-point wording, and then he nodded his head. "I will do research. Just pray when you need your… things… and I will bring them to you."
Sam wet his lips, and he caught Castiel's eyes again before turning away. "Don't angels have better things to do than… take antidepressants to screwed-up humans?"
Castiel's feathers ruffled slightly—he didn't know why, it had never bothered him to regard humans as weak and broken before—but he simply replied with, "It is not an inconveniency."
Sam managed a nod and then closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out. He did it again… and again… and again…
Castiel was curious but watched in silence as Sam repeated the exercise three more times.
"Oxygen," Sam said after a pause. "Helps dry your eyes."
Castiel cocked his head to the side, ever-bewildered by the habits of humanity. "I thought you needed it to not die."
"That, too." Sam moved to get up but grimaced and immediately fell back down. "Um, when humans… you know… when we…"
"Mourn?"
Sam nodded shakily. "We lose oxygen, and it makes our eyes water. I don't want Dean to know, so…" He tried to get up again, and that time around, Castiel appeared in a standing position and grabbed Sam before he could fall again.
"How did you…?"
"I flew." Castiel pulled Sam up a little higher and grabbed him around the knees and torso, knowing an over-the-shoulder carry would aggravate the wounds on Sam's stomach and chest. "There's no point in trying to walk. I see Zebadiah worked on your leg."
Sam hissed in pain and nodded his head. "Yeah. Real nice guy."
Castiel frowned. "No, he isn't. He is one of the most skilled reeducators in Heaven."
Sam let out a soft huff and grabbed the angel around the shoulders, trying to help hold his own weight up. "That was sarcasm."
Castiel had no idea what that meant. He found he didn't have any idea what most humans were saying the majority of the time. Thank God, literally, for his ability to read minds in images as well as text and audio, otherwise he would spend the majority of his missions on Earth in chaos.
"What are we gonna tell Dean?" Sam was still a bit breathless.
Castiel frowned. "What?"
"Let's, uh… let's say… it was a nest of vampires." Sam screwed his eyes shut.
Castiel blinked. "What?"
"Well, we can't tell him… Heaven did this." Sam coughed.
Castiel frowned and blinked.
Sam squirmed, likely from pain, and shook his head slowly. "If Dean knows Heaven did this to me…" He scoffed and shook his head again. "You'll be dead to him, Castiel."
Castiel stiffened up slightly, and if hadn't already been holding Sam, he would have moved closer to give him a hard, scrutinizing look. "I never told you my name."
Sam must have sensed the danger because he pulled away as much as his position would allow. "No, but… you're him, aren't you? You're… exactly like Dean described, and the other angels were… really different, so I figure you're not the standard for angelic… angel… ness."
Castiel paused and contemplated the words. For once, he allowed his own gaze to be the one that faltered first, eyes dropping to the floor. "Dean… spoke of me?" He squinted at Sam, confused. "I do not understand." Why was Dean sharing information about a specific angel with Sam? Were they planning something?
"You saved him from Hell." Sam looked like he tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it. "He's kinda, you know, insanely grateful for that."
Castiel stared. "I do not think that is accurate." Getting a knife to the chest, a short temper, and no respect was not Castiel's idea of being insanely appreciated.
Sam did manage a smile then, but it was weak and short-lived. "Give it time. You'll learn… when it comes to Dean… it isn't what he says… it's what he does."
Castiel contemplated the words for a moment, but he still didn't see much truth in Sam's assertion of Dean's gratitude. What Dean did was stab Castiel in the chest. What Dean did was treat him with contempt that often bordered on hatred—hatred he had done nothing to earn.
Nothing that Dean knew of, anyway.
"How are your arms… not tired yet?" Sam was starting to lose his breath again.
Castiel simply looked at him, using his vessel's face to express annoyance.
"Right." Sam nodded slightly. "Angel." He dropped his head onto Castiel's shoulder. "What's the story…?"
"Vampires."
Sam made a gesture with his hand using his thumb, and then the grip on Castiel's neck loosened. It wasn't completely gone, so Sam must have been awake to some extent, but he was rapidly losing consciousness.
Castiel flew, and the room of reeducation dissolved into a significantly less intimidating room of motelism.
Dean was sitting at a small table with his back to Castiel, a beer gripped in one hand while the other clicked through electronic pages of research. Castiel had seen him do little else—phone calls and footwork aside—since Sam was taken.
"Dean."
Dean jumped. "Cas, I to—" He froze. "Sammy!"
Sammy? Castiel frowned, confused. Why won't he use Sam's name?
Dean rushed over and reached out to take Sam, but he stopped short. He buffered for a moment, assessing the injuries and trying to figure out how grab Sam without hurting him.
"Uh, uh, just—just put him on the bed." Dean grabbed his belongings and threw them on the floor, gathering pillows by the head of the bed. "Here."
Castiel walked over and carefully lowered Sam onto the mattress, eyes flickering down to the torn pantleg and bloody knee as it slid from his arm. Honestly, Zebadiah. I doubt that was necessary. He doubted most of what they had done was necessary, given the end result.
How is he supposed to open the Cage if he can't function?
"Hey, there. Hey." Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand waving in front of Sam's face. "Your eyes are open. You awake?"
Sam moaned and nodded his head slightly. "Did… did he get'em all…?"
"What?" Dean looked at Castiel expectantly.
"I found him in a vampire nest." He had to applaud Sam for remembering the lie in the midst of the pain and mental haze. "I disposed of them."
Sam let out a sigh of relief and nodded his head a few times, one hand wandering to his stomach. "Dean… we have, uh… we have Advil?"
Dean snorted. "You need something a little stronger than Advil, Sam." He stood up and grabbed his jacket from the floor where he had thrown it seconds earlier. "I gotta run and get a few things; our first aid kit doesn't have enough for all this." He put the coat on as he spoke, moving frantically despite Sam already being safe. "Cas, you stay with Sam. His phone's in that bag." He pointed as he walked, grabbing a set of keys from the table. "Call me if anything changes."
"Dean—"
Dean stopped and looked at him, waiting impatiently.
Castiel should have reminded Dean where his place was. He should have explained that he brought Sam back to safety and was obligated to do nothing more. He should have left.
"You called him Sammy. That is not his name."
Dean rolled his eyes. "It's a nickname, Cas. Make a name shorter, make it longer, replace it with another name or word or phrase. Nicknames. They're a thing."
Castiel looked at Sam and frowned. "I thought nicknames were insults."
"Well, yeah, some are, but nicknames are generally for family and friends."
Castiel opened his mouth to question further, still confused.
"Cas!" Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder, agitated. "I'm kinda doing something here. Look it up if you wanna know so bad."
Just like that, he was gone, and Castiel was standing in a room with an open laptop, half of the last bottle from a six pack of beer, and a barely conscious Sam Winchester. Castiel turned his head to look at the bed, lips twisting up slightly.
"…nicknames are generally for family and friends. Cas!"
Castiel took a few steps and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the abomination who had a loving brother to give him nicknames and a brain that didn't treat him very well.
Dean gave me a nickname. Castiel tilted his head. Still. He should fear me more than he does. Something like anger flared in his chest for a fraction of a nanosecond, so fast and mild he might have imagined it. He once again failed to thank me.
More than that, Dean had assumed Castiel would be available and willing to watch Sam in his absence. He hadn't requested help, hadn't even demanded it; he simply assumed it was already his to direct and use how he pleased.
Castiel almost left right then just to make a point.
"When it comes to Dean… it isn't what he says, it's what he does."
Castiel tilted his head in the opposite direction, still watching Sam.
I don't understand. He hasn't done anything to—
Castiel stopped and pursed his lips.
Dean might have made ungrateful, unwelcome demands, but when Castiel considered what the demands were… he thought he saw some of the evidence Sam was talking about. Dean had ordered Castiel to watch over an injured, nearly unconscious, totally helpless Sam. Dean had willingly entrusted, to Castiel, the one thing in his life he valued above his own soul.
Dean had run headlong into an eternity of fire and blood and torment to keep Sam alive, and then he trusted an angel he barely knew to keep Sam safe.
Dean trusted Castiel with the most important thing in his entire universe. He trusted Castiel without reserve, without hesitation, without doublechecking motives before deciding he could leave Sam in Castiel's hands.
Dean trusted Castiel… and Castiel was lying to him. He was lying to both of them. Castiel was manipulating them so Heaven could carry out a plan where Sam became someone—something—Dean would have no choice but to hunt. Castiel was forcing them onto opposite sides of a war that would leave their home planet and their species utterly devastated, assuming it survived at all.
"Castiel?" Sam whispered, barely clinging to the edge of consciousness. "Did you really… mean what you said?" He wet his lips, eyes half-lidded. "You can get me medication, and… Dean won't know?"
Castiel looked at Sam for several seconds, and then he nodded. "Yes."
Sam seemed relieved, but he couldn't quite manage a smile. "I can…" He gestured with his hand to a pad of paper and a writing instrument on the bedside table.
Castiel handed it to him and watched as he scratched down a couple words, watched his bruised and bloody knuckles struggle to maintain a grip on the pen.
"That's how they're spelled. If you just… find a pharmacy or hospital… or a mail-order service… somewhere with medication. Pharmacies are only open during the day, so you could go after hours… no one would be there to catch you. Just find the bottles or boxes with one of those names on."
Castiel nodded and skimmed the paper. That sounds easy enough. Certainly not so much of an inconveniency that one should die over it.
"And Castiel?"
Castiel looked back at Sam, waiting.
"Thank you." Sam managed a ghost of a smile, but it was hard for him to maintain eye contact for more than two seconds at a time. "For everything. For not telling Dean. For listening. For not laughing or… being angry…"
Castiel felt something sharp cut into his chest. "Sleep, Sam. You need it."
Castiel reached out and tapped Sam's forehead, sending the younger Winchester into a deep and dreamless slumber that would, hopefully, help his body to repair some of the damage Heaven's Persuasion left in its wake.
Castiel stared down at the paper in his hands and heaved a sigh. He put his elbows on his thighs and lowered his head into his hands. He stared at the dark red carpeting, stained with things he would rather not think about. He listened to the traffic outside and the thumping of music he found to be incredibly obnoxious upstairs. He listened to Sam's breathing, listened to the footsteps in the hall, listened to the muffled voices from the adjacent room.
He listened to the side of humanity no one else could hear. He listened to a young woman crying as she asked herself why she ever thought it was a good idea to run away from home. He listened to a married couple, dancing in the dark, putting aside the usual activity of copulation in favor of holding each other close, content and so incredibly in love. He listened to a mother tell her baby that no one was ever going to lay their hands on either of them again. He listened to two boys, barely adults, laughing hysterically and playing a game with made-up rules they created when they were small children.
He listened to the noises of human life that would be gone in a matter of months.
He listened to everything that would end when Heaven accomplished its goal.
What are we doing?
It wasn't unusual for Castiel not to know the answer to that question.
What are we trying to accomplish?
It was, however, unusual for his lack of an answer to cause him such distress.
Can't we find another way to accomplish our goals?
It was even more unusual for him to think of himself as separate from his brethren.
How can I do this to them?
Castiel thought, for a moment, that maybe Sam had cut himself open for another purpose entirely. Maybe Sam wanted Castiel to struggle with a raging internal conflict, maybe he was trying to cause dissent in Heaven, maybe it was all a clever scheme meant to play on emotions Castiel should have seared out long ago.
But then Castiel remembered how defeated Sam sounded, how disappointed that his death had been interrupted. He remembered the shame in Sam's eyes, the desperate need for Dean not to know, the look on Sam's face. Every muted emotion, the minimal use of gestures, the monotonous voice; Sam had had the life sucked out of him.
And Castiel couldn't help but wonder if that was how he appeared to humanity; muted and dull and dead. He wondered if that was why they were so resistant to obedience and uniformity. They had to stay alive, they had to want to stay alive, and they couldn't do that by cutting away everything that made them… them. Everything they felt—their love, their hatred, their passion, their fear—all came together to keep them going, and it was painful and inconvenient and hard, but when they were numb… they eventually stopped altogether.
I can't do this to them.
Castiel regretted the thought the instant he had it, panic seizing him as Heaven started to pull on his Grace. Reeducation. He clung to his vessel, face twisted up in pain, and quickly obliterated the note in his hand so neither Jimmy nor Dean would find it. Jimmy! Jimmy, you have to tell Dean—
Castiel was wrenched out before he could finish the thought, Jimmy's body hitting the floor as Castiel ceased to exist on the earthly plane. He was sucked into a pit—that was the only way he could think to describe it—darkness pressing in on every side, cutting into his essence, driving into his core with the single-minded purpose to destroy.
Please, Dean… Sam… you're smart. You have to figure out what the angels are doing. Please… I don't want to do this anymore…
Castiel screeched—if any physical structures had been in the vicinity, they would have turned to dust—as the darkness pulled him apart, little bits of himself flying in every direction as they dug in like fangs in fresh, tender meat.
It's up to you now, Dean. You and your brother.
And it might have been selfish, but the last independent thought he had was,
After all I've done for you, don't you dare let me down.
"Castiel?"
Castiel kept his mind utterly blank, staring ahead with vacant eyes and sealed lips.
"I—I had to stop Samhain, and… I needed demon blood to do it." Sam regarded him with fear and confusion, taking half a step back. "Are you… gonna take me back to Heaven?"
Castiel didn't say or do anything—he couldn't allow himself to say or do anything; someone might overhear his treacherous thoughts again—but he did hold out a small, plastic bag with two pills in it.
Sam looked at the bag for a long time, and then he hesitantly reached out and took it. "Castiel?" he whispered. "You… you've been different since you got back. Did they…?"
Castiel flew halfway across the country in an instant, responding to an urgent call regarding another seal under fire. Briefly—so briefly he almost missed it—Castiel thought about approaching Dean. He thought about trying to explain his behavior and assure Dean that he was not, in fact, a hammer. He thought about it—so, so briefly—but he didn't do it.
Castiel did not serve man, and he definitely did not serve Sam and Dean Winchester. Castiel served Heaven. Castiel followed orders without question. Castiel was a good soldier.
And he always would be.
Author's Note: I have no intention of writing a sequel, so I haven't thought about this AU in depth, but the rest of the season plays out as usual, with Castiel bringing Sam his medication on a daily basis, always quickly and always without a word. During Season 4, Episode 16, 'On The Head Of A Pin,' Sam is slightly less angry at Castiel, but I think the demon blood in his system would still make him pretty ruthless. When we get to Season 4, Episode 20, 'The Rapture,' Castiel simply doesn't make an attempt to talk to Dean, and thus, does not get reeducated a second time. Dean still convinces Castiel to help him at the last minute, they are still too late, and the rest of events occur as we know them.