Author's Note: I am pretty sure this is the shortest chapter I have written in about four years.
Warnings: PTSD.
9.
For a long time, Sam doesn't move.
He's not exactly sure where he is or how he got there, but he doesn't have the energy to care, so he doesn't. He knows he's laying down. The room is cold. His throat hurts. He feels hungry. His body aches. A deep, bone-gnawing cold has settled into his limbs, causing everything to be stiff and painful. Air seeping in and from his lungs burns his nostrils.
He doesn't know how long he remains here. In the in-between state. Where he's not thinking, but he's not gone.
He doesn't even know what it is that grasps hold of his subconscious mind and pushes him out, back into awareness, but the soft noise of pain is what keeps him there. It's the voice of someone he knows. But not, oddly enough, his own.
Sam hesitantly pushes the borders of his body, forcing tired eyelids open and squinting into the space. The lighting is poor, but familiar. The long cracks in the concrete above him. He's spent hours staring up at this ceiling, memorizing it. This is the cell he's been occupying since he was taken by the London Chapterhouse.
The sight surprises him more than he cares to say.
He'd expected bars.
There's another noise, soft and muted, as if an attempt to stifle it is being made and Sam slowly pushes himself up onto one elbow. His body feels weak and emaciated, like he's been drawn down to bone.
He looks around the room, and his eyes settle on the figure sitting next to the bench he's been propped on. "C-Cas?" Sam's voice is hesitant. He feels the part. Only guessing. The set of heavy black wings sticking from the angel's back weren't there the last time he saw him. He didn't even know that Cas could make his wings corporeal.
"Sam." Cas's head twists around, body already straining to push up. The moment he tries to put any weight on his right leg, the angel's entire body shudders and he collapses down to his knee.
"Cas," Sam manages to find the strength to push himself up all the way. His hands are shaking, and his teeth click together. He's not wearing warm enough clothing. He needs socks. And shoes. And a jacket. He's going to freeze to death. "Cas, what…?"
"I'm fine," Cas pants, his face gray. He looks nauseous. He hunches over, and slaps a palm down on his leg, just above the knee.
"C-Cas," Sam murmurs, swinging his legs over the side of the bench. He almost topples from the weight change, and has to grab hold of the bench with both hands to hold himself in place. The metal is cold, and his fingers ache to bone at the contact. "C-Cas..."
"It's fine," Cas doesn't look at him, hand beginning to push as if he's trying to spread poison out. "It's fine," he repeats, as if trying to make himself believe it.
His wings shift along his spine as if restless, and Sam's attention is momentarily lost in watching them. Wings. Wings. Cas's are big, easily a fourteen foot wingspan from tip to tip, maybe bigger. Large enough that they'd drag behind him while he walked. The feathers don't look fluffy, or even soft. Kind of frizzy, actually, but hard enough to scrape open something. They're deep black, but scraped red over the edges.
There's a thin layer of burned skin stretched across the bones, spreading out and forming a loose outline of what they must have looked like. The skin is holy, patched in some areas with scars that look like stitches, faintly translucent in others, thickest around the back. The area it's attached to the spine looks like it's been sewn on. The scar tissue is almost disturbing in it's vibrancy.
What feathers are there are towards the top, around where the bone would be. It looks like the healthiest part of the wings, and probably is if the feathers are still attached and mostly whole after three years.
They're as breathtaking as they are sorrowful.
Cas isn't going to fly on those. Sam wonders what they looked like in their prime. When there were just feathers, no burn scars. No thin, stretched skin attempting to replicate a memory of something lost.
Cas must notice his staring, because his wings draw in towards his spine.
"S-s-sorry." Sam stutters. He's shaking with the cold. Cas doesn't say anything, which only makes him feel worse. He blows out a breath and wraps his arms around himself. His fingers are still freezing, so it doesn't help any, only cements the chill inside his bones. "You're—you're...wh-what's wrong? W-with your leg?"
Cas glances towards the area as if he'd forgotten it was hurting. Sam realizes then the extent of how much his staring must have bothered him. There is, though Sam doesn't know why, a reason Cas has never shown them his wings. He's given it thought, always been curious, but he's never asked.
"Nothing."
"C-Cas."
Cas's brow draws together. "Are you cold? Why are you shaking?"
"D-don't," Sam closes his eyes for a moment in frustration, willing his body to start functioning like a normal human being. But it balks at the echo of Lucifer's fingers clawing at his soul, and the reminder only brings up a more violent shudder. "D-don't change t-the s-subject."
Cas frowns. He starts to move forward some, obviously concerned, but Sam lifts up a hand to stop him. The memory of the agony on Cas's face is still fresh. He shifts forward, scooting along the bench until Cas is within touching distance.
Cas takes this opportunity to promptly press a hand against Sam's forehead. He barely suppresses a flick of his eyes up in annoyance, and smacks the angel's hand away as gently as he can. "S-stop. I'm f-fine."
"No," Cas disagrees, "you're obviously not."
"Let—let me see-see the wound." Sam requests, rubbing up the length of his arms for a moment. It doesn't help. The cold is coming from inside, not an exterior source. There is no way for him to thaw it.
"Sam—"
"C-Castiel. I'm s-serious." It's hard to sound the part, when his voice is clattering and hoarse, but something must show on his face because Cas's eyes squint slightly before he makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat.
His fingers wrap around the edge of the bench and he hauls himself up until he's seated beside Sam. Then he takes hold of the end of the loose pair of blue pants and rolls it up to his knee and a little beyond. Sam sucks in a sharp breath. There's a wound there, covered over with skin, but scarred anyway. A bullet wound. It looks weeks old, but it can't be. The skin around it is a spider web of dark red and deep blue veins, like an infected bruise.
It's not healing. Why wouldn't it have healed by now? He's seen Cas recover from bullet wounds in seconds. He knows that Cas's grace is restricted, but healed skin should indicate that it's getting some better, shouldn't it?
Sam lifts out a shaking hand and, as gently as he can, prods the bruised skin with two fingers. Cas flinches, and his leg bounces up slightly as he attempts to escape Sam's hand. His wings shift restlessly. Sam withholds a grimace and murmurs an apology. The skin is hot to the touch. But that might not mean much. Sam isn't exactly a good judge of normal temperature right now.
His other hand wraps around his stomach as he feels the phantom fingers in his chest.
Clawing, holding, pushing, touching.
No.
No.
Just breathe.
Sam forces his attention to return to the wound. The skin isn't rough, like it would be if there was still a penetrating object. So he doesn't understand why it looks like someone broke his kneecap, shoved the skin through bone, and then told Cas to fix it through sheer willpower alone.
"Wh-what happened?" Sam asks. Warm up, he demands of himself. This is not the first time this has happened. Cas looks away, dropping the pant leg to conceal the injury. It's not bleeding. It just seems to be in some sort of in-between state. "C-Cas?"
"Your devil trap bullets—the Men of Letters have something similar for angels."
Sam feels his face drain of color. He looks back towards where the wound was. "Is-is it still in your l-leg?" What sort of idiot would leave a bullet to fester? The Men of Letters have made some attempt at keeping them alive, but they draw the line at actually helping Cas? What do they think—!?
"No."
Oh.
Wait.
Sam's brow draws together, "Then…?"
"I don't know," Cas still isn't looking at him. "The bullet was burned inside of holy fire. Not even archangels can cross it. It serves as a sort of barrier against our grace. I—I don't know what...something appears to be wrong. It's not healing. I don't know if it's because my grace is restrained, or something else."
Sam's gaze flicks towards the collar, studying it with more intensity than his previous cursory glances. The only way to get it off seems to be some sort of latch in the back with a card scanner. Nothing he can remove with the tools at their disposal. Which adds up to clothing, fingernails, and Cas's wings.
He frowns. "How long ago-ago did this happen?"
Cas's lips press together and his hand reaches out to touch Sam's forehead again. Sam submits with gritted teeth. "Sam. Something is wrong. You shouldn't be this cold."
Sam bites on the inside of his lip. He knows that. It just...doesn't matter. It's not like he can do anything about it. He knows that from firsthand experience. The only thing that will help is time and patience. A few hours from now, it will be like nothing happened. Which is somehow always worse. At least when his body is reacting, it feels like it was real.
Happened. Like the fingers and—
No.
Don't think about that.
"It's—it's okay. Y-You can't do anything," Sam tries for a reassuring smile. Judging by the way that Cas's face twists in disapproval, it doesn't accomplish anything. He pulls harder on his lower lip and closes his eyes as he shakes his head softly.
"Sam," Cas's voice has a level of patience and steadiness that only instills him with dread, "what did Lucifer do?"
Sam's stomach drops. He feels sick. You know? You know he's here? What he's done? Strangely, he feels humiliated. He's supposed to fight back. He wasn't supposed to freeze. To fall back. To sit there and do nothing but beg. Cas knows?
No. No.
Evade, evade, evade.
"What-what are you doing here?" Sam asks. It takes him a second to realize why. He's only been locked with Cas once since this started, and that was because he was dying of dehydration—I came for you, Sam—and the Men of Letters were too lazy to do anything about it. But that's beside the point. As far as he was aware, they were making an attempt to keep them apart.
The slightest quirk up of Cas's lip is the only answer he gets for a long second. Cas's fingers flex and he releases something close to a snort of laughter. It's a little strange, if he's being honest. "I, uh, convinced them to let us stay together."
Sam's eyebrows make real effort to reach his hairline. "H-How?"
A shade replaces the slight smug laughter and Cas releases a soft sigh, wings drawing in towards his spine further, like Cas can melt them inside the skin. Sam wonders if he can't. Their appearance doesn't seem to be the angel's choice. "Miss Bevell wanted something. I gave it to her, and in return asked to monitor you. I believe she's making a bit more effort to keep you alive. She agreed."
It feels like half the story, but Sam doesn't really want to ask.
So they just sit in silence for a long moment.
Do you know where Lucifer is now, is what he wants to question. And the more pressing, but always relevant one: When is he coming back? He can play this game. The momentary relief. But it always ends, and Sam always ends up back there. It's a circle. An endless, hopeless loop he wishes he knew how to break.
Sam shifts slightly, opening his mouth to push a question out, but is halted before he can get a sentence out when Cas's hands shove up to push against his temples and he inhales a sharp sound of pain.
"C-Cas?" Sam grabs his shoulder. "C-Cas? What's—"
There's this sensation that hits him. Like something grabbing his ribcage and attempting to turn it three-sixty inside his chest without breaking skin. He can't breathe for the longest moment, and his eyes widen. This is familiar. The gut-ripping, aching nothing.
Oh, God, please. Dean. Dean is dying. Or dead.
Cas sways slightly and Sam reaches out a hand to grab a fistful of his shirt, attempting to keep him from tumbling face-first to the floor. What is going on? Why is he…? Cas inhales sharply, like he's breathing for the first time in hours. He looks up at Sam, his eyes wide. "Sam, Dean—"
"H-he's dying." Sam interrupts, keeping a steadying hand on the angel. A shudder washes through him, and Sam's teeth press together in frustration. Stop shivering. You're not in the middle of a blizzard. "I know. I-I don't…"
Cas's expression flickers with genuine confusement. "How do you know that?"
And Sam feels stuck for a second. Tripped. Ever since Dean was killed in the mystery spot, Sam has sprouted thousands of theories for this. It wasn't until after they went to heaven that Sam felt like he'd found an answer. Because for the longest time now, he'd just...sort of assumed that whatever pull this was, was related to the fact he and Dean are soulmates. It made sense. In his head, at least. He knows very well how deeply pain from the soul can resonate throughout his entire being, it just…if he and Dean are connected there...
But Cas would know that.
He's the one that told them.
But he's confused.
This…
What?
The twist resonates again, and Sam bites on his tongue to keep himself quiet and the questions at bay—not the time, not the place—and instead asks as steadily as he can with his fumbling tongue, "Did he...did he p-pray?"
Cas's eyes close for a moment, the shadow of pain and something slightly haunted on his face. "Yes. He said he was sorry."
Author's Note:
Prompt: Alt. 5, Stoic whumpees.