A/N Another one that picks up directly after the previous chapter. Don't worry, we'll get out of the Panic Room/Detox soon. ish. (And no, you haven't missed a chapter. I reference a number of hallucinations in this chapter that we did not see, either in the show or in this story. If I showed them all, we'd never get out of there.)
If there are a larger number of errors than normal, please remember that this is unbeta'd (as always). And, honestly, I was in a rush to post it as a last-of-my-current-decade birthday present to myself.
Princess of the Fae Help is here from a possibly unexpected source!
Atlasina7 Poor Sam, indeed. All will be answered, but not necessarily without surprises. (Surprised the heck out of me, I'm not ashamed to say.)
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Singer Salvage
November 4, 2008
10:19 PM
"Your brother is praying…
To die."
Dean stared at him. "He's… Sam's WHAT?"
"Dean," Castiel sighed. "Where is he?"
"Umm…" Dean swallowed. "You're, you're not here to…"
Castiel's eyes narrowed and his chapped lips pursed in what Dean could only characterize as disgust.
"Of course not," the angel snapped. "If I were content to let his wish be granted, why would I be worried that other angels, angels who don't know Sam, would hear? Why would I be here at all? Now, where IS HE?"
Dean took in and let out a shaking breath. "He's… he's in the panic room."
Castiel looked at him and raised his eyebrows in exasperation. "Which is…"
"I-in the house," Dean explained, and rushed to keep up with the angel as Castiel turned and began walking briskly away.
"What is a panic room?" Castiel demanded.
"It's a… special room," Dean tried to explain. "You go there if you're… if there's… danger. It's secure and Bobby's got it warded to keep things out. Or, in this case…. in."
"Why is he in a panic room, when you are not? Is there a special danger to him that I need to address?"
That Cas, specifically, needed to address? Yeah, he'd have to unpack that little gem later. Right now, Dean had a bigger problem. How much to tell? What was safe to say, for Sam? Dean wasn't at all sure what the Heavenly response to drinking demon blood might be, but he didn't imagine it would be good. Unfortunately, Castiel would probably figure it out as soon as he saw Sam anyway, so….
"He's detoxing."
Castiel stopped and turned back, looking Dean up and down with a frown. "I would've thought you'd need to 'dry out'," he observed (complete with finger quotes, Dean noted, and that was another topic they'd need to address), "before Sam. I did not believe his alcohol consumption was that high."
"I don't nee— It's not that," Dean frowned as they began walking again. "He's… While I… Before you… Look, there was this de…"
"Oh," Castiel nodded. "The blood the demon Ruby dosed him with," he deduced without condemnation. Without any emotion at all, really, but then again — Cas. "Heaven was unsure what the long term effects of that would be. I'm not surprised it was addiction."
Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "So you're not going to, like… punish him or anything for it. Right?"
Castiel shot him another look of disgust. Or maybe it was disdain. Either way, Dean was getting sick of it.
"Of course not," the angel assured him. "I would not harm Sam, nor let him come to harm. I owe him."
"Owe him?" Dean repeated, amazed.
Castiel just shook his head. "Not now, Dean," he decided and spoke not another word until he climbed onto Bobby's back porch.
The angel hesitated, examining the walls closely before stepping forward and placing his hand against the peeling paint.
"What are y…"
"Your Mr. Singer has done an excellent job on the warding," Castiel told him. "There's even some angel warding here. Which is surprising, since I had gathered that Hunters didn't believe in Angels until you and I met."
Bobby stood on the other side of the screen door and shrugged. "I've got a lot of wards here, some of 'em I don't even know what they're for," he admitted.
Castiel glanced at the older hunter. "That seems… ill advised. If you wish, I will review the ones you are unfamiliar with you, later, and explain them."
"That'd be appreciated," Bobby nodded.
Dean frowned as Castiel began to wave shapes into the air. "What are you doing?"
"Some of the warding is incorrect," the angel reported, "including many of the angel wards. I'm fixing them." He paused and looked at Bobby, frowning. "If you do not object, Mr. Singer."
"Knock yourself out," Bobby shrugged. "And it's just 'Bobby'."
Castiel looked at the Hunter, frowning. "Why would I wish to render myself unconscious?"
Dean shook his head, indulgently. "It's just a saying, Cas," he chuckled. "Means, go ahead."
Castiel frowned and resumed drawing shapes in the air. "I do not understand the human propensity for needlessly complicating language," he muttered, then looked at Bobby again. "Mr— Bobby," he corrected himself with a nod, "your house is now angel-proof. I will do the same thing to the grounds. Would you object to my adding a sigil which would exclude me from the block, allowing me free entry to your domicile and its immediate surroundings?"
Bobby glanced behind the angel at Dean, who shrugged and nodded.
"Guess not," Bobby agreed. "Go ahead."
"Thank you," Castiel said solemnly and pulled a triangle-shaped silver blade from his sleeve, then ran it across his hand.
"Cas?" Dean frowned.
Castiel began drawing a complicated symbol on the wall beside the back door in his own blood. "An exclusionary or, more precisely, exceptional sigil requires the blood of the one to whom the exception will apply," he explained. He stepped back and the sigil flashed red, then gold, then white, then disappeared altogether.
"We can go inside now," he intoned, and Bobby opened the door, making a sweeping gesture and slight bow to welcome them inside.
Castiel just frowned at him, until Dean pushed him inside.
"So, Sam…." Dean began.
"Is safe, now. No other angel will be able to hear his prayer, while he's in this house on or the grounds. Or your prayers, either," he added, glancing between the two hunters, "unless you specifically direct it to a particular angel," he added in a way that seemed to indicate that all their prayers — if they prayed and, of course, Dean didn't — should now be directed to Castiel himself.
Dean sighed in relief and ran a hand down his chin. "Should we…"
Castiel tilted his head in that cute/annoying way he had. "No," he decided. "Sam has fallen asleep. His pain has stopped, as have his prayers. We should leave him to his rest."
"Right," Dean snorted. "In a minute." And Dean left the kitchen to go downstairs to see for himself that his brother was not dead, leaving Bobby alone with the angel.
The Hunter watched Castiel, wondering exactly how one made small talk with a celestial being whose very first act upon meeting you had been to render you unconscious with a touch. So, how you doing, Castiel? Knock anyone out, lately? Seen any good smitings?
Sometimes the weirdness his boys brought into his life was not to be believed.
Happily, before the silence grew too awkward (for Bobby; the angel seemed content to stand there in silence until mountains crumbled), Dean returned giving Bobby a quick nod. "Sam's sleeping," he confirmed. "He's on the damn floor, but he seems fine."
Castiel frowned, as if confused (or annoyed) that Dean had felt the need to check his statement.
Dean opened the refrigerator, pulling out three beers. He popped one open with his ring and handed it to Bobby, then opened another and offered it to Castiel.
The angel shook his head. "I do not require sustenance, Dean," he explained gently.
"Beer ain't sustenance, Cas," Dean scoffed. "It's liquid joy."
"Or comfort," Bobby added and shrugged. "Or courage."
"Whatever it needs to be," Dean nodded.
Castiel just frowned and Dean shrugged, returning the third beer to the fridge. "Okay. So, outside," Dean continued, "you said you owed Sam. What do you mean?"
"He has not told you?"
Dean shook his head.
Castiel frowned, and seemed to consider for a moment, before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Dean. I must first speak to your brother. He may wish to tell you himself. Or, perhaps, not tell you at all."
Dean nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing in a way the angel found somehow… disconcerting. "Oh, he'll tell me," Dean assured him.
Castiel attempted a shrug, an awkward move that was more a weird twitch up, followed by a twitch down again than a casual gesture. "That will be up to Sam," he said solemnly (as if the dude spoke any other way, Dean thought. Got a whole damn tree up his ass.) "I would not presume to make a decision for my…"
Castiel stopped and it was on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask (demand) your what? when he realized that the angel wasn't moving at all. Like, at all at all.
"Cas?" Dean ventured hesitantly.
Cas blinked once and turned his full attention to the pair. "Where is this panic room?" he demanded.
Dean stared, dumbfounded to see a look of… urgency? Concern? Fear? on the angels normally expressionless face.
"WHERE?"
The demand broke Dean out of his momentary confusion and he pushed past the angel, breaking into a sprint to lead the way to the basement door, down the stairs and to the door of the panic room, Castiel following him step for step, Bobby close behind.
"Sam?" Dean called and flung open the peephole door. "Fuck! SAM!" he yelled and frantically spun the door lock open, his eyes never leaving the horrible sight of his little brother convulsing violently on the floor. Dean slammed the slide bolt open and pulled on the door…
…which completely failed to open at his touch.
"It's stuck!" he yelled and grabbed hold of the handle to try again. "Bobby, help me, the fucking thing is stuck!" He kept pulling on the door, straining as hard as he could against the unyielding metal, until he felt Bobby's hand on his arm.
"It ain't stuck, Dean," Bobby said gently.
"Wha— of course it is!" Dean insisted, still trying.
Bobby pulled him away from the door. "It's not stuck, it's locked, Dean!"
"No it isn't! I unlocked it, Bobby, come on, you saw me!"
"It's locked from the inside!" Bobby told him.
Dean stopped and looked back at the door. "No," he denied uselessly. "No, it's… He… He locked it, Bobby, but I made him unlock it! He unlocked it, he did, I heard it," he insisted. "I heard it."
"Then he locked it again after you came upstairs," Bobby said, logically.
"No," Dean shook his head and started pulling at the door again. "He wouldn't… He said he… He wouldn't do that."
Bobby pulled him off the door again. "Why did he lock it in the first place, Dean? Did he tell you?"
Dean nodded and blinked to keep the sudden moisture from escaping his eyes. "To protect us," he whispered. "He was… He was worried he'd, he'd lose control. Hurt us."
Bobby nodded and put a hand on Dean's shoulder, another cupping his face. "And what wouldn't Sam do to protect us?"
Dean gulped back a sob. "Sammy," he whispered. "Jesus, Bobby, he, he's alone in there. He, he could be dying. We have to… Wait, wait. Cas could get us in. Right? Cas!" he yelled and looked around them, panic immediately replacing the momentary relief when the angel was nowhere to be seen. "Cas, where the fuck…"
"I am here, Dean." The deep, increasingly familiar (weirdly comforting) voice echoed through the small opening in the door.
Dean and Bobby crowded together, looking through the peephole to see Castiel scoop Dean's giant brother up in his arms like he was the smallest of toddlers and lay him gently — almost tenderly, Bobby thought, not too unlike the way Dean handled his brother when Sam actually was a toddler — on the bare mattress, taking care to cushion Sam's head with the blanket folded at the head of the bed.
"Sam?" Dean questioned.
"He is not in danger." Castiel glanced up momentarily. "I have stopped the — misfires in his brain, and healed the mild damage his convulsions caused."
"Damage?" Dean pounced on the word. "What damage?!"
"A few bruises, a crack in his humerus, a concussion. Your brother is safe, Dean," he assured, as he situated the Winchester on the cot in what the angel felt to be a comfortable position. He straightened out the long legs, grabbing a bucket that was sitting, half-crushed, against one wall to put at the end of the bed, and rested Sam's feet on that. Carefully, the angel lifted each large hand and placed it across the firm, surprisingly well-muscled abdomen.
Once Sam was settled, Castiel stood and walked with a strangely slow deliberation to the door, looking at the worried pair looking at him, with a calmness that Dean found both inappropriate and fucking annoying.
"Open the door, Cas," Dean told him, his hand hovering eagerly over the handle.
"I cannot."
"Sure you can," Dean wheedled. "Just spin the wheel to the left and lift the lever, easy-peasy, come on."
"I misspoke," Castiel said with that same infuriating tone. "I know how to open the door, Dean. But I will not do so."
"Dammit, Cas!" Dean banged the side of his useless fist (painfully hard) against the iron door. "Why the fuck not?!"
"It is too dangerous," the angel told him.
"What do you mean?" Bobby frowned, placing a restraining hand on Dean's arm as the younger hunter drew himself up in anger.
"I am angel," Castiel reminded them, unnecessarily. "Even in this…" he glanced down at the body he occupied, "unimpressive vessel, I am not easily moved by forces at a human's command. And yet, I am finding it difficult to maintain my physical position in this room against the telekinetic forces your brother is bringing to bear, even when he is only semi-conscious." He settled his attention on the two hunters on the other side of the solid iron door. "Should either of you set foot in this room, you would be thrown against the walls with a force great enough to break most, if not all, of the bones in your bodies. If it didn't kill you outright."
Bobby let his gaze sneak past the angel, at the rest of the room, and drew in a startled breath.
"That's bullshit," Dean argues. "Sam's not…"
"Dean," Bobby interrupted, and didn't even flinch at the harsh look he received in return. "Look at the room."
"Wha—"
"Look, boy," Bobby repeated. "Just… Just LOOK."
Dean frowned as Castiel stepped to one side to give him a better view. For a second, he didn't understand what Bobby was talking about. It was the panic room. The same panic room that he and Sammy, and occasionally Rick, had helped paint and update and renovate a hundred times. They'd practiced fighting on that floor, shot darts on the game target on the wall, with an ever-rotating array of pictures for incentive (the current target was John Winchester, himself).
When teenage Sammy had been particularly emo, he'd come down here to study, needing 'space' from his big brother. It was all just…
And then he saw it, when he looked over at the metal army surplus desk where Sammy would once sit for hours, doing some bullshit research paper for school. The desk which had always stood a few feet from the wall, facing the door with the chair behind it so no one could sneak up on you when you were sitting at it. The desk which was now standing on its end, its underside flush against the wall, with the legs splayed out like some giant, squashed metal spider.
He stopped looking at the familiar room through his memories and looked at it as it was.
Everything, except the mattress and the cot that Sam was resting on and the chemical toilet bolted to the floor and surrounded by a shower curtain, was shoved against the wall. Some of it wasn't even touching the floor, just suspended in the air, pressed flat to the iron. Most of it, like the desk, was squashed flat, as if some giant had slammed it with a sledgehammer until it was half-embedded in the iron.
"Holy fuck."
Dean looked at his brother, lying so quiet and still, looking for all the world as if he were asleep (or, given the position Castiel had arranged him in, dead — but Dean wouldn't think about that. Wouldn't remember that).
The kid was spilling off the cot, his long legs hanging off the end, his wide shoulders seeming, to Dean, to take up almost all the space on the mattress from side to side, and still, all Dean could see was his little brother. The same kid he'd tucked in until he was twelve. The same kid he used to hold and rock in his arms after a bad dream or a bad fall (or a bad beating).
His gaze went back to the sheer destruction in the room, the splintered wood from the table where they'd play poker, the smashed buckets and bowls Sam would use to test new spells.
It would be a miracle if anything in the entire room was salvageable when all was said and done.
Dean looked at his brother again, saw the tiny hitch in his breathing, a tell-tale sign of a nightmare about to begin, and decided.
Dean shook his head. "I don't care. I need to be in there," he said, trying to keep his voice decisive and level; succeeding only in not actually sobbing out the words.
Castiel tipped his head to the side again.
Nope, Dean thought, not cute. Definitely just annoying.
"And your broken, dead or dying body will assist your brother, how, Dean?" Castiel challenged.
"He won't be alone!"
The dark-haired angel just stared at him l through the bars. "He is not alone now, Dean," Castiel assured and looked back over his shoulder at the supine form behind him, before meeting Dean's gaze again. "I am with him."
"Y- You — What?"
"I am with your brother," the resonant voice repeated. "I will stay with him."
"How long?" Dean challenged. "We don't know how long he'll need to be in there, Cas. It could take days, a week, even. You gonna stay here the whole time?" Dean scoffed.
"Yes."
Dean just stared. "That's what I… Wait. You will?"
"I told you," Castiel reminded, glancing back at the youngest Winchester again. "I owe him. And," the angel admitted, sounding almost as puzzled as Dean felt, "I find have no wish to leave. Not while Sam is… incapacitated… in this manner. I would stay," he confirmed with a single nod. "And assist in any way I can."
"I should be with him," Dean protested.
"You would die," came the implacable response.
"Dean," Bobby said softly. "That's exactly what Sam's afraid of. Hurting us. Let the angel…" He paused and smiled through the grate. "Let Castiel watch over him. Just this once."
Dean frowned, looked around the room one more time and, after another moment's hesitation, gave a hesitant nod of assent.
Behind the angel, Sam stirred, shuddering slightly and turning his head towards the voices at the door.
"Sam!" Dean called, leaning forward to press his forehead against the bars.
"Dean?" Sam muttered and turned his head away. "No," he moaned. "Hurts. Go 'way."
"Sam," Dean whispered and pressed a hand uselessly down on the door handle.
"Dean."
He tore his gaze away from his brother and looked into the clear blue of the angel's eyes.
"You should go," Castiel said, his voice softer, gentler than Dean had ever heard. "Your being here, it is distressing for him."
Dean nodded and gave way a step or two when Bobby grabbed his arm and pulled him from the door.
"You…" Dean hesitated.
"I will stay," Castiel reaffirmed. "And I will let you know if there is any major change in his condition, for good or for ill. I will keep you 'in the loop', Dean," the angel promised and Dean chuckled softly at the damn air quotes. (Those actually were kind of endearing, he decided.) "And I will keep Sam safe."
"Thanks, Cas," he whispered and the angel nodded, slow and deliberate.
"Of course, Dean. As I said. I owe him."
Dean nodded, but still hesitated. "Bobby," he said after a moment, never taking his eyes off the angel. "Go ahead. I'll be up in a minute."
Bobby looked closely at his older boy, then nodded once and turned to walk away. "I'll go put more coffee on."
The Winchester waited until the door at the top of the stairs closed, then turned back to the angel. "Listen," he began. "Um. About, about Sammy. He… he's going to be… Look, I'm not sure what he's seeing in there, but I can make some damned good guesses, and it ain't pretty."
Cas nodded again.
"He's… Sammy, he's prone to, t-to nightmares. Has been since we were kids. Some of 'em…" Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Some of 'em're pretty bad. And I, I kinda figure that, uh, well. This might be something like that, so, ummm…"
"If you know of methods that will help me to help your brother," Castiel guessed, "I would very much like to hear them."
Dean nodded, quickly. "Yeah, yeah. Good. Exactly. Okay, sure. He, um… Sammy, he's real, uh, verbal. Talks a lot, for sure. Half the time, you can't get him to shut up," Dean chuckled. "But he responds to it, too. Just, um. Talk to him, man. It, it helps to remind him where he is. Who he is. Who's really with him. That, that whatever he's seeing is not, it's not real."
Castiel nodded his understanding.
"Sometimes, just saying his name. That can be enough, a lot of times, that's enough," Dean said, nodding nervously again, flicking his eyes beyond the angel to his brother lying on the cot. "And t-touch," he continued, focusing on Cas again. "Touch can be good. But, but not while he's in the, the nightmare, hallucination, whatever. He'll try to hit you if you touch him during the, the whatever. But after. Touch, it, it grounds him, keeps him steady. Out, out of the nightmare longer. And I'm, I'm thinkin' the hallucinations will be like that, too. So, like, touch him. Hold, hold his hand. Not, not his hand," he corrected self-consciously. "That, that, that's weird, dudes don't hold hands. Just, his, his wrist. Just, like, put your hand on his wrist. So he knows he's not alone? And, and if he's, like, really upset, or, or scared, then, then… His, his hair. He likes, just, like, stroke his hair. A little," he suggested, blushing with embarrassment. "Or, or just, just put your hand on his head. It, it calms him down. You know?"
"I understand," Castiel assured, and Dean nodded with a small, infinitely grateful smile.
Behind the angel, Sam shifted and moaned softly.
"You need to go, Dean," Cas reminded gently.
Dean nodded, his eyes shining with something he wouldn't let be tears, not in front of Cas. "I just…" He hesitated, looking over Cas's shoulder again. "I just hate leaving him."
"I will be with him, Dean," Castiel reminded him gravely. "I will not leave him. You may put your trust in me."
Dean turned his attention back to Castiel and huffed a small laugh. Right. He was just supposed to let the angel he barely knew take care of his brother, his Sammy.
Dean was surprised to find that idea didn't fill him with panic. There was something about Cas that Dean liked, maybe even trusted.
A little.
Maybe.
Faintly, through the tiny window, he heard his brother begging him to go.
"Dean," Cas pressed.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Dean nodded. "I'll, uh. I'll be down. Some time. To, you know, check."
"Of course," Castiel nodded. "Sam and I will be here."
And it wasn't so hard to leave the basement, this time. This time, Sam wasn't alone.
Cas was there.
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Panic Room
Singer Salvage
November 5, 2008
12:13 AM
"You're a demon, Sammy! A monster!"
Tears fell from the wide hazel eyes as the one man he could always count on — his best friend, his parent, his partner, his brother, his Dean — turned on him.
"Dean, no," he gasped.
"You're evil, Sammy, you always have been. "
"No. Please."
"Sam?"
"And I tried so hard to pretend that we were brothers. That you weren't one of the filthy things that we hunt. But we're not even the same species. You're nothing to me."
"Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me."
"Sam. Can you hear me?"
Dean bent close to him, their noses almost touching, grabbing his chin to hold him still so he couldn't look away from the livid hatred in the familiar green eyes. It was a look Sam was familiar with, had seen in his brother's gaze on hunt after hunt; had even seen it, once or twice, when Dean was looking at their father.
Never once had it been turned on Sam.
Until now.
"I should've let Dad kill you," Dean decided. "Hell, I should've helped him."
"Sam Winchester."
"You killed our mother, Sammy."
"I didn't, I wouldn't…"
"You deserve to die, Sammy," Dean continued implacably. "You killed Mom, you killed Jess, you tried to shoot me. You trusted a fucking demon and now look at you. You're a fucking junky, Sammy…"
"Sam! What you are seeing is not real!"
"You're a fucking demon," Dean smirked and pulled Ruby's knife out of his pocket. "And you remember what I do to demons, don't you, Sammy?" he laughed and grabbed one of Sam's hands, pinning it against his side with his own elbow as he pushed the sleeve slowly up above the elbow.
"Dean, don't. Please don't," Sam begged and started to scream as the knife slipped under the first layers of skin, sliding down the arm and lifting skin like peeling an apple.
"Oh, no," a deep voice whispered. "Sam, you must stop this."
"I'm going to skin you alive, Sammy," Dean explained calmly.
"Don't!" Sam begged, and screamed again as the knife pulled another strip away, moving steadily down the arm and to the back of his hand.
"That wasn't a nightmare, you know," Dean told him calmly, and flicked another strip of skin onto the floor. "At the motel? I was awake the whole time, Sammy. I knew exactly what I was doing. And who I was doing it to."
"No. No. Please. Please, you have to stop!"
"Sam, there's no one else here. Just me. Castiel."
"But this time, Sammy," Dean grinned at him. "THIS time, I'm going to kill you."
Dean thought he was a monster. Dean wanted to hurt him. Dean wanted him dead.
And why wouldn't he? Sam belonged to Lucifer. He was more demon than human. If he were dead, if he'd maybe never even been born, his mother and the good, sweet woman Sam had loved with all his heart would still be alive. The yellow-eyed demon would never have been after them. John would be alive, and Dean would still have the father he worshiped and adored, the one he remember from when Mom had been alive.
If he'd never been born, Dean would have a real life, now, a normal life, probably running the garage with their Dad, married, maybe, with kids. (Dean would've been a good dad. No one knew that better than Sam).
"Sam, I can't stop the bleeding. You keep opening the wounds again."
Without Sam, Dean never would have gone to Hell, and wouldn't have the extra burden of guilt (so undeserved) that Dean insisted on carrying.
It was too late for all of that, but if Sam were dead…
If Sam were dead, Dean would be safer. He could get away from the curse that Sam brought upon them, maybe get out of hunting entirely.
"Sam, you must stop this. You must let me help you. Sam, listen to me!"
And while Sam wasn't sure why the angels wanted them to stop Lilith, he knew in his bones it had something to do with the Prophecy, with him being the Boy King, The Boy with the Demon Blood. Everything, everything horrible that had ever happened to them — that had ever happened to Dean (Dean, who was strong and protective and so, so good, so pure, even after forty years in Hell) — it all came back to Sam.
"You need to die, Sammy," Dean repeated and pulled the last of the skin off the palm of his hand.
"Sam, whatever you see, whatever you hear, it is Not. Real!"
But if Sam were dead, maybe that would stop. Maybe the demons wouldn't be after them anymore, if Sam wasn't alive to lead, to fulfill the Prophecy.
"I need to kill you, Sammy."
If the demons weren't after them, maybe the angels wouldn't be either.
"Sam, stop fighting me! Please, let me help you!"
If he were dead, Dean could be free.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, kill me. Dean, please. Please," he begged.
"Sam," the deep voice broke and a hand ran over his head, through his hair .
The knife kept slicing layers of tissue off, slowly baring the bones of his hand.
"Sam, no."
"Do it," he said and took a few deep, shaky breaths. "Do it. I'm sorry, Dean. For everything."
"Sorry doesn't bring back Mom!" Dean snapped and shoved the demon killing knife deep into Sam's stomach. "It doesn't bring back Dad!" he added and gave the blade a savage twist.
Sam screamed and reached his ruined hand down to clutch at his stomach. The blood pooled in his gut, spilled out the sides as his abdomen filled.
Dean leaned over him. "You need to stop this, Sam."
Sam met Dean's too-blue eyes with confusion.
"I don't want it to stop," he whispered and couldn't understand the sadness in those blue eyes he knew as well as…
"Sam, you must stop fighting my healing. Stop fighting your own healing."
"I want to die," he admitted, still holding blue eyes he knew as…
"No, Sam, you must not die. I forbid you from dying, Sam Winchester!"
Blue eyes he knew…
"SAM WINCHESTER, YOU MUST WAKE UP!"
…were supposed to be green?
The slap to his face was like getting hit with a brick. It broke his jaw, loosened three teeth, shifted his nose a full half-inch to the side. His mouth filled with blood from where he'd bit his tongue, and it probably gave him not just a concussion, but a decent case of whiplash.
He blinked, and found himself staring at an unfamiliar hand as two fingers pressed against his forehead.
Warmth spread outward from the touch, filling him, easing the pain in his body, in his mind, in his hell-blood blackened soul, and he couldn't stop a tear of blessed relief from spilling out of one eye, down his temple, to tickle his ear.
The hand pulled away and a face replaced it.
"C— Castiel?"
The angel smiled and something in Sam relaxed, while something else grew tense and warm. "Hello, Sam."
"Wh…" He sighed and closed his eyes, unable to look at the angel any longer. "What are you doing here, Castiel?" The almost physical weight of the Angel's gaze pried his eyes open.
The angel's look turned from warm to slightly pitying and the momentary warmth he'd felt was replaced with a feeling of dread.
"I heard your prayer, Sam."
"My… my what?"
"Your prayer," Castiel repeated and waited while he watched emotions play across the young face before him. Confusion, horror, relief.
"And you came," Sam breathed, awe in his voice and his bright green-blue eyes. "Thank you, Castiel."
Sam's smile was bright and wide, causing two rather distracting divots on either side of his (oddly appealing) wide mouth. Castiel couldn't help but smile back.
"I'm so glad it's you," Sam continued, the smile never wavering. "I know you — you'll be gentle. You'll make it quick," he nodded enthusiastically, then chuckled softly, the smile still firmly in place. "I have the feeling Uriel, for one, would make it hurt. A lot."
Castiel's smile faded and his eyes grew wide. "Sam, I.. No, Sam. No."
The pretty smile faded from the boy's face (a young human, Castiel realized. Not The Boy with The Demon Blood. Just… a boy). "Wh— What, what do you mean, no? No… no what?"
"No," Castiel repeated. "I am not here to kill you, Sam."
"You — well, why not?!" Sam demanded, suddenly indignant.
"Because, Sam," Castiel said as patiently as he could manage when explaining something so completely obvious, "you do not deserve to die."
"Of course, I do!"
Castiel shook his head. "Why do you think…" He looked around the panic room, at the blood still staining Sam's disturbingly — yet proportionately — large hands, and realized the cause of all the troubles. "Sam," he began, reasonably, "I do not know what you think you have seen or heard in this room today, but…"
"It was all a hallucination," Sam finished for him. "I know," he admitted. "I mean, while they're actually happening, it's.. it seems real enough," he shrugged, "but in between, I know it's not. When I'm… lucid… like, now. At least, I think I'm lucid now," he chuckled. "I mean, you're here. And it feels… I don't know. Different."
Castiel nodded, wisely. "More real."
Sam laughed, and tucked one arm under his head. "Actually, it feels less real, you're being here, now. I don't know, I, uh… Everything feels very, um… muted… just now."
Castiel tilted his head to the side in that way Sam was coming to know meant the angel was trying to understand perplexing humans again. "And the hallucinations?" the angel asked.
"They're… there's nothing muted about those," Sam sighed and huffed a little laugh. "Wish they were."
"I do not understand," Castiel admitted. "If the hallucinations felt more real than reality, then how did you realize they were hallucinations?"
"Because of what I saw," Sam explained softly. "Who. I saw."
The angel-head-tilt went a little farther, and a little bubble of delight rose in Sam's chest.
"I saw people who couldn't be there," he explained and made himself sit up. This was not a conversation he was comfortable having lying down. This wasn't a conversation he was comfortable having at all, but somehow, that vulnerable position made it worse.
"The room is heavily warded and you locked the door from the inside," Castiel pointed out reasonably, shifting so that Sam could swing his legs over the edge of the cot, but somehow the angel didn't actually move away. "No one can be here. Except me. Obviously."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. More than that, though. I saw… people who… Dead people. I saw dead people," he admitted and waited a moment for the inevitable Haley Joel comment. As Dean was not there (thank god), it didn't come and he continued. "I saw my Mom. J-Jess. My, my girlfriend. Jess."
"The one who died on your college apartment ceiling."
Sam bit back a sob and just nodded. "Y-yeah. That's right." He looked down in amazement when Castiel placed a gentle hand over his, and a tiny smile flickered when he looked back up at the angel.
"And I saw, umm… Gordon." He shook his head, realizing Castiel wouldn't know who that was. "A, a hunter. He, uh. He thought I was, was the, um. Th, the Anti-Christ. Tried to kill me because of it."
The hand over his squeezed gently. "You are not," Castiel said simply.
Sam closed his eyes and just breathed in those precious words. An angel said he wasn't the anti-christ. Amazing.
"And I saw… umm… Ruby, th, the, the demon Ruby.." He opened his eyes and waited for a comment, but the angel holding his hand just nodded, encouragingly. "Meg, that demon, she was, uh, Azazel said she was his daughter. Whatever that means for demons. The, uh, the daevas Meg called on us, and um, some vampires? A couple of werewolves." He licked his lips, nervously, closed his eyes just long enough to miss the way Castiel's eyes flickered to his mouth then quickly away. "A-a-and, the, the yellow-eyed demon. Azazel. I saw him. And. And my Dad." he closed his and tried — failed — to suppress a shudder.
"When did you start to pray?" Castiel wondered softly.
His eyes snapped open and his breath shuddered out. "When I saw my Dad," he admitted so softly that anyone who did not possess an angel's celestial hearing would have missed it.
But Castiel didn't miss it. Instead, he gently flipped their hands over and covered the larger hand now on top with his own, sandwiching Sam's large mitt between both of his own smaller, softer hands. "Your father," he said quietly. "He was hurting you."
"Yeah," Sam nodded and a self-conscious smile flickered on and off, distractingly flashing those face-divots again. "He did that a lot, when he was alive," he admitted and laughed softly. "Why would it be any different after death, right?" he wondered and looked away.
Castiel just waited, patient, silent, still, until Sam turned back.
"So, yeah," Sam continued. "I know, uh. I know, it, it's all in my head. But…" Sam looked away, over the angel's shoulder at the contents of the room slammed into the walls. He sighed softly and met the blue (fuck they were so blue) eyes. "Just because they weren't real, doesn't mean they didn't have a point," he laughed nervously, trying not to cry.
"Sam…"
Sam sighed and shifted slightly. He wanted to get up, to pace, to move, but couldn't find the strength, physical or mental, to do so. "I'm evil, Castiel," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. Rational. Realistic. "I'm a monster. And I'm a hunter, and I know that evil creatures need to die." He looked away, ashamed. "Even if I'm too much of a coward to do it myself. So… I prayed. Because I figure, um. Heaven must want me dead, right?" he speculated and turned his head just enough that he could watch the angel from the corner of his eye.
"Many in Heaven may indeed want an end to The Boy with the Demon Blood," Castiel concurred, noting with sadness the nearly imperceptible (to a non-celestial) flinch the title brought on. "But, Sam," he said and paused until the young man next to him looked at him again. "I do not. And I will not let small-minded angels who have not even met you, and just know what they have been told, exterminate you or your goodness."
"Goodness?" Sam scoffed and — finally — pulled his hand away. "There's no… I have demon blood in me. Lucifer's blood. You said so yourself! How… There's no goodness in a demon, Castiel!" the boy all but sobbed and tried to turn away again.
Castiel reached out and grabbed hold of the quivering chin, forcing the boy to face him. "You are no demon, Sam Winchester. Regardless of whatever has infected you, you are no demon. YOU. Are. Good."
Sam scoffed and when he tried to pull away, the angel let him.
"I have seen it, Sam," Castiel continued, firmly. "I have felt it. And it has helped me."
That got Sam to turn back. "Help— helped you? Helped you how?"
"What you told me in that motel, after the incident on Halloween. About your coma," he clarified.
Sam nodded. "I remember."
"You were correct, Sam."
"I…" Sam swallowed and turned fully to face the angel. Now it was his turn to sandwich one of the angel's hands between his own. Castiel's hand all but disappeared, and the sight gave Sam a tiny thrill.
Castiel looked down at their hands, his eyes widening at the feeling of his hand completely encased in Sam's. He didn't recognize the sensation he felt in his chest at the sight, but he thought he rather liked it.
"I'm so sorry, Castiel," Sam said sadly. Castiel frowned. "I mean, I knew… I knew I was right. But… I wish I weren't."
The dark head tilted again, the other way this time, and there was that little bubble in Sam's chest again.
"I know," Sam started and sighed. "I know it hurts, Castiel," he nodded gently. "Betrayal like that. From your… I don't, I don't even know what… how angel society works, or anything, but… It hurts."
Castiel dropped his gaze to their hands again. "Family," he said quietly. "All angels are family," he clarified at the gently inquisitive look from his companion. "We are… brothers. Sisters. Siblings, all created by the same Father."
"God," Sam breathed.
Castiel nodded. "Yes." He raised his eyes to meet Sam's, struck by a change in color he saw there — the blue-green replaced by yellow, surrounding the iris like the petals of a sunflower, that faded into green at the edge of the iris. He'd never seen eyes so changeable. It was… intriguing. "I have learned that Naomi, one of my, my older sisters, as it were, not only removed my memories of our prior meeting, but…" He trailed off and dropped his gaze back to the comforting sight of his hand disappearing between Sam's.
"Castiel?" Sam pressed gently.
"Apparently, this isn't the only instance," Castiel admitted quietly, right out loud, for the first time. "Apparently, there is… much… in my past actions that were deemed… unacceptable. And where therefore… excised. Forcibly."
"My g—" Sam caught himself, swallowing nervously at the near blasphemy. "That's awful. Castiel, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry they did that to you."
Castiel looked up again, meeting those sunflower eyes, confused and oddly touched. "It is not your fault, Sam Winchester. You advised me of the situation. You did not cause it. It is not your responsibility to apologize for."
"I'm not apologizing for it," Sam said simply.
"You said you were sorry. That is an apology, is it not?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes it's just… empathy. A way of saying, 'I see you're in pain. And I wish you weren't.' That's all," Sam shrugged.
"I…I see," Castiel said softly. "Thank you, Sam. For your empathy. And for your information."
"I wish I hadn't had to tell you. I wish I'd been wrong." The Boy that Heaven considered evil incarnate seemed near to tears.
"I am glad to know," Castiel assured. "I have also investigated your other claim, about Uriel. You were correct there, as well."
"Aw, man."
"There appears to be," Castiel said slowly, "a conspiracy. Within Heaven. Working with Hell. To bring about the Apocalypse. I believe the… collusion… goes to the highest levels."
"There's… Holy Shit!" Sam stared at him in amazement, unconsciously gripping Castiel's hand more tightly. "I had… I thought it was just, just Uriel. It never occurred to me…"
"Nor to me," Castiel admitted, and watched as something in Sam's countenance changed, growing oddly sharper as his eyes narrowed and his teeth worried his lip for a moment.
"It makes sense though," Sam decided and, even though those intriguing eyes were still facing him, somehow Castiel got the sense they were no longer actually seeing him.
"How does this make sense?" Castiel wondered and found his hypothesis confirmed when Sam jumped slightly, as if he'd forgotten the angel's presence until he spoke. The human let go of Castiel's hands to run fingers through his hair. Based on what Dean had told him, perhaps this was a method of self-soothing.
"Well, how else would Heaven be doing such a terrible of protecting the seals?" Sam wondered.
Castiel blinked. He'd had similar thoughts himself, but was surprised to hear them voiced aloud by this man.
It wasn't that Castiel wasn't aware of the appalling lack of Faith across the world, but this man — demon blood or no — had a depth of faith that Castiel could actually feel coming off him in wave after wave.
The angel could have bathed in it, there was so much pure Faith rolling off this tormented Hunter. For Heaven to fall under suspicion of such abiding Faith was…
His Grace hurt at the thought.
"Well," Castiel said after a moment. "You are correct in this as aspect, also. Your… insight… into these matters has led me to a great deal of… clarity, Sam Winchester. I thank you."
"You're…" Sam stopped, and smiled, slightly, sadly. "I was going to say 'you're welcome'. But it hurts you. And I — I'm sorry, Castiel. I truly am."
Castiel nodded, accepting the kindness, then frowned as a small ripple seemed to overtake the boy sitting next to him.
His eyes widened as a second convulsion swept over Sam and the hunter gasped in pain.
"Sam? What is happening?"
"I don't… Ah! I don't know," Sam gasped. "I feel… I feel…. Oh, crap. Castiel, get out of here!"
"I am staying," Castiel assured him, and grabbed hold of his hand again. "You cannot hurt me, Sam, and I am not leaving you."
"No. I… Oh, god," Sam gasped and bent over, pulling away from Castiel's comfort to clutch his stomach with both hands. "I can't… I can't hold it…"
He arched back, screaming his pain at the ceiling as a wave of pure energy ripped from him, pulverizing anything in the room softer than steel, even denting the salt-infused iron walls.
Castiel remained unmoved (although his ubiquitous trenchcoat hung from him in tatters and the suit under it was somewhat worse the wear). "Sam…"
He reached for the boy as he seemed to collapse upon himself, and found nothing but empty air as Sam flew across the room to crash into the wall, rolling across the iron, flailing for help.
Castiel flew (literally) to his side and wrapped his arms around the boy, dragging him off the wall. The pull of the demon blood's force was almost too strong for the angel's vessel to bear, but Castiel held grimly on, determined not to fail this precious life, this tormented soul who had sworn itself to his service and protection.
He sank to the floor, turning so his back was to the wall, with Sam was between his outstretched legs.
He threw his vessel's legs over the thrashing boy's, kept his arms wrapped around him, pinning Sam's arms, and brought every bit of his angelic power to bear, muted though it was by the vessel.
Sam continued to scream and convulse in his arms, and Castiel desperately sought to soothe.
"Sam," he said quietly in the boy's ear. "Sam, it's all right. It's Castiel. I'm here. You cannot hurt me," he promised, "and I will protect you. You are safe. You are safe. I am here with you."
After long minutes (could have been hours, Castiel still had difficulty with Time when not in Heaven) Sam seemed to calm in his arms, the rigidity of his muscles relaxing, and he leaned his head back against the wall, over the angel's shoulder, and rested limply back against Castiel's chest.
"Are you… are you… okay… Castiel?" he panted.
"Am I..?" Castiel marveled at the young man in his arms, still shaking, clearly (reasonably) terrified by what had just occurred, but more concerned with his, Castiel's, safety, than his own. "I am fine, Sam," Castiel assured. "I told you. You cannot hurt me." He did not mention how near a thing it had been. It didn't seem helpful, under the circumstances.
Sam nodded and closed his eyes, fighting to bring his breath, his trembling under control.
Castiel gently placed a hand on the top of Sam's hand, like Dean had suggested.
The angel had never touched a human in this manner before (why would he? WHEN would he? It had been millennia since he'd spent more than a few short hours in a vessel at all), and was surprised at how it felt. He'd have thought it would be uncomfortable (though, if it helped Sam, he would have done it anyway), but it was not. The hair beneath his hand had a… pleasant… texture. Soft. Silky. His fingers began to move of their own accord, sifting through the soft strands.
Sam sighed and calmed beneath his touch. "Castiel," he breathed. "What are you doing?" he puzzled.
Castiel stilled. Dean had said this was good, an appropriate action. He had not meant to cause harm. Slowly, reluctantly, his fingers stopped moving and his hand started to pull away.
"No," Sam murmured. "Don't stop." he shifted, turning his head more towards the angel, those sunflower eyes fluttering nearly shut. "Don't stop. It's… it's nice."
Castiel resumed his ministrations, letting the tresses slip once more through his fingers, enjoying the feeling on his hands, the weight of Sam against him.
After several minutes of Castiel's gentle attentions, Sam stopped shaking, his breath evened out.
"Are you all right?" Castiel asked, his deep voice deliberately quiet in the silence.
Sam could feel the words vibrate through the angel's chest, into his own and he sighed. He nodded, slowly. "I'm…I'm good."
Better than good. He was… content. And wasn't that something? A half-demon content in an Angel's arms. Who'da thunk?
"Should we…" Castiel began and started to move one leg from where it was oveer with Sam's.
"No," Sam said quickly. "Just… Can we just…" He swallowed, his native shyness and insecurity kicking up.
"Of course," Castiel assured him and wrapped his free arm more securely across the firm chest. His fingers continued their mindless sifting. His legs shifted slightly, tangling more deliberately with the Hunter's. "As long as you wish."
"You're not… I, I'm not too heavy?"
Castiel chuckled. "No, Sam. I can bear your entire weight without issue almost indefinitely."
"And you don't mind?" He was almost appalled at how shy he sounded. Almost.
Sam felt him shake his head slowly.
"Not at all. It is… nice," the angel decided.
Sam smiled. "It is," he agreed, his voice a bare, embarrassed whisper. Tears prickled his eyes. "It's been so long," he realized, brokenly.
"What ha… Since you've been held?" Castiel whispered back, his breath (unnecessary for the vessel's maintenance, but impossible, he'd discovered, to speak without) ghosting against the boy's ear, ruffling the soft hair.
"Yeah."
"Your… female companions," Castiel ventured, curious (and curiously off-put at the idea), "do not hold you during…." He trailed off, suddenly wondering if this was an appropriate topic of conversation for humans.
Sam shrugged, his ears and cheeks growing warm and flushed . "Well, yeah, but I… I don't really… I'm not Dean," he huffed a soft laugh. "I don't… It's… been a while," he admitted, and the blushed deepened, spreading over his whole face and down his neck and chest (Castiel found it… oddly appealing). "And anyway, being held, after… that… It always feels… more, um… kind of… I don't know. Transactional."
"Transactional?"
Sam nodded quickly, then leaned his head back against the wall again. "Yeah. Like they… like they feel they have to. Or I feel we have to. Something. This is… this is…" he sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "I don't know. Different."
Castiel nodded. "Very different," he agreed. "For one, we have not engaged in intercourse," he pointed out, logically, and was both surprised (he hadn't been making a joke, merely stating a fact), and pleased when Sam laughed out loud, finding that he liked the sound when it was genuine, and not just hiding nervousness and insecurity. "For another," he continued, "I… I do not require anything from you, Sam Winchester."
Sam went still.
"Holding you," Castiel decided, "is more than enough."
Sam nodded and relaxed even more, practically melting against the front of the angel. "Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah."
They stayed that way for a long time, until Castiel felt Sam's breath hitch suddenly, and the boy in his arms stiffened. One arm flew up to press against his forehead and Sam grunted in what was clearly pain.
"Sam?!"
"Uhhh." Sam pulled away and Castiel let him, watching as the boy staggered to his feet, started moving towards the cot.
Sam's legs gave out and Castiel was just there, catching him, holding him up, leading him over to lower him until he could sit on the side of the cot.
"No," Sam gasped. "It can't… he's dead, it can't… I can't…"
"Sam? Sam, what is happening? Sa…"
The angel's voice faded out and Sam looked up, confused.
The Panic Room was gone, replaced by a dark room with a comfortable bed and familiar — if generic — surroundings.
A motel. He was in a motel.
How the hell?
"Hello, Sam."
He turned to see a man sitting in an armchair, smiling at him. He was tall, probably nearly as tall as Sam himself, from what he could tell. Dark blonde hair, grey-blue eyes.
He'd never seen him before.
"Who are you?"
"You know who I am," the stranger smiled and the smile sent a shiver running down his spine.
He was cold. Suddenly, he was so cold.
"No, I…."
"You should," the man's smile never faltered, and the eyes suddenly turned to a bright, glowing red. The stranger stood (Sam was right, he was only an inch or two shorter than Sam himself) and took a step or two closer.
Sam stepped back. Whoever this was (it's not Him, it's not, it's not) he didn't want this man anywhere near him. His back hit a wall, and the stranger kept coming.
"Why should I?" Sam stammered.
"Because you're mine," the stranger grinned.
Sam's breath caught as foreign fingers skated down his cheek, leaving a trail that felt like ice behind.
"You've always been mine, Sam."
"No," Sam moaned. "It can't be. You can't be. You're… you're trapped."
"But the seals are breaking," the stranger smiled and ran his fingers through his hair, exactly as Castiel had done.
There was nothing pleasant or comforting in that touch.
"And when they break… I'm coming for you, Sam," He promised, leaning in closer and closer until all Sam could see was those ice-cold blue eyes. "I will. Claim. What is." He lifted a hand, preparing to snap his fingers. "MINE," he breathed practically into his mouth.
SNAP.
Sam was back in the Panic Room, shaking, crying, Castiel reaching for him, when he was flung against the walls again.
"SAM!" Castiel flew to him again, and missed as the hunter was dragged up the walls to be pinned from the ceiling.
He hung there, shaking from head to toe, reaching for the angel, until he was torn down and tossed once again into the wall.
Head first.
====SPN====SPN====SPN====SPN===SPN===
A/N
Sam waiting for Dean to make a Haley Joel comment is a reference to the actor Haley Joel Osment, who played Cole Sear in the 1999 movie, The Sixth Sense. Cole could see dead people (ghosts). Dean has made that comment before in the series, at the end of s02e16, Roadkill
Sunflower eyes are actually a scientific thing. Technical name is Central Heterochromia. (I've seen the term so many times in other fiction, but never knew exactly what it was. It's a perfect description!) Interestingly, some cultures believe that Sunflower eyes can see beyond the veil to other realms.