Author's Note: This is the bulk of the story. It is exceptionally larger than the first and last chapters.
"Sam, be careful!"
Sam rolled his eyes and continued to creep forward. "I'm not an idiot, Dean."
"That thing freakin' appeared in a flash of white light." Dean sounded agitated, but he was no less than a yard behind his brother, ever-faithfully watching his six. "We've never seen this… whatever it is before, and you're walking right up to it."
Sam could picture the look on Dean's face, and it was annoying, but it gave Sam a surge of childish happiness. Despite the rough year they'd had, they were still brothers, and Dean was still relentlessly overprotective. Despite the rough year they'd had, Dean still trusted Sam enough to follow his lead instead of pulling him away by the collar.
"You've got your gun trained on it, right?" Sam hoped the question would show Dean he wasn't rushing in without thinking.
"Yeah, but we don't know if it'll work." Metal scraped against the concrete, so Dean must have kicked something aside, because Sam had only encountered splintered wood. "We don't have a lot of bullets, either." Because they hadn't thought it necessary to bring a gun to a knife fight.
"Well, it looks pretty human…" not that that really meant anything, "…and helpless."
It might have been the most helpless thing Sam had ever seen, actually. It had the form of a nearly naked man, probably somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, and it was either unconscious or extremely sedated. It was covered in blood and bruises, lying face down and slightly curled on the warehouse floor.
Basically, it wasn't the most threatening thing Sam had ever seen.
So, Sam got a little bit closer, glass crunching under his boots. He glanced up and saw a few panels of the skylight had been shattered. But he definitely appeared in a flash of light. He didn't fall in.
"Sammy…"
Sam ignored Dean and crouched down instead, slowly reaching out to place a hand on the less damaged shoulder.
Whatever the thing was, it flinched away from the touch and pleaded in a weak, overused voice. "Please… please, don't…"
Sam frowned, hand still hovering.
Monsters didn't usually beg. Most of them maintained their pride to the bitter end, bragging or spitting curses. Low level monsters might have begged if they had the mental capacity, but they were often too animalistic to have any real concept of life and death. Even demons they tortured for information only gave what was helpful and occasionally asked for mercy or tried to hold the brothers to their end of a deal.
They didn't beg.
"Sam, it's not human." Dean's voice lacked his usual confidence.
Sam cautiously tugged the creature's arm away from its face. It didn't flinch that time. Sam knew why as soon as he saw its eyes. They were wide with terror, and it was definitely conscious, but they were clouded to the point of looking gray.
"Sam," Dean pressed, his tone urgent.
"Please..." the creature whined, one hand moving haphazardly to push against the ground. "You don't… you don't have to do this…"
Sam swallowed hard and looked at Dean, realizing only after his head was turned that he already trusted the creature enough to take his eyes off it. That trust might have been in its weakness, but still, it meant he wasn't looking for a trap.
Dean looked conflicted, but he kept his tone hard. "Sam, even demons know how to get in your head. Lilith was in a little girl when we killed her. It's not real."
But Sam knew Dean, and he knew Dean didn't actually believe what he was saying.
Sam let out a sigh and looked back at the being on the floor.
"Please…"
"Shut up!" Intentional or not, it was making Dean feel guilty.
Sam wet his lips and started with the basics, wanting to get the job over with as quickly as possible. "Dean, what is it?"
"Don't you think I would say something if I knew?" was the clipped reply.
Sam inched a little closer and reached out a third time. "There's no mention of anything like this in Dad's journal," he mumbled, trying to recall anything involving white light and humanoid features.
Sam's finger brushed against its skin, and it flinched back.
It's hypersensitive again.
"You—you don't have to… to hunt me, please—"
"Hey! I said shut up, Houdini."
He knows we're hunters. He knows what hunters are, too, so…
"Not… Houdini…" the man rasped, blood flecked over his lips.
"Well, he's a bright one," Dean retorted dryly.
"Dean…" …he knows we're hunters, and that probably means he's a monster of some kind… "…Dean, he looks really bad."
He—no, it—tried to push itself away but got nowhere, the shards of glass on the floor digging into its hand until its body gave. It tried to curl up, but that only seemed to cause it further pain, a strangled cry bursting between its lips.
Sam got a little closer, biting his lip at the sight of black hair matted with blood. Blue eyes stared back at him, entirely unseeing, and Sam felt a sick twist in his gut.
It's a monster. It's not his fault, he can't help it, but we have to protect people.
His mind was quick to laugh a bitter reply. Oh, yes, because he's such a threat. He can't even tell what's happening two feet in front of his face.
Sam was back to calling it a 'he.'
"Well, whatever it is, we've got a job to do."
"Right." Sam had never felt so wrong saying that word. "Uh, holy water and salt didn't seem to do anything, and there's no way he was on the floor during that fight and didn't get hit."
Dean cleared his throat, and Sam recognized the nervously shifting footsteps as a sign that Dean wasn't completely on board with his own plan. "Okay, so, silver and iron knives to start."
Sam pulled the silver from his boot and bit his lip. Think of it as putting him out of his misery. It didn't make him feel any better, but that didn't keep him from plunging his blade into the tender flesh below the ribcage, above the hip.
He—it, he had to think of it as an it—barely managed a cry of pain, the sound coming out more like a gasp than a shout. Sam quickly pulled the knife back out and watched the creature, sick with guilt.
It pushed against the floor again, but it was no more successful than the first time it tried to move. "Please…" It shook its head, blinking slowly and looking around with vacant eyes. "I…"
Sam looked at Dean, who had pulled out his iron knife and was staring uncertainly. Sam looked back to the man—the creature, the thing—and did another onceover.
Blood was dried in various stages all over its skin, and it was wearing nothing except a dark pair of boxer-briefs that were just as stained as the rest of its body. That, along with the begging and the worn-out voice, told Sam it was probably on the run when they found it.
Or it found them.
Either way, talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire.
"Sorry," Sam said softly, unable to tear his eyes from the fresh blood trailing sluggishly down the creature's stomach and back. "We're trying to make this quick."
"Dude, you're not supposed to talk to it." Dean cleared his throat, and there was more nervous weight-shifting. "It makes it harder to gank'em if you start talking about your feelings."
Too late. "He's in a lot of pain, Dean." Sam reached back to take the knife nonetheless. "I mean, would you make a dog suffer when you put it down just because it was rabid?"
"No, I…" Dean sighed and ignored the hand Sam was holding out. He approached the man—thing, thing, thing—himself and knelt down on the other side. "No, of course not, Sam." He wet his lips and looked at the cut Sam had inflicted. "But we can't help it if we don't know how to put this particular dog down, okay?"
Sam just looked at it. It coughed but didn't say anything, tongue hanging uselessly from its open mouth as it panted, as if subconsciously filling the analogized roll.
"Can you… if you stab him in the same place, maybe it would do less damage. Just putting the iron into contact with a wound should be enough for us to know if it'll work."
Dean nodded and lined his blade up. "It'll still do some damage. It's bigger than yours."
Sam gave Dean an exasperated look. "Really, Dean? Now?"
Dean smirked, but it didn't go all the way to his eyes, and he thrust the knife in quickly.
Their target spasmed at the new intrusion, throwing its head against the stones and whining to the ceiling. Sam watched Dean pull the blade out and felt ill. Dean looked like Sam felt.
"Dean, do we have anything else?" He wanted to be done. Immediately.
"I…" Dean looked at the creature with a pained expression on his face.
"What?" Sam realized the answer with the question barely off his tongue. Oh.
"Sam, the next thing we would normally try is fire."
Sam opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the creature gasping loudly, trying to move yet again and failing… yet again.
"P-please," it stammered, apparently conscious enough to fear the mention of fire. "Please, I won't—" It broke off into a fit of violent coughs, hacking blood up and gagging on the liquid it couldn't expel.
Dean launched into Big Brother Mode before he even realized what he was doing, his second nature telling him to protect that which was smaller and weaker than himself. "Okay, look, just—just hold on a second." Dean took it by the shoulders.
And it screamed.
It threw itself away from Dean, scrambling backward until it hit Sam. It apparently didn't know that Sam wasn't a wall, because it kept trying to sit up and lean against him. Its entire body was trembling, and tears had begun to roll down its cheeks.
"Please," it squeaked, voice cracking painfully, bare feet scraping over the glass and splinters on the floor. "I won't… won't hurt… people, I…"
"You can't be sure of that," Dean bit out, but he was looking at Sam with uncertain eyes.
"We're sorry this is hurting, but…" Sam tried to back up his brother. "But you…"
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at the creature. They both knew its reaction likely meant fire was, indeed, the way to kill it.
Sam tried again, struggling to organize words in his brain. "Uh, you just… you…"
"You're coming with us."
Sam blinked, stunned speechless.
Dean stared back for a moment, like he couldn't believe the words that had come out of his own mouth, and then shook his head, muttering a long string of profanities under his breath. "Come on, let's get him in the Impala."
Sam opened his mouth to question the move but then decided not to argue. It would have been unreasonable, given the fact he had been disarmed by the creature's pleas first, and it wasn't like he had an idea to offer in place of taking it along.
Could they call it a 'him' again? If they weren't going to kill it… him… maybe it wouldn't be so bad to humanize him… it… a little.
Sam's head was starting to hurt.
"Y-you… you can't…" the crea—man wheezed, eyes fluttering shut, head shaking weakly. "This isn't… isn't right, please…"
"What's not right?" Sam asked softly, rubbing the man's upper arms in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "We aren't going to hurt you anymore, okay? We're sorry."
But the man only shook his head and whined again, shuddering violently in Sam's arms. "No, please… please, not that…"
Dean approached slowly, reaching out and thumbing one of the man's eyes open. He found the same foggy irises Sam had. "Not what, buddy?"
More absent staring and headshakes. "I can't… I can't take anymore… please, no more… kill me… kill me, please, I can't… I can't take it…" He shuddered again, broken sobs finding their way up his throat before fizzling into shallow breaths.
"Sammy, is he having… like, a flashback or something?"
"I think so." Sam swallowed hard. "It sounds like he was tortured, Dean."
"Yeah, that's kinda where I was going with that." Dean sighed heavily and worked his arms around the body still propped against Sam. "Come on. Let's get out of here. We'll take him to Bobby's and stick him in the panic room."
Sam quirked a brow, silently questioning the idea.
"What? I figure if it can keep anything out, it can keep pretty much anything in. Hopefully." Dean adjusted his hold and lifted the man into the air.
"Careful! I thi—"
Sam was cut off by loud, plaintive whining.
"No… please, stop…" the man whispered, head lolling to the side. "Please…"
"I think his back is burned," Sam finished lamely, standing up and dusting himself off. "It looked like the skin was starting to peel."
"Oh, for cryin' out—" Dean shook his head and started to walk. "Let's get him on his stomach ASAP."
Sam nodded and ran to pick up their discarded weapons before turning on his heel and sprinting back across the room. He got to the door first and held it open, ushering Dean through and jogging out after him.
"Door, door, door!"
Sam turned around and held his arms out. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He finished the rest of the trip to the Impala and opened both back doors, getting in on one side and waiting for Dean to get in the other.
Dean was nearly losing his grip by the time he half placed, half-dropped the creature-man on the backseat. Sam and Dean worked together to get him all the way in without causing further damage.
"We better call Bobby to give him a heads up," Sam muttered, putting all the spare fabric they had against the stab wound and pressing down hard. "And to see if he knows anything."
So, Dean made the call, and then it was only a matter of driving as fast as they could to Sioux Falls; and they did, miraculously going un-ticketed.
More than half the drive was spent trying to soothe their frantic cargo, who would fall quiet for no more than five minutes before crying out again. They eventually just pulled over so Sam could crawl in the back and do his best to keep the man comfortable while Dean finished the half-hour home stretch.
"You gotta be kidding me."
That was what Bobby said when he opened the door and saw them standing there, unconscious man-monster-thing hanging between them.
"We wish we were," Sam muttered, legs still cramped from the awkward end of the trip.
Dean, on the other hand, was irritated from the long drive and snapped, "You knew we were coming and what we were bringing."
Bobby just looked at Dean and waited a few seconds.
"Sorry." Dean sighed, ducking his head. "Sorry, I… my bad."
Bobby jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I got the panic room ready."
Dean nodded and turned sideways, helping Sam get the man through the door. They struggled to keep him and themselves upright, so Dean finally took over, leaving Sam and Bobby to be the door-openers.
"You said he showed up in white light?"
"Yeah," Sam breathed, watching Dean deposit the limp form on a cot. "It was… I don't know, like a ball? He sort of… fell out of it. Like, if the white stuff had been a doorway, he would have been tripping through it."
Bobby pulled his hat off and scratched his head before putting the cap back in place. "I don't know what good that's gonna do me, as far as research goes. 'Naked guy in a ball of white light' ain't a lot to go on." He glanced at Sam. "I'm guessin' you tried to kill it?"
"Yeah." Sam rubbed the back of his neck and looked in at Dean, who was carefully restraining the unconscious… thing-man-creature-monster-entity.
They really needed to figure out what he was. Or name him.
Dean shook his head slightly, his movements slow and gentle. "You should've seen him, Bobby. He was begging for his life like I've never heard before."
Bobby looked at Dean, then at Sam, and then at Dean again, his expression growing suspicious. "You do plan to kill it, don't you?"
Sam looked at Bobby helplessly.
Dean didn't look away from the topic of conversation.
Bobby cursed. "You brought me a monster you don't plan to kill? You boys freakin' crazy?"
"We didn't know what else to do," Dean wiped his hands on his jeans, "and we knew you had the panic room." He joined his family by the door and put his eyes back on their… captive, for lack of a better word.
"Have you ever seen anything like this, Bobby?" Sam gravitated toward the body Dean had left behind, silently hoping Bobby would use the challenge of a difficult search for motivation.
"No, but that don't mean I can't find something out." Bobby frowned, his expression twisting thoughtfully. "You said he was beggin'?"
"Yeah. It was—it was chilling." Sam wet his lips and swallowed hard, nauseated just thinking about the way those faded blue eyes had stared through him. "Like a POW or something."
"Said something wasn't right, but he wouldn't say what." Dean leaned against the doorway. "He said he couldn't take any more, and he just kept begging. We weren't even doing anything to him."
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw the man's chest jerk and all thoughts of conversation immediately derailed. "Hey, I think he's waking up."
Sam got close enough to see the man's eyes, and then he tried to put himself in their direct line of sight, concern creasing his brow.
Blue eyes stared back at him, and it actually seemed like, at least for a moment, they were processing what was in front of them. Still cloudy, but only around the edges, no doubt creating some sort of cataracts-induced tunnel vision.
"Hey, there," Sam whispered, flashing a quick smile. "You, uh… you're awake."
"Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth."
Sam tossed a halfhearted glare over his shoulder, but his attention was pulled back when the man tried to roll over. Dean had strapped him down well despite his injuries, so he didn't get far, but Sam wasn't comforted.
I don't want him to panic. "Hi, uh… my name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and our uncle, Bobby." Smoother by the second, Winchester.
Squinting, the man tried to tilt his head back, pressing his face against the metal frame as a result. "C… c…" He stopped and took a deep breath, making yet another attempt at speech. "C… cast…"
"Cast?" Sam blinked, confused, and looked to his family for help.
Dean held up his hands and Bobby shrugged. So glad I have you guys.
Sam looked back at the man on the cot. "Did someone cast a spell on you?"
If the man was a human enchanted by a witch…
But the man shook his head, mewling quietly in lieu of words.
"You… need a cast?" Sam tried. "For, like, a broken bone or something?"
Dean gave him a look of sibling judgement, and Sam stuck out his tongue.
"How about you numbskulls get the man a drink?" Bobby was openly struggling to find patience, casting his eyes upward in a silent prayer.
"Oh, good idea." Dean snapped his fingers and went over to the crate of water Bobby kept on hand, grabbing a bottle and handing it over Sam's shoulder. "Sam, here, take this."
Sam grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap off with a muffled word of thanks, and then he was propping the man's head up and pressing the bottle's rim to his cracked lips. He tilted it just a fraction of a degree, and the man on the bed was suddenly full of life. He pulled against the straps and cuffs holding him down, teeth closing around what little of the bottle they could grip, lips pulling it closer as he struggled to get as much water into his mouth as possible.
"Woah, woah, woah." Dean walked around to the head of the bed, hovering in true helicopter-parent fashion. "Easy there, buddy." He looked like he wanted to help but didn't know how.
"You weren't kidding about the POW thing." Bobby muttered something under his breath but shook his head at their questioning looks. "It's like he's never tasted water before."
Dean looked back down at the bed, tensed and waiting, ready to mother hen at the drop of a hat, whether he realized it or not.
Sam didn't bother hiding his smile, but he didn't say anything until the water was gone; then he set the bottle aside and tried to coax some conversation from their impromptu guest-slash-prisoner.
"There you go," Sam said softly, smiling down at the battered face. "Better?"
Jerking his head, the man eyed the plastic bottle, and his lips pulled into a slight frown.
Sam couldn't help but smile again, even if it was overshadowed by worry. "We can get you some more then. Now, you were saying something about a cast…?"
"Castiel," the man rasped, coughing violently.
"Castiel?" Is that an incantation? Or maybe—oh. Duh. "That's your name. Castiel?"
"So, tell us, Cas—" Dean dragged a nearby chair over to the cot and straddled it, resting his arms across the back, "—what are you?"
Castiel looked between the two of them, a shudder tearing through his body. His eyes, still faded around the edges, were wide and brimming with fear, but something was keeping his lips together. His body was trembling, but his jaw was set, and even though he seemed to be on the fence about his own silence, he ultimately shrank into the thin mattress and shook his head.
"You sure about that?" Dean used a voice Sam liked to call the Did You Just Potentially Become a Threat to My Family? Voice™. "Because what that tells me is that you know we'd gank you if we knew what you were."
Castiel only stared at them, jaw still set, chains clinking as his body shivered.
"Still not talking, huh?" Dean snorted, and there was a familiar bite in his voice when he continued. "That confirms it, then. Whatever you are, you're bad news, and that means you gotta go, pal. It might take a while, but we'll figure it out. We always do."
But Dean didn't want to, and that was where the familiar bite came in.
Castiel looked at Dean, trying to seem unaffected and failing. His eyes were wide, his body was tense, and for a second, it looked like all he wanted to do was cry. But he didn't. He turned to look at Sam instead, searching for kindness Sam wasn't sure he could give, looking so utterly terrified and alone.
He looked so alone. He looked like he was the only person on the planet.
Sam sighed softly, his brow creasing with sympathy. "You really should just tell us. Maybe… I don't know, maybe we could help?"
Dean snorted to tell Sam what he thought of that suggestion, but Sam ignored him.
Somehow, someway, Castiel managed to make himself even smaller than he already was. He ducked his head, looking up through matted bangs, shoulders hunched up and forward, chin tucked behind his collarbone, and he whimpered.
"Why're you so scared, boy?"
Sam was surprised by Bobby's question, but he looked at Castiel, hoping a new voice might prompt a response of some kind.
Castiel tilted his head back—difficult, given his position—and looked somewhere over Bobby's shoulder.
"I've wasted a lot of monsters," Bobby continued, undeterred, "and I've never seen one as jumpy as you." He paused, lips drawn into a frown. "What do you think we're gonna do to you, huh?"
Castiel's response was to curl as much as his restraints would let him, bruised and bloody knees shifting no more than four inches on the mattress before meeting resistance. He stared at Sam's chest, and it looked like his eyes might have been out of commission again.
"Did someone tell you what to expect?" Bobby pressed, moving a little closer to the bed and peering down at the prone Castiel who refused to tell them much else about himself. "You hear stories about the infamous Winchester brothers?"
Castiel froze.
That's a yes.
Castiel remained frozen, staring dead ahead while every muscle in his body turned to stone. His breath picked up, and then his body started to squirm, and then his eyes were glassy with tears and more unfocused than ever, and then he started to pant and blink rapidly.
Sam looked at Dean, a silent question in his eyes. What now?
Dean gave a less than helpful answer. Heck if I know.
Castiel moved, a single twitch that quickly turned into full-fledged resistance. Sam reached out to push him down, but the sound of a snapping buckle stopped him short.
It hadn't occurred to Sam that someone as beaten down as Castiel might still be able to literally tear chains apart. What was he?
Sam jumped back when Castiel tore an arm free. "Woah! Holy—"
"Crap, he's out!" Dean bolted from his chair, shoving Sam toward the exit.
They practically tripped out of the room with Sam hollering, "Get the door, get the door!"
Bobby did just that, grabbing the wall of metal and slamming it shut.
Sam rushed to open the slot on the door, peering inside despite the pounding in his chest. Because he didn't believe Castiel wanted to hurt them—not in that moment, anyway—and he thought whatever was happening inside the panic room might confirm that.
It did.
Castiel was on his hands and knees by the cot, and Sam couldn't imagine the escape attempt had also been an attack attempt. It looked like their initial impression of Castiel was still accurate—terrified and unaware of what was actually happening around him.
"What's he doing?" Dean pushed Sam aside enough so he could see, too.
Sam shook his head. "He's just… kneeling there."
Castiel looked at them, and they fell into an uneasy silence. They both tensed up when Castiel dragged himself to his feet, but tension melted away as Castiel proved to be just as nonviolent as before. He staggered into the closest wall with a disoriented yelp, and Sam spared a glance at Dean.
Dean looked like someone had punched him in the gut, and Sam knew exactly why.
Dean's primary objective was to protect Sam, and the second was to stay alive… mostly so he could protect Sam… but third came the need to take care of those he deemed weaker than himself.
Not that he would ever admit it.
Oh, sure, Dean openly embraced the family business slogan—saving people was his motivation for almost every hunt—and he wasn't ashamed of his protective instincts. But his core desire was something kept under lock and key, something Sam had only seen a handful of times, something he thought showed who Dean might have been if he hadn't been so desperate to imitate their father.
Dean liked to hold people. Dean would always reach for his guns first, because that was what he was trained to do, but what his instincts told him to do was grab on and wrap his entire body around their head and vital organs. Dean felt an ingrained desire to offer protection and comfort in its most physical form; Sam believed it was one of the reasons Dean was a sex addict.
But it went beyond sex. Sex was the only masculine, socially acceptable way for Dean to acknowledge that he best expressed himself through touch. But in a different life, under different circumstances, Sam imagined it would have manifested itself in many ways.
Dean would have been the husband who voluntarily held his wife's hand during labor and crawled into the bed to hold her and the baby afterward; the father who talked a tough game but always wrapped his kids in the tightest hugs and made sure they never went to bed without a goodnight kiss; the guy at work or on the street who would take words of encouragement one step further and squeeze your shoulder or pat your back.
Dean was gentle. Dean was kind.
And Dean loved to hold people.
Needless to say, standing by helplessly while a tortured trauma victim sat on the floor, whining in pain and trying time and again to get up, well… it was hard for Dean. It was almost unbearable.
"Dean…?" Sam nudged him slightly. "Hey, you okay?"
Dean turned away from the door and started up the stairs. "We can't do anything until he passes out again. I need a drink."
Sam watched him go and then looked at Bobby.
"I'll keep an eye on him." Bobby followed Dean up the steps, and then Sam was alone.
Well, not completely alone.
"Castiel?" he called softly, looking at the miserable lump on the floor and wishing he could do something. "Castiel, it's going to be okay. I don't know how just yet… but we'll figure it out."
Castiel was still moaning quietly, mumbling words from time to time, and he didn't respond.
We'll figure it out… like Dean said, we always do.
Sam let out a heavy sigh and shut the panel, going to join Dean and Bobby in their consumption of alcohol.
Dean wasn't the only one who needed a drink.
Sam didn't know what woke him up first—the shattering windows, the high-pitched shrieking, the screaming from beneath the floorboards—but he knew he wound up stumbling down the stairs to the panic room behind an equally disoriented Dean.
Bobby ran past them in the opposite direction, shotgun in hand. "If any of his kind heard that noise, they might be on their way," he called over his shoulder.
Sam nodded breathlessly, practically leaping down the last five steps and joining Dean by the door. "What's going on?"
Dean stepped aside so Sam could look, dumbfounded. "He's got freaking wings, Sam."
"What?" Sam leaned down slightly and looked through the slat, eyes widening when he saw Castiel on the floor, clawing wildly at his back, shoulders, and wings. "Dean—"
"Yeah, I know." Dean was already opening the door. "They look even worse than he does."
Sam followed Dean into the panic room, both of them stopping a few yards from Castiel and looking at each other uncertainly.
"Wings, okay, wings, what do we—what do we do with wings?"
"They're—" Sam tilted his head and tried to circle around to Castiel's other side. "I think they're burned. See how they, uh, they almost look skeletal?"
"Yeah, like, uh—like bat wings without the skin."
"Exactly, but they don't look like bat wings, they look like bird wings." Sam stepped a little bit sideways and crouched down, heart clenching at the way Castiel was tearing apart his own skin. "Those, uh, those are the shafts of the feathers, I think, but the actual, y'know, feathery part has been burned off."
"That explains the burns on his back. It probably got burned when the wings did." Dean tried to get a little closer, but a flailing wing nearly took his head off. "He's tearing out his own feathers, man, that can't be good."
"Listen to him," Sam followed his own advice shortly after, falling silent for a few seconds and attempting to get a little closer without setting Castiel off. "He's not screaming in pain. It's like… he's…"
"Grieving." Dean's voice was low and rough. "He's grieving, Sam."
Sam listened for a moment more and realized that was exactly it. Castiel's screams were underscored by broken sobs, rough cries tearing up his already damaged throat, like the frightened howls of a wolf cut off from its pack. His body was heaving as he tried to pull air down, vocal chords screaming out the kind of pain that couldn't be relieved with medicine or bandages. His kind—whatever they were—must have been pack animals, used to having a large family, and Sam suddenly remembered how utterly alone Castiel had looked when Dean threatened him.
"Cas!"
Sam was jerked from his thoughts by Dean shouting, and he immediately joined his brother's efforts. "Castiel, it's okay." We have to get him restrained for all our sakes. "Castiel!"
But Castiel couldn't hear them. His wings flapped haphazardly, uncontrollably, trying to escape whatever was causing their pain but unable to find relief no matter what position they were in.
"Cas!"
Sam half ran, half dove forward and grabbed Castiel by the shoulders, trying to hold him still. "Hey, hey, hey, calm down!"
Castiel twisted and screamed, reaching up to throw Sam off. Sam only grabbed his forearms and held on tight, not knowing which way he should try to pin Castiel down.
I can't put him on his wings, but if I put him on his stomach, his wi—
"No, no, no! Let me go!"
"Hey, it's okay." Sam spoke loudly but evenly. "It's okay."
"Let me go!" Castiel looked at Sam pleadingly, tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes clouded and bloodshot and dilated to the point where they were more black than blue. "Please, mercy! Mercy!"
Sam felt a twist in his gut, and he looked to Dean for help.
Dean had no idea what to do, so he went for the Winchester Default. "Crap. I'm getting Bobby."
"Please, no more!" Castiel dropped his head and kept screaming, simultaneously clutching Sam's sleeves and trying to pull away. "No more, have mercy, please!" He just kept screaming and thrashing, and the more he moved, the more pain he caused himself.
"Dean, you have to hold his wings!" Don't leave me alone with him, was the unspoken message. I don't know what to do.
Dean turned on a dime and ran back, assessing the situation as quickly as he could and—with a 'screw it, here goes' kind of look on his face—he rushed forward and pressed his body against one of the wings, forcing it to fold up against Castiel's back. He wrapped his arms around Castiel's torso and held on tight, stocking feet sliding on the floor as he tried to help Sam hold Castiel down.
"Please, I'm—" Castiel choked on a sob and screwed his eyes shut. "I'm your little brother, please!"
Sam didn't hear what came after that.
He doubted Dean did, either.
They looked at each other, and Sam thought for a moment that he would be sick.
He didn't always understand Dean's Big Brother Mode, though he liked to pretend he did, and he knew there were parts of that protective instinct he would never truly comprehend, but… the thought of begging Dean for mercy… the thought of screaming in pain beneath Dean's hand… it was unfathomable. Even more impossible to wrap his brain around was the idea of Dean hearing those pleas and giving him nothing—no comfort, no compassion, no mercy, no help, no, 'Hang in there, Sammy,' not even a, 'You'll be fine, so stop bawling like a little girl, Sam.' Just…
Nothing.
Castiel threw his head back and screamed, the noise going so high and getting so loud both brothers had to fight not to cover their ears. "Please, please have mercy!" His voice cut through the ringing. "We're family!" He wept openly, his struggles growing weaker by the second. "Michael, please, stop them! Stop them, please!"
"Castiel, can you hear me?" If asked, Sam would have denied that his voice cracked. "It's Sam. It's Sam and Dean."
Castiel only shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "No, no, no, no…"
Dean shook his head and looked at Sam, his lip split and bleeding. "He's trying to pull his wing in closer. I don't think he knows it's already folded."
Sam almost asked what happened to Dean's mouth, but the answer was pretty obvious—Castiel must have hit Dean in the teeth—and there were bigger problems at hand.
"They probably stretched the wings out to burn them. What about the other one?" Sam scooted a little closer and moved one hand from Castiel's arm to the back of his head, pulling him closer and pressing him down with help from Dean. "Does he have any control over it?"
"I… I don't think so, Sammy. It doesn't make sense for him to only be trying to fold one wing. He's just…" Dean reached out cautiously, one arm still wrapped around the first wing and part of Castiel's chest while the other struggled to pull the wayward wing closer.
Sam held on tight, desperately wishing he knew how to fix the pain Castiel was in, trying to figure out some way to get Castiel's legs out from underneath himself. It had to be painful, being curled into such a tight little ball, and it definitely wouldn't be helping his injuries.
"I can't reach." Dean shook his head and grabbed onto Castiel's waist again, panting. "I don't want to pull any more feathers or skin off, and I can't reach the end." He heaved a sigh and looked down at the man beneath him.
Sam watched Dean place his hand over the wounds they had inflicted, and he felt a stab of guilt he knew was a pinprick compared to what Dean was feeling.
Dean cleared his throat. "Hey, Houdini, it's Dean. Remember me?"
Castiel panted, still sobbing, but he stilled.
"I'm Dean, and this is my little brother, Sam."
Castiel tensed at the phrase 'little brother,' and Sam worried he might start panicking again, so he tried to keep things calm and normal.
As normal as talking a winged man-creature down from a PTSD flashback in a salted, demon-trapped panic room could be, anyway.
"That's me." Sam rubbed the back of Castiel's head, pressing it down until it hit his thigh. "Um, my name is Sam, and my favorite color is blue." Wow.
"Wow." Dean echoed the thought. "Gay, Sam." He twisted his lips, reluctant, and then added, "Mine's green."
Castiel was still shaking and crying, but the screams had stopped, and his struggles were nearly non-existent, save for the occasional, uncontrolled wing twitch.
"We live out of motels," Sam continued, trying to think of anything that qualified as small talk, "because we travel a lot to hunt." Maybe hunting isn't the best thing to talk about.
But Dean recovered for Sam just like Sam had for him. "Crappy motels, and even crappier food. It's the life, let me tell you." He laughed softly.
Sam laughed, too, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean inched toward the end of the unfurled wing. "We learned how to hunt from our dad." Sam hoped he could show Castiel that family was important to them, and he hoped even more that it would be comforting. "Well, I learned a lot from Dean, too."
Castiel remained tensed for a moment more, but then he took a deep breath and started to relax. Sam stroked his hair gently, watching the sweat glisten on Castiel's mottled, burned, bruised, dirty, bloody, broken skin.
How could anyone do this?
More importantly, how could anyone do it to their baby brother?
"Hey, there we go." Sam smiled slightly. "Dean, look, I think he's coming out of it."
"Well, that's great," Dean grunted, finally managing to get the other wing folded and pinned, "but what am I supposed to do with these?"
Castiel let out a burst of air, and his body practically melted onto Sam's lap. His arms were no longer braced or pulling, his shoulders weren't rigid, his fists weren't clenched, and he wasn't determined to keep himself away from any and all contact. He simply collapsed onto Sam, arms tangled up on the floor beneath him, head no longer pressed but resting on Sam's thigh, body loosely curled into a ball.
"Castiel, do you know where you are?" Sam asked softly.
Castiel jerked his head but made no further attempt to move.
"You're in Sioux Falls." Sam looked at Dean briefly. "Do you remember anything about the hunt?"
"Fell." Castiel coughed, but he kept his face and neck pressed against Sam's thigh. "Thrown. They—they threw me."
Sam frowned, confused.
"Where did those a-holes throw you from?"
"Heaven." Castiel replied without missing a beat, and he was way too disoriented to lie. "My Father made man… in His image… we are… we are supposed to love and protect humans… not hurt them…"
"Your Father?" Sam gave Castiel's shoulder a slight squeeze, his brain making quick work of two and two. "He made us in… Castiel, are you… are you an angel?"
Castiel didn't say yes, but he didn't say no, either. He simply lay there, exhausted, probably wondering whether or not he had just made a massive mistake.
"Cas?" Dean pressed. "Is Sam right?"
Castiel jerked his head, and the move actually resembled a nod that time.
"Castiel," Sam whispered, "why didn't you just say so?"
"I mean, be fair, Sam. We wouldn't have believed him."
I might have. But he didn't say so. Sam might have been more open to the idea of faith than Dean, but Dean did have a point. Even if Sam did believe in angels, he wouldn't have expected to find one in such a sorry state.
"They said…" It was Castiel's voice, weak and still tinged with fear, and that was all the further he got. He sighed instead of speaking, face rubbing against Sam's thigh.
Sam wondered when he had last been touched by someone who didn't intend to cause him pain. Days? Weeks? Months?
…years?
"Dean, we have to help him."
Dean gave him a stupid look. "Wow, really? I had no idea." Dean looked at the feathery mess beneath him. "How do we treat wings?"
Sam bit his lip. "How do we get him comfortable would be my first question."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, he's pretty ragdoll-looking-ish." He looked at the wings again and then at Sam. "Is he even trying to get up?"
Sam shook his head, gently carding his hand through Castiel's hair. "Nope. He's just… collapsed."
Dean cautiously removed himself from Castiel's wings, seeing no need to hold them down now that they weren't flailing aimlessly. "That doesn't look comfortable."
Sam shook his head again, slower and more to express disgust and pity than anything. "I honestly don't think he really knows what's going on."
"Geeze…" Dean ran a hand through his hair and started to pace. "Tortured by his family and thrown at hunters who want to gank him."
"Well, we know better now." Sam felt immense guilt about their first encounter, but he refused to focus on it. "We can help him get back on his feet." And they couldn't do that while wallowing in guilt.
"Yeah, and no way the Halo Squad is getting anywhere near him."
Sam looked down at Castiel again, lightly tracing a gash along Castiel's cheek with his finger. "What do you think they did to him? I mean, for what purpose? Like… was it punishment or interrogation or…" He sighed heavily. "It feels wrong to judge angels as a whole when we don't have the details, but…" Sam sighed again and shook his head. "I can't see any excuse for this. It's just messed up."
Dean let out a heavy sigh and looked at Castiel and Sam, putting his hands on his hips. He didn't say anything for a moment or two, and then he started to nod, apparently done with talk and ready for action.
"Well. He's got wings and feathers. I say we make him a nest."
Sam looked at Dean, deadpan.
Dean didn't back down. "Hey, I'm serious. We can get a few mattresses, as many pillows and blankets and soft things as we can find and then… make him a nest. Something so he can lay on his stomach without hurting himself, and something big enough that we can stretch his wings out and… do whatever you do to burned wings."
Sam considered the idea for a moment, and then he started to nod. It was actually a pretty good idea, if a bit cliché, and they were in the perfect place for it. Bobby held on to a lot more than cars, after all.
"We can take one of the guest rooms, get the furniture out, and put… what, four box springs?" Sam waited for a nod from Dean to continue. "Four mattresses on the box springs, four to put padding between the nest and the wall."
"Then pillows and blankets galore—I don't think Bobby has ever gotten rid of a single piece of fabric that has come into this house." Dean crouched down beside Sam and tried to get a look at Castiel's eyes. "We should have eyedrops somewhere."
"They looked like they were clearing up on their own, but it's slow going." Sam lifted Castiel slightly. "Can you see his chest and side? How's it looking?"
"Well, it's a bruisefest, but I think the stab wounds are mostly closed up. Still bleeding a bit… he probably tore the new skin with all his panicking… but it's better than it would be if he were human." Dean pursed his lips. "So, he's got some kind of healing ability—makes sense, I guess, if he's an angel—but it's not unlimited."
Sam wet his lips. "Which means he was tortured for so long that his body ran out of… whatever it is his body uses to heal itself."
They exchanged a look, and then Dean stood up and clapped his hands together.
"Okay, let's get this guy upstairs and clean him up."
Sam frowned. "Do any of us know anything about cleaning wings? I mean, they're angel wings, but wings are generally fragile, and we don't wanna screw them up more than they already are."
Dean shrugged. "Research is your department, Sammy. I say we start with the holy grail of first aid: warm water. You can never go wrong with warm water."
Sam nodded in agreement, and then he started to shift his hold, moving to Castiel's right while Dean crouched back down on the left. "This is gonna be even harder with the wings."
"Yeah, well, I can't carry that over the threshold, so…" Dean grunted, wrapping one of Castiel's arms around his neck and slowly standing up with Sam. He looked over his shoulder as soon as they were upright. "Crap. They're gonna drag if we do it this way."
Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes. "Um…" He looked at Castiel for about ten seconds straight. "Here, let's try this."
Sam got behind Castiel and wrapped his arms around the angel's waist, using his arms and chest to keep Castiel's wings folded, much like Dean had earlier. "Okay, you have to get his legs, but not by the ankles."
Dean hovered, hands outstretched but unsure what to do. "What?"
"If you just pick him up by the ankles, I'll have to grip him really tight to keep him from falling, and that'll hurt his wings." Sam hid his smile behind the matted feathers of Castiel's left wing. "You're gonna have to grab him bridal style while I hold his torso and wings together."
"So, basically, you want me to stick my hand between your crotch and an almost-naked guy's crotch to get a good grip on him. Did I follow that right?" Dean looked at Sam with raised brows and incredibly judging eyes.
"No." Sam was still struggling not to smile. "I want you to stick your hand between my crotch and an almost-naked guy's butt to get a good grip on him."
"You're a butt," was Dean's eloquent counter. "Just… don't move."
Sam couldn't hold the laughter back anymore, but he did manage to keep it quiet and earn no more than a dirty look. Then Dean was carefully moving his arm between the duo, wrapping it around Castiel's waist while the other hooked his knees.
"This has to be the awkwardest thing we've ever done." Dean almost started toward the stairs before going in the opposite direction so Sam could take the lead.
"Most awkward." Sam carefully walked across the panic room and over to the stairs. "Awkwardest isn't a word."
"Sam, I swear, I will drop this angel to punch you."
Sam smirked, intending to make a comment about Dean having to get around said angel because of the stair railings, but the humorous moment was cut short by Bobby muttering curses from the top of the steps.
"He's got wings now?"
"Apparently." Dean nearly tripped on the second to last step.
Sam tried to maintain both his balance and a loose hold on Castiel. "He's an angel."
Bobby looked at the mess of feathers and skin and boys, but to his credit, all he did was heave a sigh and shake his head. "What are we doin' with him?"
"Right now, the plan is to clean him up and make him a nest of soft things." Sam couldn't really shrug while holding Castiel, but he still made an attempt. "You know anything about birds? Or wing and feather care?"
Bobby's expression was priceless. Sam only wished he could preserve it for posterity.
But what Bobby didn't know, Bobby quickly learned, and then it was the three of them with a tarp, buckets of warm water from the house, and Dawn dish soap. That, and an unconscious angel.
It took a little over an hour to clean away the blood—along with the down feathers sticking to it—and dead skin. Once that was done, they hit a wall of sorts, quickly realizing Castiel had been tortured in relatively untreatable ways.
There weren't any puncture wounds or incisions aside from the ones they had inflicted, yet the damage was severe. Bruises covered Castiel's body so he was more purple than pale, and Dean had located four swollen spots where he was certain ribs had been broken. Bruises and broken ribs couldn't be treated, so they looked to the next thing.
Well, the next thing was the burns. Most of the skin around the base of Castiel's wings had been burned to the third degree, but as the burn spread, it faded into second and then first degree. It was a good thing—the less nerve damage, the better—but once again difficult to treat. They had already peeled away the dead skin, so they gently cleaned the exposed dermis and wrapped it in gauze as best they could. They once again looked to the next thing.
They found marks and bruising under Castiel's fingernails that indicated needles had been shoved there. Sam had gotten a little sick at that, but once he was done, he was right back at Castiel's side. Bobby excused himself, announcing his intention to work on the nest for 'featherbrain.'
Sam and Dean got back to work. They found more burns on Castiel's arms, neck, hands, feet, and thighs, all of them first degree. Where the skin wasn't burned it was scraped or irritated or welted, never enough to cause real damage but always enough to make sure Castiel would feel pain every time he moved, every time he breathed.
Neither brother spoke when they removed the bloody boxer-briefs, and though they would never speak of it, they both breathed a sigh of relief when they saw no signs of sexual torture. There were, of course, burns and scratches and welts. There were always burns and scratches and welts, it seemed.
By the time they got Castiel in his nest, the sun was coming up over the mountains.
By the time Dean was finished taking out his frustrations on a car, it was high noon.
By the time Sam fell asleep on a Bible and an encyclopedia of birds, it was mid-afternoon.
By the time Castiel started screaming in his sleep, it was almost dinnertime.
By the time the sun was slowly dipping back down below the horizon, Sam and Dean did something they never imagined they would.
"Sammy, he's starting to mumble again."
Sam joined Dean in the nest on the other side of Castiel, carefully avoiding the wings spread out on the mattresses, and he put his head down to listen.
"…no… won't… can't make me… can't…"
Sam frowned slightly and looked at Dean. "That's new."
Dean just stared at Castiel, eyes turning dark and cold. "Well, we know he was tortured a long time. Maybe this is how it started."
Castiel inhaled sharply and moaned. "This… this isn't… what Father… wants…"
Dean shifted from sitting to laying down, and then he slipped his legs underneath one of the many, many blankets spread around them. He shimmied down so his lower half was underneath Castiel's wing, making himself comfortable.
Sam pursed his lips, confused, but followed his brother's lead and took off his shoes, tossing them well away from the nest. He sat cross-legged and waited to see what Dean would do, wondering if he was about to see one of those moments when Dean embraced his instinctive need to comfort.
Dean grunted, trying to move Castiel onto himself. "Help me out, Sammy."
Sam was surprised but helped nonetheless, situating Castiel so his head was resting on Dean's chest. He remained confused for a moment more, but then Dean shifted Castiel so his head was specifically over Dean's heart, and Sam understood.
"Can we do anything else to keep him from panicking?" Sam reached out to feel the angel's pulse, startled at how fast it was. "Candles or oils or something?"
"Wow. I have a shirtless dude laying on me, and you just lost more man points than I did. That's just sad."
Sam reached over and smacked Dean upside the head, moving back slightly and holding up a finger when Dean tried to retaliate. "Ah, ah, ah. Don't want to wake him up."
"You suck," Dean grumbled.
Sam only smiled and pulled the blankets more securely around Castiel's waist and legs. He sat back after that, leaning against the upright mattresses and pillows, waiting to see what Dean would do.
Dean didn't do much of anything for a few moments, and then he started to run his hand through Castiel's hair. Just once or twice every thirty seconds or so. He pressed the back of his hand to Castiel's face and neck, but he must not have found a fever, because he dropped his hand back to the mattress and left it there until he needed to stroke Castiel's hair again.
"You hated sleeping on your belly as a kid."
Sam's face screwed up. "Um… okay?"
"You had a sinus infection… and it was really bad." Dean reached out and ran a hand through Castiel's hair again, his eyes glued to the ceiling. "You kept getting sick because you were laying on your back and swallowing all the infected junk in your sleep."
"Ew, Dean, seriously?" Sam put a hand to his stomach even as he thought about it, confused and disgusted, having no idea where Dean was going with the conversation. "I don't want to throw up again tonight if I can help it."
Dean smiled slightly, but he wasn't deterred. "I made your sleep on your belly. You were so mad about it… but I didn't give you a choice. I stayed awake all night, watching you, making sure you didn't roll over in your sleep. Twice your congestion woke you up, and you tried to roll over then, too."
Sam stared at his socks, but he didn't really see them. "I… I don't remember." He looked back up. "Sorry, Dean."
Dean only shook his head, staring perpetually at the ceiling. "You were only four."
Sam looked at Dean, waiting in silence, still confused, knowing there had to be something Dean was building up to. But Dean didn't say anything. He just ran his hand through Castiel's hair again. Sam was just about to press him when he finally spoke.
"You insisted sleeping on your stomach made you feel sick, and I couldn't get you to believe that laying on your back would make you feel even sicker. You screamed and cried and pleaded and demanded. You told me you hated me, that you'd never forgive me, and that if I loved you, I wouldn't make you sleep on your belly." Dean snorted out a bitter laugh. "It killed me."
Sam wet his lips, trying to remind himself how irrational it was to be embarrassed and guilted by the actions of his four-year-old self. "Dean—"
"There's only one thing that kept me from giving in, and it was knowing I was doing what was best for you." Dean finally took his eyes off Castiel, meeting Sam's with a kind of fire the younger brother had never seen before. "That is the only acceptable reason for any big brother to cause their little brother that kind of pain and fear. There is nothing else in the universe that should have the override key to that instinct, that…" he sent his eyes back to the ceiling and cleared his throat, embarrassed, "…that 'let me hold you and make everything better' instinct." He looked back down. "That is the only reason, Sammy."
Sam remained silent, his expression tinged with sympathy but mostly neutral. It wasn't often that Dean poured out his heart, so to speak, and Sam wasn't going to do anything to make him close up again.
Dean shook his head and looked back at Castiel, folding one arm under his own head while the other ran through the dark, somewhat damp locks again. "You know that old saying, 'better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?'"
Sam nodded slightly and whispered, "Yeah."
"I dunno, man." Dean shook his head again. "No family is perfect, but… in a case this extreme, you gotta wonder if he would have been better off abandoned. Not getting this sick idea of what brothers are supposed to do to each other."
Sam hesitated but then grabbed the edge of a blanket, sliding underneath and laying on his left side less than three feet from the duo. "I don't know. Maybe there's a bright side to it."
Dean scoffed. "Like what?"
Sam shrugged, pressing his lips together as he watched Castiel slowly breathe. "Contrast, maybe. We can teach him what big brothers are supposed to do." He smiled slightly. "I'd kinda like to be on the other end of things for a change."
Dean didn't say anything for a moment, but then he laughed.
"What?" Sam gave him a dirty look. "I can pull off the older brother thing. Heck, I take care of you half the time as is."
Dean only shook his head, still laughing. "He's probably older than both of us, you know that?"
Sam thought about that for a moment, and his face broke into a grin. "Yeah, I guess so."
Castiel whimpered, fingers clutching both Dean's shirt and the sheet beneath them. "Please…" He shuddered, his face screwed up tight. "Father, please… please, get me out… I'm scared… I'm scared, I'm so scared…"
Dean and Sam shared yet another pained look, something that seemed to always punctuate their interactions with Castiel. Would the angel ever say or do something that didn't stab them in the chest?
"It's okay, buddy." Dean reached out and gently stroked Castiel's hair. "You're okay. You're safe."
Castiel's face relaxed but then twisted up again, one leg trying to come up toward his chest while the other kicked the blankets. "Please…"
"Cas, you can't do that." Dean spoke softly, but he still placed a firm hand on Castiel's back and pressed him down flat. "Try not to move, okay? You're safe."
Castiel whimpered, and Dean shushed him, running a hand through his hair repeatedly. Sam slowly sat up, sliding one leg out from under the blankets with the intention of leaving.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Sam looked at Dean, who was less than pleased, and offered a helpless and bewildered expression. "It's just kinda awkward. You're going Big Brother Mode, and I don't know what to do, so I thought—"
"You wanna be his big brother, you get your butt over here and you deal with the awkward crap." Dean looked back at Castiel and ran a hand through his hair again. "I'm talking about my feelings and childhood memories as I lay in a freakin' nest-bed with a shirtless angel on my chest, and if his nightmares keep up, soon I'll be whispering sweet nothings in the still of the night. I can literally feel my manhood ceasing to exist."
Sam's mouth quirked up in the corner.
"But he's scared, Sammy."
Sam slowly laid back down, keeping himself propped up slightly. "I won't go anywhere."
"Good." Dean nodded affirmatively. "And just for the record, knowing what you're doing has nothing to do with being a big brother. 'Cause I have no freakin' clue what I'm doing, but here we are, man."
Sam chuckled softly, but he didn't say anything, and Dean let that silence hang. It was an easy silence, strained only by the rattling breaths from Castiel's lungs.
"In the stiiill… of the niiiight…" Sam sang, grinning at Dean.
"Sam, I swear—"
"Hooold me darlin'… hooold me tight…"
"How dare you taint this room with country music?"
"Shoo doop, shoo be do…"
"Did you just doo-wop in my presence? Stop. Not another doop. Sam—"
"Soooo real… sooooo right—"
"I am not afraid to break your face."
"Lost in the fifties toniiiight…"
"You're dead to me."
"I could have been, but you went and sold your soul."
"That's cold, Sam."
"No, I imagine it would have been very hot."
"I hate you."
"I love you, too."