A Quantum of Solace

by Celesma

"It was very clear to Sam that he was dreaming. That, or the witch had gone and cast the one spell he really, really wished she hadn't—namely, the one that shrank people." When Sam is injured from a witch's shrinking spell, he learns where he and Castiel really stand. Unrepentant Sam/Cas fluff.

7. Chapter Seven

Sam and Cas learn they are not broken, Dean concedes a point, and Sam finds himself too big for his bed.

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A Quantum of Solace

Chapter Seven

Sam's world is a confusion of sound and color and light. He does not know what comes first or last. He knows only that there is ringing in his head, crescendoing over a passage of long days and weeks and years, finally reaching a fevered pitch—an angelic shriek—so shrill he feels his skull shatter apart. Through the glaze of his disembodied eyeballs he can see blood, sweet and black, dripping from the jowls of a giant feline face. Two faces behind it, equally inhuman, snarling, lapping eagerly at the blood on the ground. His blood. He drank too much and it's all coming out of him. Then he is a cockroach, a creepy crawlie with too many legs, being crushed in huge human fingers, fingers that resolve into claws, the tools of holy war. Broken black wings watch the proceedings, watch him.

Hell's boyking, Heaven's plaything. Wishes and curses, prayer and profanity. Snatches of ancient words from an ancient melody, pouring warm and dark from an enormous throat, the Devil's high and tinkling laughter. All of them war for dominance, each impression conquering the dream in turn, until finally, finally, finally—

Sam was suffocating.

Even before he opened his eyes he could feel his lips stretching taut over bared teeth, gaping desperately for air like it was something he could bite off and chew. His chest was tight, ribs locked around a breath that was dwindling away to nothing even as it fought to slip outside to freedom. At the same time, his limbs thrashed wildly for purchase: his eyes flew open to watch as his arms instinctively pushed against the foreign shapes that kept him pinned, as helpless as a butterfly, against a wall at least three times his height. When he raised his eyes, trying breathlessly to delineate the edges of his prison, he saw nothing but crawling lines of shadow.

The wall itself seemed nearly to be a living thing. It didn't crawl but rippled behind him, impossibly warm; and yet the warmth was unable to penetrate the cold that gripped his heart, to banish the freezing sweat that stuck to his plain white shirt and his blood-spattered jeans. His arms having proven themselves useless to his goal, the young hunter tried to raise both legs and kick against the huge shapes that held him down. He made a small sound of surprise when the shapes actually pushed back against him, locking his legs, applying ruthless yet strangely gentle pressure—he got the sudden, absurd feeling that he was being scolded for trying to escape. He became aware then of a familiar scent, one that reminded him of both autumn and spring, along with a drumming in his head that could have been his heart but was far too huge, far too removed.

Those two things managed to bring him around, if only for an instant. Stop it, he ordered himself sternly. Just breathe. Breathe.

He didn't breathe. What little breath he could summon was coming too fast, too shallow in his tortured throat; and even when he managed to calm down more and remember to suck in deep from the gut—that's it Sammy, John would have said, straight from the diaphragm, nice and slow; and where was his dad anyway—he couldn't quite manage it. His chest continued with burn with ice, a steady throb that reminded him of an infected tooth.

Dark. Cold. He repeated the words in his mind, hoping for some anchoring effect, until he realized that they were running into each other, an unintelligible chant that eventually resolved into the syllables for thirsty thirsty thirsty thirsty thirsty

It was like the turning of a key, unlocking a flood of memories—the curse that had left him less than three inches tall, Dean and Cas, donuts and coffee and witches and karaoke music... but there was only one memory that really mattered. The thick black ichor that had coated his skin, filled his mouth... calmed the thirst that was absolutely screaming in him now, screaming to be sated, more desperate and insistent and raw than the most pressing sexual need. Sam remembered, too, the last time he had felt that kind of thirst. The panic room, and the subsequent drying out. He had prayed to die towards the end—because worse than the thirst, worse than the black veins that had broken out like a demonic rash along his palms and arms and face, had been the hallucinations, the visions, the drumbeat affirmations from friends and family alike that he had mutated himself into something more monster than man.

He would not go through that hell again. He would escape first, if only to find another Bobby. One who would actually shoot this time.

Or drink more, a voice that didn't sound different enough from his own whispered sweetly. Why go that far? There will always be more demons. You could always drink more. Sam made a wretched noise, both at the suggestion and the fact that he could never bring himself to truly reject it. Having found the chink in his armor, the voice dug deep, morphing into a syrupy singsong of moremoremoremoreMORE

"Dean," he whispered brokenly. But he knew already that his brother wouldn't come. He hadn't earned that the last time—deserved it even less now. Even so, the young hunter continued to plead, selfishly hoping he could summon even the shadow of his brother's presence.

"Dean," he said again. "Dean—Dean, just help me, please, Dean..."

He resumed his struggle against the cage of the fingers that held him—because he already knew that he was in someone's hand, if not whose hand he was in—and continued to babble for his brother, a steady stream of sound rivaled only by the heartbeat that seemed to pulse from all directions. He learned quickly enough that he had no strength, either to get away or to continue using his voice, so he gave up on both.

Presently a thumb entered his field of vision. Sam stiffened and watched, transfixed, as it swept over him and pinned him down, easily but without a hint of yielding. The heartbeat grew more pronounced, and now Sam thought he sensed a soft, sighing strain of music above him, deepening and lengthening in cadence.

Sick and helpless and utterly lost as he was, a tiny part of Sam was comforted. He raised his one free hand, feeling out the shape of the thumb that held him, trying to lose himself in those peaceful rhythms, to let them pass through the spheres of his body and expunge the icy blackness. Then he sensed movement, the hand raising to some unknown destination, and while the thumb never left its firm position on his chest, the fingers sprang open slowly around him, revealing a pair of huge blue eyes resting quietly on his own, and silent lips shaping his name like a prayer.

Because it was Cas. It was Cas that was holding him, Cas that had been irrevocably harmed trying to protect him—was still trying to protect him, after everything—and all Sam cared about was drinking demon blood. For the first time his mind cleared. He struggled to sit up, and on an instinct he looked for the star-studded map of wings from before, but he saw none. The only thing he was able to make out in the dim light was that they were in an unfamiliar bedroom, and Castiel was lying on a mattress—some kind of futon, close to the floor.

For a long moment the angel and the hunter looked at each other: Sam studying every last detail of that beautiful face, Cas looking at him as if he was trying to commit his very soul to memory. "Sam," Castiel whispered, and although his lips barely moved to form his name, his eyes seemed to smile down on the young hunter. Palpable relief swept through Sam... followed by a sharp, stabbing pain, the twist of a frozen blade embedded deep in his heart. He croaked, nearly expecting to cough up blood; and Cas's expression grew alarmed, the smile departing from his eyes.

"Sam," he said. "Sam! You must calm down."

It was no use. Sam was shaking again—convulsing, as the muscles of his contaminated body howled with the pain of a thousand jabbing needles and his windpipe constricted to the size of a needle. Castiel's fingers tightened around him, securing him in his palm; the young hunter rocked back against it, trying to get a whole, unmolested phrase out between his shivering lips. "Cas, 'm so cold... so thirsty..."

At first Cas looked as if he was going to say something else. Then something shifted in his expression, a tiny flicker of resolve that Sam somehow felt all the way down in his gut, and before he knew what was happening Castiel's face was growing larger, and larger, and so was his mouth; that incredible spring-autumn scent overwhelmed him as the pale lips carefully parted, breathed a warm human breath across Sam's sweat-dampened forehead.

"Relax," the angel ordered, as though Sam were a misbehaving fledgling. Sam slumped obediently into his palm. He expected that to be the end of it, but the angel leaned in even closer, face blotting out the thin light remaining in the room. Then Sam knew nothing but the scent of Castiel—spring and fall and a thousand other seasons he could not name, bound together like electrostatic forces by the faintest spice of pumpkin and ozone—and white teeth peeking out from behind outstretched lips, preparing to breathe on him once more. Sam felt something like a great wind lift the hair off his forehead as the angel pulled in air; any other time, any other person, and he would have been terrified beyond belief, but there was something about this moment, so intimate and right, that made him lean forward instead of pull away, instinctively seeking out the angel's heat. He wanted to kiss every last inch of those lips, to curl up and fall asleep against them. He wondered if Castiel would feel it, each little pinprick of heat as the tiny hunter pressed kiss after kiss into—

Castiel blew on him twice. Once again the angel was relying on Jimmy's body to accomplish what his weakened Grace could not; all the same, it warmed his tiny charge, and soon Sam's breathing began working its way back towards equilibrium. At length Sam felt himself being lowered, lowered, until Castiel was holding him cupped in front of his chest and all he could see before him was a wall of blue silk and white cotton, rising and falling against his body with even, deliberate breaths.

"Breathe," Castiel said, his voice somehow all around him. "After me. In, and out."

"Cas—"

"It is the demon blood," Cas interrupted. "You cannot allow it to control you. So, breathe."

Sam tried again. Even dazed and weakened, he felt there was something important he was missing, something he needed to remember. "Cas," he pressed on, feeling all of his remaining air escape with the word, "you said... angels don't—"

"They don't, but I can and I will," the angel rumbled purposefully. And then, again: "Breathe, Sam. We can't get through this otherwise."

And Sam recognized it now—what the angel was trying to tell him, in his own way. I'm here for you. I won't leave you. It was the greatest comfort he could have offered him.

Sam breathed. At first the breaths refused to come, trapped somewhere between his chest and his throat, but the massive chest moving against him coaxed them out one by one like notes from a pianist's fingers, patient and slow. Sam clutched at the white fabric that stretched away from him in either direction, his fingers finding the smooth curve of button and the trailing edge of dark blue silk. If he tilted his head up he could see the angel's face sinking back into the pillow, eyes at half-mast, carefully inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth; and there was comfort in that, too. He wondered distantly if this was what it had been like, those first confused moments upon leaving the womb, when he was scared and lost and had needed his mother to teach him to breathe, to feed.

For a quarter of an hour neither of them spoke. Sam felt exhausted, like he'd been running for days—from himself, from demons, from every evil thing under the sun. The feeling was destined to last as long as the tainted blood continued to work its way out of his system, and who knew how long that would take—but now at least he felt some measure of control over it. He wasn't doing this alone. Safe, he thought, letting himself sink into the comforter beneath him, into his sense of Castiel. I'm safe.

"You were doing it earlier, too," he said at last, his words whispered into the twist of blue tie. "I could feel it. You breathing."

For an instant Castiel's breath seemed to catch—he'd caught the angel by surprise—but then his chest was moving again, undisturbed by the young hunter's observation. "I thought it would reassure you," he said with equal slowness, "to know that I am still alive."

Sam's lips quirked up in a secret smile. Then it fell as he thought of the alternative, which in turn led to the memory of the terrible slashes he had seen in that brilliant black sky: the reason the angel was convalescing in a bed, so profoundly unnatural an arrangement for a creature that could fly anywhere it wanted in existence. And what if Castiel couldn't do that anymore—couldn't use his wings, because of Sam's weakness? "Cas," he said, the panic brewing in him all over again. "What Zachariah did to your wings... I..."

"They will heal." Castiel sounded tired but calm. Sam closed his eyes in relief. "I will hear no apologies from you, Sam. I've lived a long time, and suffered far worse scars than this. I simply require rest." Then his chest did stop moving, his fingers suddenly trembling around Sam. "Compared to the harm that I did to you..."

Sam couldn't even think about that moment without hearing a faint ringing sound in his skull—a disquieting reminder that no angel, no matter how benevolent, could ever be tamed. Even so, he pressed himself further into the cotton folds, hoping his actions were enough to bear out the strength of his next few words. "But that wasn't your fault, Cas," he said. "Zachariah was—God, the bastard was torturing you. Of course you were going to have a reaction. I couldn't possibly blame you for that. And you saved me, so it all turned out okay in the end." He couldn't be afraid of Castiel, any more than the sunflower could be afraid of withering away to brown petals beneath the glare of the sun.

"No, Sam. I failed you." Castiel said this as grimly as if he were stating a sad fact of life. "I failed to anticipate that he would target my wings, and because of that you..."

"No." Sam grit his teeth. "No way, Cas. I am not gonna sit here and listen to you say that."

"I was afraid," Castiel continued, in a smaller voice. "After I healed you, I... I didn't even think I should touch you. I thought that somehow I might—hurt you again. It was Dean who said I should..."

"What did he say to you?" And then, more hesitantly: "Where is Dean?"

He expected to hear the words in a bar, or on the road. Anywhere but here. But Castiel's answer surprised him. "Dean is debriefing Alana. This is her house," he said. Sam's eyebrows knit with confusion. "We thought it best not to return to the motel room, except to retrieve your belongings. Alana and Dean are probably still in the kitchen. Her friends were here earlier, but I healed them and escorted them to their homes, with instructions to prevent future possessions. They're doing well."

Sam afforded himself a quick glance down at the comforter beneath him. Purple, with cutesy animal designs that he could have sworn he'd seen once on the cover of a Lisa Frank trapper keeper. That explains a few things. Aloud, to Cas: "So there's no chance of Zachariah finding us, then?"

"None at all," Castiel confirmed. "The banishing vigil Dean used sent him straight back to Heaven. Not only that, but the victims had access to the thoughts of the demons possessing them. It was only by sheer chance—or perhaps God's providence—that they chose hosts from the same church family. Zachariah didn't care about the particulars when he gave his orders to the demons. He only hoped to abduct enough people in one place to attract the attention of you and your brother. In this he succeeded, but..."

"...but he didn't count on you joining us," Sam finished with a tight smile. "If I'd never been cursed, we'd have walked right into his trap. After all, there was nothing special about the case, no reason to call you. It was the perfect setup." He huffed a laugh. "Man—don't let Dean hear me saying this, but being shrunk was probably the luckiest break we could have gotten."

"Yes, well." Castiel sounded slightly put out. "I've already placed hidden wards on this house, and Dean took the precaution of pouring salt lines. We will be safe, for as long as it takes for..."

...for you to detox, he didn't finish. "I can't leave, can I," Sam said. He had already resigned himself to it, but he needed to hear it.

"For the time being, no." Castiel sounded apologetic. "That's... one of the reasons Dean wanted me to stay with you. I'm the only one who can safely restrain you. If it comes to that."

Sam lowered his head, feeling the whisper of blue silk against his cheek. "It's all my fault," he murmured. "It was disgusting, Cas. What I did. I was bathing in that blood. Like some kind of wild animal—"

"No." Castiel's tone was unwavering in its certainty. "I know you resisted, Sam. Longer than anyone else could have. You were very brave, and you did the best you could."

Tears pricked at the corners of Sam's eyes, and he buried his face deeper into the fabric. "How could you possibly know that?" he whispered.

One soft fingertip grazed the tips of his hair in response, moved to rest beneath his jaw. Sam startled at that gentle touch, and he found his head tipped back until he was gazing into the angel's fierce eyes. "Because you are strong," Castiel said, his own voice a whisper, and yet as unmistakably clear as if he were shouting from Heaven. "Because you are the strongest human I know. You took the thorn God put in your flesh, and you used it to accomplish His work."

A single tear slid down Sam's cheek. He continued to look up into that resolute face, blinking hard, until the angel's finger finally slipped from his jaw to his cheek, wiping the tear away. Sam clutched at it helplessly, willing it to stay—and maybe Castiel heard his wish, because he didn't move his hand away. "You will heal from this," the angel told him. "It will just take some time."

"How long?"

"I don't know," Cas said. "It would be best if you slept."

"Yeah. I don't think that's gonna happen." Sam shook his head, summoning a watery smile. His breathing was so shallow, his lungs so tight in his chest, that he feared he might suffocate again if he slipped into unconsciousness. The last time he'd done this, he'd been locked up for just a couple of days, although by his estimation it had felt like a couple of decades. He didn't think time would hold any more meaning this time around than the last. At least there were no hallucinations to contend with, and Castiel was here with him—

"Wait," he said suddenly. "Wait." Cas looked down at him questioningly. "Your vessel. Is he okay?" He felt the sting of guilt even before he had finished speaking: for not asking sooner, for needing to remind himself that these precious moments with the angel he loved could not last. Castiel, if he understood Sam's feelings, did not let on.

"Jimmy is unhurt," he replied. "It was only my wings that were harmed, not his body." His eyes flashed with amusement. "I also had to assure him that the damage I suffered was not permanent."

And Sam had to admit, there was something really sweet about that. "Is he asleep now?" he asked.

Castiel nodded. "For the time being. Dean should be here to check on you soon," he added, but the uncertain lilt in his voice suggested that the angel had had that thought more than once in the last few hours. "If having him here would help you in some way..."

Sam shook his head again. Dean wasn't coming for him... or if he did, it would be when Sam was already asleep, when he wouldn't have to look his junkie brother in the face. A more rational part of the young hunter hurried to reassure him that Dean didn't loathe him exactly as much as he deserved—the voicemail was a fake, remember?—but somehow he couldn't make the assurance stick, to imagine a world where that wasn't true. It was, he thought with a stroke of black humor, a little like trying to readjust your entire worldview after finding out monsters were real.

He started when he realized that Castiel was speaking again. "Perhaps now would be the best time to take you up on your offer, then," the angel said.

Sam blinked several times in succession. "...my offer?"

"From before," Castiel said. Sam couldn't be certain but the angel suddenly sounded... bashful. Or at the very least, unsure of himself. The young hunter's conviction grew when the angel drew his finger away, carefully shifted Sam in his palm. "I understand that talking is something humans do to pass the time?"

For another moment Sam remained uncomprehending. Then he remembered their discussion about Reapers, and the very last thing he had said to Cas before haywire. "—Oh," he said, feeling heat creep into his frozen ears; even in the throes of demon blood withdrawal, the angel could still make him blush. "Yeah, I guess we could do that... um, do you wanna—?"

Castiel hesitated. Then he said slowly, "I think I would like you to start, Sam."

"What should I talk about?"

Castiel looked at him. "Anything." The corners of his lips raised. "Preferably something pleasant."

"Right..." The young hunter lowered his head, ears still burning, trying to compose his thoughts. He felt almost too weak to speak at a sustained pace, but right now talking seemed like a very welcome distraction from the ever-present thirst and cold; and he wouldn't have to worry about exerting his voice all that much, Castiel having the patience and hearing of—well, of an angel. And maybe it would take Cas's mind off his own pain, too.

So he talked. He talked about Jess. He talked about those early days they'd spent together: driving to the beach with Brady, cramming in last-minute study sessions at the library, arguing over legal minutiae over half a dozen sticky buns at Cinnabon. About the smell of her hair right before she took a shower, and how he used to think—still did—that it was the best smell in the world. He talked about the fun times he'd had with Dean, little moments that had nothing to do with hunting, such as the time they'd snuck into a baseball game and Dean had bought him piping hot french fries swimming in salt and vinegar, right before he managed to catch a fly ball (granted, he'd caught it in the face and spilled the fries all over his little brother's lap, but Sam had been sworn to secrecy and thus graciously left that detail out). How Dean would hold his hand sometimes when they crossed the street (and when John wasn't looking), and the one time Dean tried to ride a junked motorcycle at Bobby's and just about got them both killed. He talked about the moment he had gotten hurt on his first real hunt, and how Dean had totally freaked. The day the bandages finally came off, and Dean turned to him with a grin and said you're a real man now, Sammy.

(Don't call me Sammy, you jerk, he'd replied.)

(Whatever you say, bitch, Dean had laughed.)

Most of the time he wasn't sure if Castiel understood a thing he was saying. Sam could be a gifted speaker and conversational partner when he needed to be, but all of the oratory skills he'd put to use tended to go out the window the second he was expected to talk at length in front of someone he found attractive: Jess, Bela Talbot... and now Castiel. He stumbled over his words at certain points, rambled at others, nearly said I'm sorry three times in less than a minute while trying to describe an arcade game Dean used to slam quarters into like a slot machine addict (the last a transgression that Castiel didn't look prepared to forgive; but then it really was a stupid game, something about zombie aliens taking over the world, so how could you not apologize for it). But while the angel evinced no obvious reaction to Sam's words, the young hunter was somehow possessed of the feeling that he had never had a more attentive audience.

Eventually, however, all roads led back to the story about the wooden roller coaster. Dean never tired of sharing the harrowing tale to fellow hunters and potential one-night stands alike, yukking it up at least once a month at his dopey little brother's expense. Sam figured it would just be better if Cas got his side of the story first, before Dean got too friendly—or too drunk—with their angel one day and spilled the beans.

"Okay, so picture this. Me and Dean at Jersey Shore, hanging out at Wildwood Boardwalk—it's one of the longest boardwalks in New Jersey, runs about two miles along the beach." No recognition registered in the angel's eyes, but Sam felt himself being invited to go on. "The whole thing is basically set up to be a little kid's dream: games, shooting arcades, more amusement rides than Disneyland. I was seven and Dean was ten. And Dad wasn't with us, he was on a hunt at the time, so..."

Castiel raised an eyebrow, unable to see where Sam was going with this. "So," he repeated.

Sam shrugged. "...so we kinda got into trouble."

"It sounds like you two did quite a bit of that," Castiel commented.

Sam wasn't sure if he was being made fun of, but the angel had a pretty damn good poker face; and anyway, this was a story that needed to be told. "We tooled around for a couple of hours, riding the kiddie rides—I was too short to go on a lot of the regular ones—and shooting out the targets in the arcade. And Dean, he tried to make the best of it, but eventually he'd had enough. He was already a damn good shot at ten and was sick of winning stuffed bears. He wanted to go on a real ride. The ride. The Great White." Sam paused for emphasis.

The pause held for several seconds as the angel just stared at him. "The Great White is a type of shark," Castiel finally said.

Sam laughed. "Well, yeah... but it's also a roller coaster." He went on to explain. "It was this wooden coaster with two big drops—the first one dipped down about twenty-five feet, and the second one had to be over a hundred. Although to a seven-year-old kid, a hundred feet might as well be a thousand, so..." He shrugged again. "The point is, I was plenty scared. And for whatever reason, Dean didn't want to ride alone. Said he needed to keep an eye on me." Sam rolled his eyes, indicating just how likely he thought that explanation was. "He was being a little shit, anyway. He'd been filching peanuts from the food stands all day—you know, the ones that come in the little gold and blue packages?" Castiel's face made it very clear that no, he did not know. Sam moved on before he lost the angel completely. "We had one big glass bottle of Coca-Cola on us each, and this kid had just showed us how we could put the peanuts in the Coke and eat them like a dessert. I loved it. It was the only thing I wanted to eat, all day."

"That does not sound healthy," Castiel observed warily.

Sam snorted. "You said it. By the time we got to the ride, I had to have shoveled down, like, half my weight in Planter's. Now, I don't know what Dean said or did to get us on that coaster, but all I remember is one minute I was gaping up at it, and the next we were strapping in..."

Castiel looked worried. Sam decided not to tell him that it was an absolutely adorable look on him. The young hunter allowed himself a secret smile as he approached the story's climax. "So anyway, the ride gets started—and suddenly we're diving twenty-five feet down into the dark, right out of the gate, and I'm screaming my head off. Then come the dips, twists, turns—every scary thing you can think of, this ride had it. I thought my head was going to come right off my shoulders. Dean wasn't doing much better, although to hear him tell the story he was having the time of his life and I was just being a baby. It was the longest two minutes of my life.

"I was crying really, really hard when it was over," the young hunter admitted. "And... I didn't feel so good, although I don't think I caught on at the time; I was still trying to come down from the adrenaline high. Dean actually felt really bad for scaring me like that. So he tried to make it up to me by plying me with all kinds of goodies: chili dogs, deep-fried oreos, nachos loaded down with cheese. He had to trade away all his prize bears with a high schooler for that kind of spread. Needless to say, it wasn't long until I really got sick. And then, well..." Sam felt the sudden need to apply the brakes, before he embarrassed himself in some way he wouldn't be able to take back, but then he mentally shrugged and went with it—somehow he didn't think the angel was going to judge him too harshly. "I threw up everything inside me, starting with those peanuts. I raced over to the side of the pier and projectile vomited right into the sand—Dean said it looked like a Planter's rainbow was coming out of me." And suddenly he realized he was smiling again—laughing, even.

Castiel's eyes widened. "This is a happy memory for you?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Well, that's the thing about memories, Cas." Sam swiped away a strand of hair that had slipped into his eyes. "Sometimes you just need a little distance in order to really appreciate them. I mean, yeah, at the time, it wasn't funny at all. I seriously thought I was going to die, and Dean was losing his mind. Dad read us the riot act when Dean pulled him away from his hunt, calling from a pay phone to tell him you gotta come here NOW, Dad, Sammy's dyin!" The young hunter let one last huff of laughter slip past his lips; he thought he was beginning to understand why Dean always told this story. "When you look back on it, it's funny. Haven't you ever had a memory like that?"

"No," Castiel said with a frown. Then he seemed to reconsider. "Well. There was a time, in the First War, when Uriel and I ran reconnaissance on Earth, and he ended up angering the wrong Celtic deity. She was one half of a pair of fierce war goddesses—the Alaisiagae, or the 'All-Victorious.' Her sister, Beda, had already joined the side of the Fallen, and we approached Boudihillia in the hopes of evening the playing field." He spoke the unfamiliar Irish Gaelic as easily as if it were his own native Enochian, looking at once thoughtful and amused. "At the time, Uriel's mastery of human languages was... wanting, and he mistakenly used the name of a rival Germanic goddess to address her. We barely escaped with our wings intact. It was Anna who came to our rescue. She never let us live it down. You two were so frightened, you looked like a pair of rabbits! I never took offense to that—rabbits are strong creatures in their way, if hardly soldiers—but Uriel was terribly put out."

"Wow." Sam made a low whistling sound of surprise. "It's hard to imagine Uriel getting his feathers ruffled."

Castiel looked confused at that, and Sam realized he'd used the wrong expression. Finally the angel said, "Uriel's wings were always pristine. They were the most beautiful of any angel's in the garrison, and he took great care not to damage them in battle."

"They couldn't be more beautiful than yours," Sam said quietly.

He thought, but couldn't be sure, that Castiel took surprised pleasure in the compliment. "You wouldn't say that, if you had seen my brother's," he said, his voice nearly stumbling in his attempt to disabuse Sam of any incorrect ideas he had about the Host. "My wings are very—ordinary, by comparison."

Sam just smiled and shook his head. "Ordinary is the last word I'd ever use to describe you, Cas."

His words did not have the effect he intended. A distant look entered the angel's eyes as he spoke, and he suddenly turned away, face partially concealed by the pink foam of the pillow supporting his head. The young hunter felt something that was not quite alarm but equally concerning creep down his spine. "Cas," he said, and the angel looked back down at him, his expression still carefully blank. "Are you okay? I mean, really okay? I don't just mean physically," he added, when Cas opened his mouth to demur. "I mean in your heart, in your head. Zachariah said... he said some pretty awful things to you. I can't imagine..."

"I'm all right, Sam," Castiel replied, but Sam could see the mask breaking in front of him: those beautiful blue eyes began to radiate with a hurt so deep, so reminiscent of the night before, that the rest of the young hunter's breath left him in one great surge.

"Come on, Cas," he said slowly. He felt the edge of pleading in his voice. "Don't lie to me. Not about this. You deserve—"

"I deserve nothing," Castiel cut in brusquely. "I should have known—should have guessed—that I was broken, from the very beginning. I—" He stopped, trembling again, his heartbeat morphing into a broken stutter in Sam's ears.

"You can't say that," Sam said fiercely. "I mean, I read that Bible story. Those people you saved in Sodom and Gomorrah—you know, Lot's family? It says it right there in black and white: God wanted to rescue them. Cas, you were the only angel that was doing God's will. It was the other angels that were disobeying, not you."

"I couldn't save his wife," Cas said, his voice leaving him in a resigned sigh. "She turned and looked back, just as Uriel uncloaked himself and unleashed his Grace upon the city. I tried—" He stopped again, the memories no doubt swirling in the forefront of his mind. "It's frightening. Now that Zachariah has reminded me, I'm beginning to remember everything about that day. What else, who else was I made to forget? I'm afraid, because..." Castiel's lips were visibly quivering now, as if he were fighting to hold back some great tide of emotion. "I'm just afraid. To know that every time I did penance in Heaven, they succeeded in taking away a part of me. I could have slain thousands of innocents, and never remembered. I could have... I could have met my Father, and never even known it."

He blinked rapidly, dark lashes falling and rising against pale white skin... and Sam watched, stunned, as they suddenly shone with a prismatic light, that brilliant shade of blue warped into a thousand tiny shards of color by unshed tears.

Sam had never seen an angel cry—couldn't even imagine it. His conception of the angelic had always encompassed wisdom, compassion, even sorrow; but never suffering, never despair. Never loathing.

He knew, also, that he couldn't take seeing it on Cas for one more second.

On an instinct the young hunter tried to rise. He pushed against the fingers that held him, stubbornly resolute; and after a moment's hesitation, the angel allowed them to fall away. Sam picked his way across the landscape of mattress until he was standing right in front of the angel's wide, still face; the mattress heaved slightly as Castiel sucked in a breath of surprise, didn't release it. The lashes fell one final time, hiding the irises tinged with unbearable sadness, the pupils blown wide with pain. Sam hesitated for a long moment, then stretched out his hand to trace the shape of one long, beautiful black curve. It yielded easily to his touch, and he began to wipe away the tears from each lash, guided completely now by the desire to comfort, letting them slide over his wrist and drop one by one into the folds of soft purple fabric.

"Castiel," Sam said, as gently as he could. When Castiel didn't open his eyes, he said it again, leaning forward, brushing the back of one hand along the smooth surface of his eyelid. "Castiel. Look at me."

Very slowly, very hesitantly, Castiel's eyes slipped open. They regarded Sam with something like fear; fear that he might be judged even more harshly by the young human, that Sam might forsake him just as his own family had. "Cas," Sam said. "I want to tell you another story. Is that okay?"

He felt the heat of Castiel's breath as the seraph whispered his assent. Sam sat down in front of him carefully, minding his own hurt body, and tried to gather his thoughts while his fingers drew an uncomplicated pattern along the slope of Castiel's nose; it was a touch that Dean had often indulged him when they were little, and one that the angel made no effort to reject. "When I was a kid, I didn't really know what hunting was," he started slowly. "All I really knew was that we didn't have a mom, or a home, and Dad was always gone, and Dean always carried a gun. It was a long time before anyone told me why we lived the way we did. I don't really remember how old I was—just that I was old enough for my dad's friend, Pastor Jim, to start teaching me about God and the Bible in Sunday school. And one of the first things Pastor Jim taught me about was angels."

Castiel was silent, but his gaze remained resolutely fixed on Sam. The young hunter took a deep breath—or as deep as he was able, steeling himself for his next few words. "And... and I don't know. The more he talked about them—showed me pictures, told me stories... the more I fell in love with them. They just seemed so cool, and strong, and kind, like no matter what happened, they'd be there to protect you. I would even draw them everywhere, ugly little stick figures with wings bigger than their whole bodies. So when Dean finally told me that monsters were real, and it was his and Dad's job to kill them—yeah, that terrified me, but some part of me was also... sort of excited. Because if monsters were real, then angels had to be real too. It was stupid, but then I was a kid and I just—had a lot of hope, I guess."

"Hope?" Castiel inquired, in a voice so tiny that Sam would have failed to catch it had he not seen the movement of his lips.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Because even when I was a kid, I didn't feel... clean. I think maybe I knew, deep down, that something had happened to me when I was born to make me unworthy of Heaven. After Dad and Dean came clean about hunting, I started praying a lot. I was too scared to pray to God directly, so every night I would pray to the angels." He felt a small smile that didn't feel like a smile at all twist his lips. "That must have been annoying for you guys—some snot-nosed kid blowing up Heaven's phone line every night."

"You should have prayed to the Son," Castiel said solemnly. Sam ducked his head but otherwise didn't hide the genuine smile that came over his face.

"I know, I know. Look, I was dumb, okay? Eventually I did start praying to... you know, the right person. But until then, praying to angels felt..." He raised his eyes to meet Castiel's again, felt a warmth emanating from them that seeped right into his bones. "It just felt safe."

There was a period of silence, during which Cas seemed to be contemplating him; the blue eyes remained wet but also watchful, waiting. Sam's fingers kept moving until they found a tiny bump at the end of the angel's nose, and he let them linger there. "You know," he went on quietly, "one time, three years ago, I thought we had found a real angel. And I was so happy. But it was just a ghost. A poor, confused, lonely soul, just like me. And I finally started to wonder if that was all there was. No Heaven, no angels—just the earth and the sky and a whole lot of evil bastards to kill. And I was so tired of killing, of feeling like I couldn't be saved."

"But you didn't stop praying," Castiel said, the weight of his stare like a cloak falling around Sam's shoulders. It was more question than statement, and Sam shook his head in response.

"No, I never stopped. Not even after that. Not even after Dean went to hell. Not even after I was approached by Ruby, and I thought for sure God was sending her to me as some kind of sick joke." Sam remembered that time, how his prayers had gradually turned from desperate appeals to save Dean to an urgent wish to die—because suicides went to hell, because he wasn't about to ruin Dean's sacrifice like that. Because he didn't know, in the end, whether his tainted soul was destined for hell no matter what, if even the unconditional love of his brother was no cover for the final judgment that awaited him. "I had no reason to hope, but I just went on hoping anyway. And then something amazing happened."

Sam paused again, unsure of how to make Castiel understand the way he wanted him to. It wasn't something he could put into words, not in the way that he wanted, not without confessing things that would needlessly complicate what they had. "My brother's soul was rescued from hell," he said. "And not by some demon, like we first thought. But by an angel. A warrior of God. And even though... even though it all went bad, and the angels weren't what we thought they were, that one angel continued to be good. He continued to be good, and strong, and brave. That angel stood up for God and humans when all the other angels turned their backs. That angel died for us. And... and somehow, I think he'd do it again, as many times as he had to."

"Sam," Castiel said. The name was broken as it left his lips, a stutter of sound as jagged as his heartbeat. Another tear slid from his eye, and another, and another. Sam rose to his feet and moved forward to collect them, pressing the tail of his shirt to each drop of liquid, wishing suddenly that he was big again: big enough to wipe them away with a human finger, to cradle the rough jaw in the palm of one hand.

"Zachariah was right about one thing," Sam murmured. "You are special, Cas. You couldn't have been the answer to my prayers, if you weren't." He pressed his forehead against the crescent of shadow beneath the angel's eye, still moist with the last traces of saltwater. "I'm so sorry they hurt you," he whispered.

Castiel said nothing for a long time, but the tears ceased, and his eyes gradually cleared of pain, the beat of his heart resuming its peaceful hum through Sam's body. Sam sensed a wall of warmth rising at his back, creeping forward to collect him. "You are tired," Castiel told him, softly.

The young hunter suddenly realized that his legs were beginning to buckle at the knees, and that his breathing was becoming labored again. He let himself fall into Castiel's fingers, which curled around him with renewed tenderness, and hugged his knees to his chest as he was enfolded once more in the familiar white folds of cotton.

This wasn't the end of it, of course. It couldn't be; a creature that had lived and suffered for as long as Castiel had undoubtedly possessed more pain inside him than could be expressed in a single moment. But it was a start. And—

There was a sound of footsteps at the door. Sam reflexively perked up, but his heart knew before his head that the sound was wrong—the steps were too delicate, too shuffling on the hardwood floor. Alana entered moments later, carefully easing the door open as she crossed the threshold with socked feet. Her brunette hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, and she was wearing a pair of drawstring pajama pants freckled with pink and purple dots. In her hands she was balancing some kind of tray, and as she lowered it before the futon Sam spied a plate of scones, and two gently steaming teacups.

She lowered her eyes to Sam and Cas, smiling faintly. "Hey, little man," she greeted, her voice soft, as if she thought it might break him somehow. Sam guessed he'd been in a pretty bad way when Dean and Cas first brought him here, and the witch was still spooked.

"Hey," he said in return, trying to hint that she didn't have to walk on eggshells around him. To that end, he tried for a joke. "Guess purple's not your natural hair color, huh?"

It worked, and a relieved look crossed the witch's face. "Har har," she said, lifting a spoon and dipping it into each cup, giving the contents a gentle stir. "Neither is brown. How are you two feeling?" she asked, lowering the spoon in a dainty fashion that spoke to some kind of finishing school training.

"Better," Sam said truthfully. "Or getting there." He felt Castiel nod once behind him. The witch smiled again and pushed the plate of scones closer.

"I thought ya'll might like some refreshments," she said.

Castiel was looking at the scones like he was flashing back to that disastrous moment trying to order food the day before—probably the angel suspected that the pastries had come from that very same bakery, and he didn't quite trust them. Sam's stomach turned at the thought of food, but he wouldn't say no to something hot. "Maybe some tea?" he suggested softly. "I don't think I could eat just yet. Thank you," he added, as the witch reached for a bottle cap resting on a neatly folded napkin. "For letting us stay with you, and use your bedroom. It couldn't have been an easy decision, to harbor a couple of fugitive hunters, and—"

"I've a mind to tell you where to put that kind of talk." Alana's words were harsh, but her voice remained gentle, her eyes wide and incredulous as she placed the bottle cap back on the tray. "Dean told me what you did at the hospital. Sam, my friends would be dead if it wasn't for you. And I've read the Supernatural books, remember? You're already a hero. Anything you want me to do, you just say the word. I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me."

"It wasn't just me," Sam admitted.

"I know." Alana's grateful eyes swept back towards the angel. "Thank you, Castiel, for saving Sandy's life. You're an angel in every way."

Castiel blinked up at her, confused but not without appreciation. "I didn't know there was more than one way to be an angel," he confessed, so earnestly that Sam and Alana both laughed.

"I can see why this one vexes your brother. Oh, it's nothing you did, dear." The witch began to drip beads of amber liquid from the spoon into the bottle cap before setting it in front of Sam. "It's pretty easy to tick off Dean, that is if I'm not mixing up the books with fanfiction again. It's weird—I almost feel like I know you guys, even if you aren't exactly how I pictured. I'm still surprised Dean doesn't have a mullet."

Sam tried not to picture that and immediately failed. "How were you two in the same room for so long without killing each other?" he asked, in part because he was curious and in part to take his mind off the image.

"Fair question," Alana said. "Let's just say we found out we had a few interests in common. Do you take milk or sugar in your tea, Sam?"

She crinkled a white packet as large as Sam between her fingers. Sam shook his head. "I'll take it as is, thanks. Although I think Cas prefers his sweetened."

The surface of the mattress dipped gently as the angel pushed himself up on one elbow, accepted the proffered cup from the witch. "Yes, thank you," he said. He redirected his gaze to the plate of scones, looking decidedly less suspicious now. "I think I may be hungry later," he said, sounding nearly apologetic. "If you do not mind..."

Alana grinned broadly. "Eat all you want. There's more where that came from."

She lifted the untouched cup from the tray and took a sip. Sam reached down for the bottle cap, prepared to follow her lead, when the angel's fingers abruptly descended, grasping the tiny receptacle between thumb and forefinger. Sam stuffed down a smile. "Cas, I can drink my own—"

The angel crooked an eyebrow down at him. He raised the bottle cap to his face and blew on it softly, causing the thin threads of gently wafting steam to dissipate, before replacing it next to Sam. Sam blinked.

"It looked hot," the angel said, as if that was all the explanation needed.

Slowly, Sam looked over at Alana. Her cheeks had gone as pink as her pajamas, and she looked as if she were trying very hard not to laugh.

"Gosh," she said. "Maybe you two need some more alone time."

"Alana," Sam protested, feeling his own face start to flush. "It's not like that, really—"

"Oh, please," she said, waving a hand at him. "I'm not one of those crazy shipper types. I just, uh—need to check on the oven." She rose to her feet, grasping the tray between her hands, and started heading out of the room. "Need anything, just holler," she threw over her shoulder casually as she disappeared into the hallway.

Castiel stared after her. "I have no idea what that was about," the angel said flatly, and he reached for a scone, as if to say that he were done with the whole convoluted business of human interaction.

---

The tea was hot but good. Actually, it was probably a combination of the heat and the brew's medicinal properties that helped ease some of the chill in Sam's chest, and the young hunter welcomed the cleansing slide of it down his throat. After about ten sips his taste buds registered a faint flavor, that of pumpkin and other, more exotic spices; most likely a match to the bits of scone that fell around Sam like edible hail stones. (Even now, Castiel hadn't quite mastered the art of chewing without spilling crumbs.) He picked up a stray crumb and nibbled absently at it, when Castiel suddenly spoke above him.

"Angels are ruled by hierarchy," he said, almost as absently; Sam watched as the shadow of his arm passed over him to set the teacup down on the rug just beyond the edge of the mattress. "Not only in our wars, but also in our choirs. In our truest form, we have no form; we are nothing but the purest, highest frequency of celestial thought and intent. We orbit around the Throne of God like planets around your sun, vibrations without material substance, forever singing, forever resonating with the Father; and yet, the farther we move away from His presence, the more those vibrations slow and begin to condense into matter, giving us our forms."

"Like spheres?" Sam asked. He felt heavy and tired, the soothing effects of the tea weighing him down into something close to sleep, but he wanted to be awake for this. He had the feeling that Castiel hadn't spoken like this to a human in a long, long time.

"Yes," Castiel said, sounding surprised. "Exactly like spheres." He paused, as if searching for words that the human would understand. "We are arranged into three descending orders, or Triads. The archangels, the oldest, occupy the closest spot to God. Then the second Triad, the cherubim and seraphim and thrones; and then the principalities, and all the others. We first receive the resonance of Love from the Throne, and in turn transmit that Love outward with the beating of our wings and the cadence of our voices. It is a song of beauty, and joy, and creation; but also a song of discipline, and absolute unyielding obedience. Angelic foot soldiers receive their orders—what we call revelation—from the first Triad, those believed to be in direct communion with God. It never would have occurred to us that the Throne might be empty."

Sam had no words for this, but the angel didn't seem to expect him to say anything. Instead he touched at the giant thumb, which brushed back against him with something like gratitude.

"For the first few thousand years of my life... at least, if my memory of them has not been manipulated... I knew nothing but this song. Then I was placed in school, where I learned to fight, and to matter."

"Matter?" Sam questioned.

Castiel gave his head a brief shake above him. "I'm sorry," he said. "To become matter, I mean. That took another few thousand years, which Anael and Uriel helped me through. They became my closest companions during that time. We walked among the earth's earliest life forms after that: the dinosaurs, the unicorns, Adam and Eve and the other progenitors of man. Those are my favorite memories. Then Lucifer Fell, and we assembled for the First War. Before, our training had been merely defensive in nature; but now, we were expected to kill. To follow orders unbendingly, or face execution as traitors. In order to vanquish the threat to Heaven, we became ruthless—even more ruthless than our Fallen brother." Castiel's voice fell. "I was told that was His will. But now I don't think that it ever was."

"It probably wasn't," Sam agreed softly.

"I wish it had not been that way," the angel murmured. A long moment passed, in which he continued to stare at the door like he thought his missing Father might walk through it. "I remember the first time I fully mattered," he said, still in a soft voice, giving no thought now to the unusual phrasing. "I was so frightened. It was... not unlike shrinking, I suppose. I kept following the sound of Anna's voice. She was a very beautiful singer before she became my commander. She kept saying, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh—Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts, the whole creation is full of His Glory. It was the one thing that kept me anchored, kept me sane, while I moved further and further away from everything I had ever known."

"And look at you now," Sam said. "You've managed to fit into a vessel." He shook his head in utmost amazement. "God, Cas. How do you even stand being around us? We must all seem so small and nasty and... insignificant, to you."

Castiel looked surprised again. No, not surprised. Shocked. "I won't dispute that you are small," he said. "I don't think you even comprehend how small you are. But insignificant... no, never. I've learned over the years that all of Creation is interconnected. We all depend on each other for survival and companionship, from the tiniest single-celled organism to the largest known galaxy in existence. God has numbered the hairs on your head, Sam, and He knows when the tiniest sparrow falls. I think my brothers lost sight of that over time. It all—matters."

A fresh wave of laughter tumbled from Sam's lips, to hear that word back in its familiar context. Castiel took another sip of his tea, and then rolled in a leisurely fashion onto his back, slowly but without much warning, cuddling the surprised hunter close to him.

"What else would you like to know?" he asked.

"Everything." Sam crawled out from beneath his companion's sheltering palm and along the blue strip of tie until he was kneeling right above Castiel's heart, unable to contain the eagerness welling up in him. He tucked his head into the huge chest, felt the thud of that reliable heartbeat in his ears. "I want to know everything."

"I can't tell you everything." Castiel's voice rumbled through Sam like a deep furnace purring, and one slow fingertip lowered to glide through his hair. "But I will tell you what I remember. If what I say turns out to be untruthful, I hope you will not judge me too harshly."

"Never," Sam promised.

Angels, as it turned out, had long memories. Sam listened raptly as Castiel spoke, about a vast body of knowledge that Sam knew he couldn't even begin to synthesize if he tried. The angel's insight into human history was unparalleled; he had been there for the building of the Egyptian pyramids, had watched as a tired scribe meticulously transcribed by candlelight the ancient texts that would be compiled into the Holy Bible, had personally witnessed the moment man first set foot upon the moon. (And yes, just one month later he had occupied an unwashed hippie at Woodstock, although Sam made him promise to wait until his brother was present to talk about that.) But just as amazing was his knowledge of animals: birds and mammals and insects and deep-marine creatures, many of the latter as of yet undiscovered by humans. He spoke about each of them as affectionately and reverently as he did humans, or his own brethren. He pet Sam as he talked, enormous fingers trailing down his back in absent stroking motions that nevertheless felt wonderful; after years of rough handling and being beaten down by monsters, few things felt better to Sam than a gentle touch.

It was just when Cas was telling Sam about how to communicate with cuttlefish ("they respond to sign language, Sam, and you must be very careful not to say the wrong thing, because it is very easy to offend them") that Dean walked into the room. He'd been so quiet, Sam hadn't even noticed. The older hunter coughed once, drawing his brother's surprised hazel eyes up to his own intense green ones, which hovered far above him. Sam pushed down the bitter taste that suddenly rose in his throat, supplanting the quiet pleasure he'd been taking in Castiel's stories. Even across the vast distance that separated them he could make out the sadness in Dean's face, the pain searing bright in his eyes; the older hunter slid both hands into his pockets and shifted his weight slowly from one foot to the other, like now that he was here he already wanted to leave.

"Uh. Hey, Sammy," his brother said quietly. And then, in a faster but no less guilty voice: "Didn't mean to interrupt your riveting fish talk, or whatever. I just wanted to see if you were still—"

"I'm okay, Dean," Sam cut in quickly. "Cas is just helping me detox." He put deliberate emphasis on the last word, feeling almost like he was trying to see if the word alone would send his brother marching right back in the opposite direction. Dean stood his ground.

"Yeah," he said. "I know." He took a tentative step forward and lowered to one knee. "Listen, Sam..." He paused, moistening his lips.

"I'm listening," Sam said. He could feel the hollow echo in his own voice. Dean continued to stare helplessly. Then he tried once more to speak, scrubbing a weary hand down his face.

"I'm sorry. And don't think that I'm talking about what happened with the demon blood, 'cause I'm not." Dean looked away for a moment, then forced himself to reestablish eye contact. "I'm not judging you for that—you did what you had to do. I'm just sorry that son of a bitch got the chance to whale on you before I could get to you. I just... it's just... I know that I let you down, man."

Sam stared up at Dean, eyes widening with growing incomprehension. Then he felt himself being rearranged in trembling fingers as Castiel pulled himself into a sitting position, his blue eyes snapping up to meet Dean's. "The fault was mine," the angel said fiercely, like he was issuing orders and daring Dean to contradict them. "I failed to protect Sam, and—"

"Are you shitting me, Cas?" Dean shot back, completely failing as usual to respect the angel's tone. "Because you did way more for Sam than I ever could—and from where I was standing, it looked like Zach had just about half-killed you, too." Now both hands were creeping over Dean's eyes, his thumbs stabbing into the pale temples on either side of his head. "I was the one who wanted us to split up. The second that earthquake rocked the hospital, I—I—I should have been moving. Not standing there like a goddamn civilian, scared outta my mind. I should have—"

"I already told you, Dean," Cas grit out. "I was the one who caused that earthquake. And if that frightened you, think of the harm it did to Sam. I could have easily—"

"Damn it, Cas!" Dean's head swung up and he flung out his hands; his voice had not quite reached volume levels that could be considered yelling, most likely out of deference for Sam's condition, but his raised whisper was filled with just as much anger. "You think I forgot that? Sam's not the only one I let down today. If it hadn't been for him, I'd have lost both of you."

Sam looked away, towards what looked like a half-finished mural of wildlife on one of the bedroom's pebbled walls. "Dean," he said, the one word seeming to drain all of his strength. "The only reason I was even able to do anything was because of the blood. Because I gave in. I got all fucked up on it, and..."

"I know that, Sam." Dean's voice had gone back to weary and melancholy again, but none of it seemed reserved for his brother. "But that doesn't matter. You didn't ask to have a damn addiction, okay. And—look, I've never given you any credit for this, but... what you did saved those people's lives. Alana's gonna wake up on Sunday and go to church and know that all her friends will be there, safe and sound. And that's saying something." Dean's eyes flashed with conviction. "That's saying a hell of a lot."

"It's still wrong," Sam whispered. "No matter what."

Above him, Dean was shaking his head. "I don't know what's right or what's wrong anymore. Yeah, Ruby was bad fucking news, but maybe... maybe these powers weren't the worst thing to ever happen to you. Maybe you always had the right idea, trying to save as many people as you could, the best way you knew how."

"You're only saying that because you don't know," Sam said. That cold feeling was creeping over him again. "You don't know what I did, right before I killed Lilith..."

For an instant Dean's lips twitched with hesitation—the longest half-second of Sam's life—but then he was striding forward purposefully, holding a finger to Sam's face, stilling the tremble in his jaw. "Yeah. And maybe I don't care. Did you ever think of that?" His finger rose to brush his cheek, a rare touch that Sam instantly treasured. "I'm your brother, Sam. Whatever terrible thing you think you did... we'll work through it. Okay? I promise not to freak out on you."

For a long moment Sam was bereft of words, just staring up into the determined face as he tried to parse his brother's offer. "We still need to talk about it, Dean," he insisted, albeit in a muted voice.

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, we do. Later. When you're not tripping on demon blood and small enough to take up residence in my shoe."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Gross," he declared through a brief laugh. "That's the last place I'd wanna live."

"Yeah," Dean volleyed back with a smile, "you'd rather live in Cas's—no, you know what, I'm not even gonna go there."

Sam would have laughed again, but the chill was rapidly spreading through his body, crawling over his internal organs with a corpse's touch; and he felt as though he weighed a thousand pounds. Instead he began to slump fast, abandoning the warm contact of his brother's finger, and sank bonelessly into the deep crevices of the blanket.

"Fuck," he heard Dean hiss, a hundred miles above him. "Cas, what—?"

"It's the demon blood," the angel returned. He sounded even farther away. "It's fighting to stay in him. Sam needs..."

Sam failed to hear what it was he needed. "I'm okay," he murmured. He didn't think anyone could hear, but there was a shifting of blankets above him and then two giant faces were peering down at him. He tried and failed to lift his arms out to them. Breathing was just as much of an effort, his lungs too frozen and brittle to respond to his commands to expand and contract. The absurd idea that this would all go away if he only just got a mouthful of demon blood in him—even the tiniest little drop—leaped into his head with a persistence that nearly stole his remaining breath.

"I should go," Dean said. "This isn't, I can't—I can't—" He rose but didn't move away, eyes pinned desperately to Sam, like he thought if he just kept looking at him Sam would pull through. Sam understood. This wasn't something that Dean could fix, a mere physical problem that required stitches or a tourniquet or even the occasional ride in an ambulance. The temptation to turn and run from his perpetually broken brother must have been overwhelming.

Castiel remained calm, and he did not leave. "The only cure for this is rest," he said. Then: "I need you to keep fighting, Sam. I need you to be stronger than the blood."

I need you to stay alive.

Sam looked up at Cas, then again at Dean. He didn't know how much longer he could do this. But as long as he had his brother and his angel (and yes, he thought with a sudden piercing clarity, Castiel was his angel as much as Dean's), he would keep fighting with everything he had.

---

The time passed in a blur. Sleep proved to be difficult for Sam, but for the most part he managed it. Once he had woken with a ferocious cry, only to be cupped against an enormous face—only it hadn't felt like a human face, not at all, it had burned like something holy and without reproach—the whisper of hush, jarana saga echoing through his head. He had dropped immediately back to sleep, like a child, and hadn't woken again for the next ten hours. Other times sleep was thin and haunted, but always the shelter of black wings seemed to be hanging over him, to protect him from the worst of the nightmares. Dean often flitted in and out of the room when he was either waking up or just getting back to sleep, and his hazy impressions bore the stamp of green eyes, freckles, a stroking hand heavy with the scent of gunmetal and leather.

The final hours had been the worst. The last traces of demon blood fought viciously to remain in his system, and his body struggled that much more to extinguish the infection. Sam found himself feverish, drenched in a sweat that felt nearly hypothermic—he was vaguely aware of the angel telling him in a tight voice that he was going into shock, his tiny body ill-equipped for the aftermath of demon blood ingestion, but that he would use whatever Grace that was at his disposal to keep him alive. Alana, for her part, returned again and again with more tea for the young hunter to drink, ever stronger brews with ingredients like ginger and turmeric and chamomile, the blurry features of her face nevertheless drawn with worry; but soon Sam was too weak even to lift the bottle cap and drink, so the angel held his face steady between the pads of his fingers while the witch tipped the contents down his throat. Then Castiel lifted him easily in one palm, bending his great white neck so that his lips were brushing his hair, his forehead, his eyes.

Cas, don't, he begged, or thought he did. Your Grace...

The angel drew back slightly to look at him, eyes clear and bright as the rest of the room was not, heavy with an intention that no force in the universe of created things could thwart. I keep my promises, Sam, he whispered. I will always keep my promises to you. And he breathed on him for the last time.

Around three o'clock in the morning the fever broke, and sleep—real sleep—came once more. The very last thing Sam saw behind his closed eyelids before he slid into deeper blackness was the shadow of a huge shape—a hundred times bigger than Castiel, a thousand—cradling him, six wings curling around an unfathomable mass that included eyes of every color, yellow cat eyes and fierce dragon eyes and even a pair of blue human eyes, tapering down into a tail that seemed to stretch on into eternity like a winding trail of blacktop. The tips of each wing played over his cheeks like a melody, achingly lovely, lulling him deeper and deeper into the arms of sleep, into the arms of this strange vibrating presence that was at once light and matter, until finally he melted into it and knew no more.

---

Sam realized three things, the next time he awoke.

One: he was no longer cold, and he could take full breaths again.

Two: Castiel was gone. The scent of him, a starkly alien and yet intimately familiar musk, clung to the sheets and his clothes, but the solid presence that for the last several hours had been his entire world had indeed departed. It left him feeling naked, and nearly empty.

The third thing Sam realized was that the bed was way too small for him.

Sam jerked upright, fumbling at the heavy comforter, which crumpled in his grip with an amazing ease. The sheer curtains adorning each of the room's small windows had been thrown wide open, admitting beams of bright autumn light, and his alarmed gaze snapped over to a owl figure with an analog clock carved into its belly on the adjacent nightstand—and holy crap, he could see the top of furniture now. The clock pronounced that it was ten o'clock in the morning: well over forty-eight hours since the beginning of the curse that had sent him on the most bizarre adventure of his life. Sam still wasn't sure that he wasn't dreaming this.

"What," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. A smell of pumpkin coffee emanated from the kitchen. Before he could say or do much of anything else, his brother walked into the room, one hand planted on his hip, the other bearing a steaming cup of some drink Sam couldn't identify.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he said mildly.

Sam clambered to his feet. For a second the room spun around him, its dimensions unfamiliar and—well, too small—but then he shifted his stance, planting both feet firmly on either side of him, keeping the vertigo at bay. Dean looked at him, no doubt amused to see his brother behaving like a seasick passenger on a swaying ship. Then the young hunter was running (again, marveling at how quickly his legs ate up the distance; had he always been this freaking tall?) and sweeping Dean into an embrace so tight the older hunter was left gasping for air.

"For God's sake, Sammy," Dean managed to get out, but he didn't try to worm his way out of the hug. Instead he set the mug down next to the owl clock, reached around Sam's back with his free arm to pull him in tighter. "It's good to see you too," he said in a softer voice, ruffling Sam's hair. "Damn good, actually. Although I have to admit, some part of me is going to miss looking down on you."

"When—?"

"Exactly when Alana said the spell would wear off. You know how it is in these fairy tales: clock strikes twelve, Cinderella's carriage becomes a pumpkin again, you turn back into a yeti." Dean relaxed his grip on Sam to give a careless wave of his hand. "You were sleeping when it happened—poor Cas was spooning you for a full thirty seconds. I wish I'd had a camera, because that shit was fucking hilarious. Would have been even better if you'd come back naked, but you can't have everything. He flapped off after that, I dunno what for—" something in Sam's gut clenched at that, and he tried to compose his features before his brother noticed the crestfallen look on his face— "but he said he'd be back." Dean's expression suddenly went serious. "Anyway, being your old self again must have jump-started the detoxing process or something, because right after that you looked a thousand times better. No more of that gray zombie thing going on in your cheeks. And you were sleeping without... screaming." He shuddered at the last.

"I'm glad you stayed," Sam said quietly. And then: "I... I think it's all gone now. The demon blood. I don't feel—thirsty, or anything." Dean said nothing but gave a nod of acknowledgment, clapping his brother briefly on the shoulder. Relief rolled through Sam like an ocean wave. This wasn't false. He wasn't imagining this.

"That's all I wanna hear."

It took Sam a moment to realize that Dean was shuffling in front of the nightstand by tiny increments as they were talking, like he was trying to keep something hidden. Sam peered around him, still rejoicing in the fact that he could actually do things like that now. "Are you drinking tea?" he asked incredulously.

"I was trying the tea," Dean demurred. "Not drinking it. Big difference. And that's only because I was being held hostage, Sam. I could only resist the hippie torture for so long. Alana is pure evil."

"I don't know," Sam said, biting back a grin. "It sounded like you two were hitting it off."

"Only if your definition of hitting it off includes being forced to make pastries in a glorified Easy Bake oven while she drones on and on about a cartoon for Japanese schoolgirls and basement-dwelling mouthbreathers in their forties—oh, and also literal hitting, which I totally did not deserve." Ironically, Dean looked happier than he'd been in a while as he ticked off Alana's litany of sins. "That scone came out deformed—no one was gonna care if I helped myself."

"No, you're right, that sounds totally awful." Sam let his grin spring forth fully.

"Shit." Dean seemed to remember himself. "That's not... I wasn't trying to make this all about me." His eyes softened and he almost looked like he was going to pull Sam in for another hug, only Sam knew two hugs in less than five minutes would be nothing short of a Winchester miracle. "Look, I'm just glad this whole thing blew over," he continued. "I mean, you're back to normal and we were able to wrap up the case without anyone getting brutally murdered. That's the best luck we've had in, like... forever."

"Well, we didn't wrap up everything," Sam said. "Theodore's still out there. If he keeps avoiding his Reaper, eventually he's going to go vengeful spirit and then..."

"Yeah, Theodore." Dean snorted. "I guess you wouldn't have been watching television. It's all over the news: Man Wakes from Coma, Claims Angels Were Responsible for Hospital Earthquake. Apparently Cas's little stunt scared him straight. Or, you know, not straight. He went on record saying that the angels had come to punish him specifically for his personal unresolved sin and that he needed to repent."

"So he won't harass Alana or her church anymore." Well. That was one less thing to worry about.

"Nope. 'Course, she could always rope him into arts and crafts if she really wanted to keep him—"

"Get back here, Dean!" the witch's voice tinkled from the next room. Her tone was relatively mild, but Dean still jumped like he'd been poked by a cattle prod. "I didn't say you could bail on me. We've still got to master casting on, and then there's the chain stitch and—"

"She's teaching me crocheting," Dean hissed. "Help me, Sam!" Sam pulled away, shaking his head.

"Dude, you're on your own for that one."

Alana continued to babble on about the joys of knitting unawares, her voice getting louder every second. A squeaking sound popped out of Dean's mouth that Sam had never heard before, and he tried to duck behind his brother's larger (and for the hundredth time Sam had to remind himself that he was larger) form. "—and after that I'll show you the best materials to use, I've got yarn and alpaca wool and merino blends and... and... Sam!" The witch gaped at him from the doorway, her hand fisted around a pair of darning needles like she'd been planning to dispose of Dean in a very messy and artistic fashion. "You're okay," she continued before anyone said a word, and moments later she was charging at him full-tilt, nearly knocking him down but for the fact that she was still hummingbird-sized and therefore lacked the weight to bowl him over completely. Her arms came as far around Sam as they were able; Sam tried very hard to stay still when he realized the tip of one needle was poking into his back.

"Oh man," she sighed, drawing back to look him in the face, a happy flush spreading over her cheeks. "I've been wanting to give you a good hug, but you weren't quite the right size 'til now."

"Understatement," Dean said behind them. That was a mistake, because the witch turned to peg him with a mischievous, long-lidded look.

"And you. You left before we even got to the best part!"

"Haven't I played house with you long enough?" Dean grumped. Amazingly, however, Alana was able to herd him back into the living room with a minimum of fuss. Sam felt that had less to do with interest in crocheting on Dean's part and more to do with his growing interest in the witch herself. Dean and a witch, he thought. Now I've seen everything. He also had the feeling that Dean wasn't going to get anywhere near first base with her, but he had no intention of raining on his older brother's attempts to romance, if indeed that was his goal.

He started when he became aware of Alana still standing in the doorway, giving him a strange look. Sam realized he should probably say something. "Thanks for keeping my brother occupied. He... he doesn't do so well with stuff like this. The waiting, and..."

"Yeah, I know. That boy was jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs." Alana took a step towards him. "Are you okay? You look a little sad."

"Do I?" Sam said without thinking. And then: "I don't know. I'm happy everything worked out, but..."

The witch's face shone with understanding. "He said he'd come back, Sam."

Sam didn't need to pretend that he didn't know who she was talking about. "Yeah, but he's an angel. He has... more important things to do." Like go back to looking for God and stopping the Apocalypse. Sam wouldn't be surprised if he didn't see Cas again for weeks... and really, why would he expect any different? As much as he'd enjoyed Castiel's company, to an eons-old angel, those forty-eight hours were more fleeting than the blink of an eye. Just like the rest of Sam's life. It was sheer arrogance to pretend that it meant something.

"He stayed as long as he did for you," Alana said. "Because you needed him."

Sam's jaw tightened with skepticism. "You sound pretty confident."

"Because I'm right." She put a hand on his arm, looking up into his face with a resolve that suddenly reminded him of Dean. "Don't overthink it, Sam. You tend to do that, you know."

Her smile was warm, knowing. Sam felt a smile of his own touch his face, and he patted her hand. "Thanks, Alana." The witch drew her hand away and went to retrieve Dean's teacup, which had been left in the company of the owl clock.

"Why don't you come sit with us for a while," she suggested. "I've got cookies in the oven and coffee in the pot, and I think I can talk Dean into making a scarf. It's one of the easiest patterns for beginners."

Much as he would have loved to watch Dean being domesticated against his will, Sam wasn't sure he was quite up for it just yet. "I'll be there soon," he promised. "I just need to be alone for a while. Pull my head together."

Alana nodded and left. Sam went to stand at one of the windows, looking out on the shrubbery, the play of light across the well-manicured shapes of green and the foliage sweeping in heavy hues of gold and orange across the ground. It was a beautiful North Carolina morning—something wistful and sad rose in his chest, knowing he wouldn't get to appreciate it in the fine detail that being small had afforded him.

He didn't know how long he had been standing there before he heard the telltale rustle of feathers. He turned abruptly, nearly expecting—hoping—to be met by a pair of enormous, long-lashed blue eyes.

Castiel's eyes were no less striking now that he and Sam were of comparative height, but Sam still reacted with surprise. "You're back," he said, at the same moment that Cas said, "You're awake."

"Uh... y-yeah," Sam said in response to the angel's query. Castiel stood in the doorway, a span of just a few steps between them that would have been miles had he remained cursed. He became aware of his stomach churning, the way it had when he'd first met Cas. Suddenly it seemed like nothing had changed between them, that the last two days—days of being touched, held, and once even kissed—had never happened. He straightened up when, on the heels of that disquieting impression, he realized that he had been slumping, unconsciously trying to make himself smaller. Anger surged through him, that he could be so naively, uniquely stupid.

Castiel, for his part, stared at him wordlessly. Then the angel bridged the distance between them. His steps clicked on the hardwood floor in a manner similar to that first day; each click felt like a pronouncement of judgment. He stopped when only a few inches remained between them.

"How do you feel?" the angel asked.

Sam wished he was still little. He'd be able to tell, then, what Cas meant by the question; whether he was asking out of concern, or duty, or something else. The weather of his own body—the tiny gestures of his fingers, the cadence of his heart, the subtle changes to his velvet-deep voice as he spoke—all of it had informed Sam at a moment's notice of what the angel was thinking and feeling. Now that Sam was tall again, Castiel was once more a foreign language that he struggled to read.

"I'm... all right," he said in measured tones, still despairing when he failed to track any change in Castiel's expression. "The demon blood's gone." Castiel tilted his head and blinked up at him.

"I'm happy to hear that," he said. And then he reached out, slow as an unfolding flower, and touched Sam's cheek.

The young hunter sucked in a shocked breath, and his eyes slipped closed of their own accord. He could feel it—that huge hand opening wide to receive him, palm outstretched like a promise, thumb sliding infinitely soft over his skin. He remembered Castiel's words to him, as clear and quiet as the first words spoken after a storm: It all matters.

I really am an idiot, Sam thought. When he opened his eyes, Castiel was smiling.

"I brought you something," he said. "To celebrate."

He led Sam over to the nightstand, where a tall Styrofoam coffee cup and a greasy sack of donuts was waiting for him. Sam curled his fingers around the cup, still warm. "Cas," he said. "You did this for me?"

Castiel nodded. "I made sure to order black," he said, "the way you like it."

Sam just looked at him for a long time, touched in a way he couldn't express. He lifted his fingers from the cup, and on a sudden impulse turned and embraced the angel, burying his face into the beige folds of his coat, inhaling his rich scent. The press of him into Castiel's form—that feeling of crashing into a huge, warm, solid wall—that feeling was still there, virtually unchanged from his dreams.

A moment later he felt Castiel's arms close around him like wings, rocking him slowly. And he knew, then. That Castiel wouldn't forget him. It honored him beyond words, to know that he would become one of the angel's beloved memories.

"Thank you," he whispered into his ear. "Thank you so much."

They stood there in the shelter of silence, with nothing but the sounds of Sam's breathing and Castiel's heartbeat to occupy it. It felt like a thousand years had gone by when they finally extricated themselves, Sam trembling slightly, Castiel poised gracefully but his body exuding a warmth that banished any traces of the October chill.

"Tell you what, Cas," Sam said. "I'm going to take a shower, and then we're going to share. You take the donuts, and I'll drink the coffee. Do you—um, do you plan on sticking around for a while longer?"

The glow in Castiel's eyes answered his question long before his lips ever moved. "I will stay as long as you will have me," he said, gently.

"Awesome." Sam's face broke into a smile, and he grasped the angel's fingers: those fingers that he still knew so well, down to every last line and crease and texture. "Let's go watch Dean crochet a scarf."

THE END

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A/N: That's all for now! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. This chapter was a bit rushed, so I had to do a bit of rewriting after posting.

I'd like to give a shout-out to SLWalker and their incredible Enochian Resource for the random bits of untranslated Enochian peppered throughout this story. Ecrin nonuca, Oiad, olani hoath omp literally means "Praise to You, God, we love You," and Castiel sang it because that's the first song he heard when he was born and he thought Sam would find it calming. Jarana saga means "little one," functioning both as a literal description of Sam's situation and a roundabout way for Castiel to express his affection for him.