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twinkjaredarchived-blog · 12 years ago

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Title: Refur Recipient: corabael (sorry, darlin', I don't know your name.) Prompt: Per Sam’s request, Castiel enters Sam’s dreams when he’s having nightmares to help chase away what remains of the Devil inside Sam’s head. One night as he’s watching over the boys, he mistakes an erotic dream for a nightmare and can’t help himself from staying and watching. Next morning, Sam has no memory of the dream, but Cas can’t forget it. Word count: 10,004 words Rating: NC-17

Notes: A little season 5 AU, but I took this and tried to roll with it without adding too much of other things in it. There's quite a bit of self-loathing!Sam and I think I might have unintentionally put in some Samifer in here (how did I do that when I don't ship it?), though a lot of it is motherly and there's a little Sam/Jess. I resisted the urge to put in Wincest 'cause I'm not sure if you like Wincest so I refrained. Title comes from my most favorite instrumental ever.

- -

Most days, Sam doesn’t think of himself as strong, he doesn’t think of himself as powerful, he doesn’t even think of himself in a positive depiction. It’s the Winchester way, it’s a trait that Sam’s learned, acquired, perfected and there’s no way he’s abandoning it, not after years of dwelling in it.

When he sleeps, he doesn’t have regular dreams like normal people (when was he ever normal?). He sees himself, he sees everything he could have done different, he sees everything that’s his fault, “you know everything you touch turns to ash? Isn’t that right, Sammy?” and it hurts, it hurt worse than anything because Sam knows, right under the protective layer of his mind, that it’s all his fault, every piece of memory that filters through his subconscious.

This time, he doesn’t dream of anything, not like previously. It’s a whisper of breath, a caress of hands down his back, a sweet, “it’s not your fault, Sam, I want you to know that,” that almost breaks Sam because he wants to believe that, he wants to believe in a lot of things, he wants a lot of things but that voice, so bright, so beautiful, everything she (his Jessica, his beautiful, innocent Jessica) ever was, and for a moment, he wants to let himself backslide, burrow deep into those words, a soft pressure around his fraying mind.

It makes the truth uglier.

It’s when she fades, it’s when that petite, rounded face becomes one of masculinity, curves to long contours, soft flesh to burning skin, and he comes into Sam’s dream, all deceptive, crooning words of (false, he hopes to God it’s false) understanding and it’s almost too much. Sam denies it, he always does, and this thing, called Lucifer (fucking Lucifer) always builds him up with this, just before that moment when he says, “I know you, Sam, because you are my vessel. You were born for me.”

It’s the perfect method; it’s one of Sam’s few weak spots and it shouldn’t be a surprise that Lucifer knows it. The Winchester doesn’t want to believe it, he doesn’t like hearing it (it’s a confirmation: he really was meant to be evil, maybe there was no escape) and he refuses it, pushes it away, exclaims that he’ll never let Lucifer in.

It’s the fact that Lucifer never gets upset, never angry with Sam—he’s so understanding, almost motherly, in a way, and it hurts even deeper, a bone-deep ache because he’s always clung to mother-type figures, always looking to fill that ugly hole in his life, and Lucifer, so fucking patient with him, drives deeper to his core. Sam knows what he’s doing, can tell what Lucifer is doing and he resists, he fights, he does everything to stop this being from achieving his goal.

Sam knows, buried deep in his mind, a part of him that will always voice the disgusting truth; he’s not going to be able to hold out for long.

It’s Lucifer, the one who tempted man, succeeded in bringing down the most strongest of wills.

Sam is no different.

- -

She’s (it’s not her, it’s not, it’s not) here again, hand on his back, soothing voice with, “it’s never your fault, you weren’t given any choice at all,” and Sam nearly sinks into it, into her (Lucifer’s) words, once upon a time believing them but he jerks away, flies from the bed, breath uneven, angry at Lucifer for using her, twisting her image, for making hot sorrow curl through his body again, and it hurts to see her fade, even for a moment, even with Lucifer using her like this, he could see Jessica, he could let himself believe for a moment that she could be back.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

“Sam,” is almost disappointed, “I’ve told you before: I can bring her back, let you have what was taken from you—you just have to say those three little letters and I can give you everything you deserve, what we both know you deserve.”

It’s so sickeningly sweet, it’s what Sam wants to give into but those are only fantasy thoughts, those words with a promise of a world smeared in fire and ash and blood—but it’s those words: they hold no hint of malice, they hold no chastising tone, almost as if Lucifer meant them, as if he weren’t plotting the death of billions.

“I’ll never say it,” is filled with force, trembling. Sam hates how he’s affected by those words, how much he wants to believe them, give into them, surrender so completely—it can’t happen, will never happen. Lucifer only smiles, walks toward Sam and he backs up, Sam won’t let Lucifer near him—fuck, he can’t do this, not when Lucifer is pushing him into that point of shaking his purpose, delicately peeling away the layers he forces up with so much ferocity—Lucifer is the master of persuasion, he can break so much with the work of small words, phrases strung together with so much truth and Sam knows that’s what Lucifer does to him.

“But, Sam, I know how much you want this, I know how much you miss Jess, pretty, little Jess, taken from you and you left to suffer and grieve alone. I know you, I know that you hate the world for doing this to you, for never giving you the choice you so wanted. Why fight for a world that neither cares about you, for people who abandon you—just like big brother?”

That’s the nerve, that’s one of his weak spots.

“Oh, you’re right, big brother who thought it was a good idea to go separate ways because he thinks you betrayed him and he can’t look at you?”

“You don’t know anything about him,” and it’s a good idea: deny, deny, deny.

“Oh, but I do, Sam, ‘cause I know you, I know what you think, what you feel. You’re feeling angry, you feel alone, hurt because you try so hard, you try to do the right thing and what does that do? It gets people killed; it gets your brother Dean angry at you—why fight for people who will only turn their back on you?”

There’s only so much Sam can take, and he has to end it, he must do it.

Before he gives in, goes unspoken between them.

“It’ll never happen, not now, not ever.”

“Oh, I think so, I think you will.”

And with that, the world fades into darkness.

- -

Sam doesn’t tell these dreams to anyone, not even Dean (why would he care, he let Sam go, couldn’t even look at him) and he won’t admit them—it makes it more real, it makes his situation dire and what’s better than go at it the old Winchester way? He sinks deep into himself, shuts down, keeps himself locked because it’s easier to go through the day without any thought or real emotion.

He has to keep himself blank; he has to keep everything shoved out of his mind.

- -

A lilting caress.

“Sam.”

Her voice is like purity.

“I never wanted this for you, Sam, and it’s not fair that it has to be you.”

A touch on his face from a woman he’s never met, from a woman whose ashes are on his hands, “I want you to be at peace, Sam, for my son who I never got to watch grow up, become a man who is so burdened and it hurts as a mother to see you like this.”

There are hands around his back (it’s false), arms pressing him into an embrace, “just let me help you, Sam, let me put an end these troubles you face. I’m the one that’s here for you; I’m the one who can be the one thing you need.”

- -

Sam forces a smile the next day (he shouldn’t put his problems in the people, they have nothing to do with him) and someone asks him so cheerfully, “I heard you were new in town and I want to know how you’ve been taking to this place,” and Sam tells her a wonderful story.

He’s always been great at lying to people.

- -

“Just let me give you what you want—” and a soft touch to his ears, these gestures so comforting—, “and you know I want what’s best for you.”

He’s so stupid to want anymore; he knows what he gets, never what he wants, always the opposite.

“Stop fighting it, Sam, it’s only going to make it worse.”

Sam almost whimpers, he’s so close to letting go, he wants to give in because he can never resist her, he can never her, he can’t keep himself unaffected by her touch, by Jess’ smile, her sensuous knowing of his body. It’s a good imitation while it lasts, and Sam hates how he lets it come to him, how he almost falls for it—why he lets himself, Sam knows the idea and it’s selfish, it’s irresponsible, it’s fucking weak and pathetic.

“I’ve always loved you, I want you to say yes, end all of your pain, put an end to a world that keeps putting all of its weight on your shoulders, that expects so much of you.”

Jess (why does Sam even bother anymore?) curls around him, sweet nothings against his skin, spooned behind him as he leans against a wall, has to get his bearings together, stays wrapped around him and even more of her (his) breath of, “I can do it, Sam, I can give you everything you ever need, what you deserve. It only takes three letters and I can be the savior that not even Dean could be.”

He’s falling, he’s in a world of tranquility and maybe, just maybe, he can let himself has this one thing—

It’s then that Sam gasps, pulls awake, breathing harshly, in, out, in, out, too off, and he knows it then—he was so fucking close, too close to letting it all wash over his body in that sweet blanket Sam wanted to be in so direly.

Lucifer is winning.

Sam needs a plan.

- -

Sam’s never good at sharing his problems, no matter how much he keeps asking of Dean to do the same.

Dean calls him, tells him that they need to get back together, and Sam wants to delve further in why (maybe Sam’s too big of a burden to leave on his own) and right now, it’s not the best of times, it’s not exactly the worst of times. It’s what they can manage, it’s what they don’t talk about, ignoring all of the obvious problems but neither will crack for help, seeking out comfort in a dire situation that keeps festering with every refusal to acknowledge it.

Sam spends less times sleeping. He doesn’t really need (want) it; caffeinated beverages are becoming his friend again, he’s going on all-night benders of finding hunts, desperate to get back the routine he and Dean had—he wants that connection so much, using everything he is to cling to it, find consolation in it and maybe, just maybe, he and Dean can begin to rebuild.

It’s a stupid way to go about it but Sam is beyond caring.

The world’s ending, Hell’s rising, Heaven’s filled with a bunch of old-as-fuck junkless dicks, and it’s Sam and Dean against the world, just like always, as it always should be.

Except, it’s really not.

- -

There’s only so long Sam can go not sleeping and hiding it.

- -

Sam’s drifting, his head’s drooping, he’s trying so hard to not fall asleep but he thinks maybe resting his eyes won’t hurt—they burn, they’re stressed, there’s little comfort in keeping them open and maybe he can ease it away.

He’s more tired than he thinks he is because there’s a whoosh sound, wind blowing in the distance, gravel-rough voice there.

And maybe that’s Dean’s voice, too.

Whatever, Sam’s too busy drifting in and out to pay attention.

- -

After a few days, it takes Sam a lot longer to figure out that Dean is staring at him and those eyes calculate with precision better than any hunter they know. They’re assessing, they’re waiting but Dean doesn’t say anything, a gruff, “c’mon, Sammy, get a burger for a change, it’s not gonna put on those ten pounds you always wanna avoid,” and there it is, the fun banter that’s been missing and Sam plays along into it, “can’t say the same for your arteries.”

He ignores how much he’s willing to stoop for these old times with Dean.

It should alarm Sam, how long it takes him to recognize his brother’s physical signs but his mind is too lax, too wound up, running on caffeine and sleep deprivation, a deadly combination that makes him feel awake, floating through a near opaque fog, leaves this sheen of exhaustion upon his skin, oddly aware and disconnected to the world all at once.

Dean knows, Sam knows, they won’t speak of it until something comes to a head.

- -

It ends with a hunt in Virginia, a simple salt and burn, a no-sweat job, some ghost fed up with her husband’s cheating and targets men whom cheat on their spouses. It should be a usual routine for the Winchesters: wear a fed suit, stop at some houses, flash some badges, “I’m sorry for you loss, but can you answer a few questions?” and more greasy food with research.

Except, it doesn’t happens that way.

Sam’s sluggish, his fingers miss more keys than hitting them, Dean’s antsy, he wants something to kill, and they slide through more coffee, more fraying nerves and Sam doesn’t really act himself. Dean’s yelling, Sam is more or less slouching, eyes drooping—he’s so tired, he wants to sleep, Dean’s voice sounds muted, blurred and Sam thinks about saying something, he thinks when his brain allows him in small amounts of clarity.

“Sam, are you even listening?” jolts Sam when he realizes his head is hunched between his shoulders, hair in his eyes, head tilted down, and there’s no way he can go for casual, can’t make this look like he was thinking, anything but falling asleep.

Dean presses his lips thin, strides to Sam before lifting a hand to Sam’s face. Sam bats it away, tries to move but it’s so difficult to keep himself upright, to keep his balance from failing and falling back. Dean’s frowning, moving his hand away as he truly looks at Sam.

“You look like shit,” is out of Dean’s mouth like a curious observation and it’s that tone of voice, that quality that Dean uses when he’s taking something apart in his mind, going over the worst scenarios that may be at play.

“It’s nothing, Dean, don’t worry about it—just haven’t been sleeping much,” is out of his mouth like a perfected speech because it’s easier this way, he won’t explain to Dean about what he dreams about, what Lucifer tells him, how much he wants to give in and in no way can he tell Dean that.

He doesn’t need Dean abandoning him because he’s weak, because he can’t fight the Devil off, because he wants to believe so much that he won’t fall for what Lucifer tells him, and that he’s so close to snapping.

Dean’s eyes are narrowed, his jaw works to keep from yelling, and, “nothing’s goin’ on, huh, Sam? You haven’t been sleeping, you barely eat at all, you’re a fuckin’ zombie all the time,” and Sam almost flinches, knows he can’t keep this from Dean but he wanted to believe he could, he’s dealing with his problems, he’s adjusting.

Dean needs Sam to function and Sam can’t possibly let him down.

“Something’s wrong and you’re not tellin’ me what is, Sam,” and there, there’s the temptation to crumble, to break and tell Dean everything, and does he want to tell Dean but how does he tell Dean, “hey, I’m visited by Lucifer every night and I want to give in, I want it all to stop,” because there is no way.

And there’s always that message lingering, that voice telling him that Dean thinks he’s going evil because the confirmation is saved on his phone.

He doesn’t want Dean to abandon him.

“It’s nothing, Dean.”

Lie, lie, lie; it’s what you both do now, can’t really be what you two used to be and that truth hurts.

“Sam,” warrants a warning from Dean’s throat, and maybe Sam would feel bad because fitted under that word is pleading, Dean trying not to assume the worse. Sam wants to fix their relationship, he wants to have those days of endless highway, asphalt burned under tires, wind in face, sun blindness in his eyes, all next to the person he cares for.

It will never be that way again.

“Dean, it’s al—“

Dean’s up, he’s slamming an open palm against the wall and, “Sam, stop!” and this time Sam jolts (he might have sat still, sound trying to work through his sleep-ridden head), “don’t think I’m fucking oblivious now.”

Sam’s running on exhaust, his common sense is nearly fried, he’s moving through a cosmic haze of sandman’s sand wakefulness and when Dean says, “come on, man, you have to let me in, you have to give me somethin’—just give me that much, Sam, it’s all I’m askin’,” and it goes unspoken but Sam hears it: give me a reason to trust you.

Sam wants to, he really does, but he cannot let Dean in, he cannot give Dean a reason to leave him.

Dean is the only thing that’s keeping him sane.

Sam doesn’t say anything (what can he say?) and turns his head, can’t look at Dean, won’t allow himself to see the disappointment in his eyes. There’s a harsh intake of breath and the sound of retreating footsteps.

Maybe it’s Dean walking out of Sam’s life.

Sam thinks he deserves it.

- -

Dean doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t allow himself to think how far he and Sam have drifted, why he can’t do anything about it, why Sam hasn’t talked to him. Sam can’t lie to him (he never can come up with good ones for Dean) and Dean’s so angry at him, at the world, at this fucking Apocalypse, everything that has a hand in it.

Dean can see it now; he can make clarity of things that he couldn’t see before this happened. He knows of Heaven’s ploy to drive him and Sam apart, he knows of split angel sides that are relying on him and Dean to drift apart, they are essentially chess pieces to Heaven, they are a game that each angel is vested in to win, at any means necessary (Dean knows firsthand how far they will go) and Dean’s sick of it.

He’s trying, he trying to keep everything in sight, keep Sam by his side, figure out how he’s going to keep evading the God Squad and where all of this is going to end.

There’s also the matter of Sam altogether.

Dean’s trying to be patient; he’s trying to keep from wedging underneath Sam’s skin to his brain, from forcing any information out of Sam because his brother wants to keep things to himself now. He gets it, why Sam was easing from Dean after the months he came back from Hell and he’s trying to rebuild their relationship (it’s not going to be quick no matter how much Dean wants it to be) and really, he’s trying to back off but it’s obvious—everything Sam is doing, acting, speaking, everything—that Sam is keeping something from him.

He knows ways, he can use hundreds of different method to crack Sam and extract what he’s keeping (he hates himself for knowing these things, hates that malicious edge he wants to indulge in) but he won’t—he won’t ever do that again.

So he encourages Sam to talk.

It doesn’t work out that way.

For all of Sam’s talk of, “sharing is caring,” Sam has gone back on those words. Dean doesn’t know how to do this, talk about their feelings, about what’s eating at them, any of it (John wasn’t too keen on heart-to-heart father-son moments) but he’s trying to, he really pushing into that territory because it’s obvious neither of them are going to get anything fixed with this silence.

Dean notices small things about Sam, since their reunion and he’s concerned. Sam doesn’t sleep (he pretends to, when Dean’s looking), he’s surviving off coffee that Dean’s sure Sam could piss it, and he notices it especially when Sam researches, all droopy-eyed, glassy, so delayed Dean could shoot him in the skull and Sam’s brain would need a while to recognize it’s supposed to be dead.

And when Sam says, “I’m fine, Dean,” it’s so full of shit he can hardly keep himself from laughing.

Dean watches Sam, days of subtle glances, lingered time inside fast food places, eyes on Sam slouching in the Impala. He turns in his bed, watches Sam with eyes open and turned to Dean—there’s a connection between their eyes but it stops when Sam turns away, shuts down toward Dean and Dean knows Sam’s not going to sleep, will wait when he thinks Dean’s asleep to slip out, upright on his feet to sneak out, another coffee down his throat to keep from sleeping.

- -

Dean doesn’t say anything when Sam’s head shoots up, a gasp in his throat, his chest going through breathing spasms. Dean knows he’s not seen, standing in the doorway and steps back, exiting out the motel door.

- -

Dean’s at his wits end, it’s obvious his brother’s not going to talk (so many ways Dean can make him talk, ten minutes is all he needs), he needs help. Sam’s not going to open up; he’s going to stay shut down, a parody of himself, all sleep-laden until Sam collapses.

Dean makes it a point to grab their coffee, makes Sam stay in their motel room, “sheesh, Sam, I already know what you like in your girly coffee,” and he’s out the door, stepping inside the Impala. Dean doesn’t go to the nearest coffee shop, he doesn’t go anywhere near them—he’s diverting, going to a drugstore because he’s going to put his plan into effect ‘cause it’s obvious he won’t get anything out of Sam.

He buys the strongest sleep medicine he can get his hands on (why isn’t the cashier suspicious of how many bottles he buys?) and it’s enough to knock out an army of elephants. The cashier eyes him, suspicious but doesn’t say anything, lets Dean move out with fifty dollars’ worth of sleep medicine.

He gets Sam’s coffee, gets his own and back in the Impala, he empties part of the bottle in Sam’s coffee, makes sure the capsules have liquefied—he only hopes Sam doesn’t notice the taste and comes up with some half-assed explanation why it might taste different.

- -

Dean gives subtle glances towards Sam as he drinks his coffee, looks for any facial twitch, any sign of Sam detecting a trace of a different flavor and it’s all the confirmation he needs (Sam should know Dean’s looking him, should detect his shifting, should see the signs of Dean watching him) and Sam begins with, “so, I think I got somethin’—“ before he stops, rolls his shoulders, opens his mouth and closes it, twice, three times before looking at Dean.

“D’n,” he slurs, rolls thick from his tongue, “wha’s in this coffee?”

Dean’s honestly surprised. He’s never seen someone so quickly affected, someone as large as Sam’s frame, it shouldn’t be almost instantaneous, it should take an hour or more, but Sam’s swaying, he’s blinking, rubbing his eyes and there’s something else, something in his expression.

It looks like horror.

It makes Dean feel guiltier than he already feels.

“De’n, what di’you give me?”

“Sorry, Sammy, but you really need some shut eye,” and sure, Dean feels bad (understatement) that he has to do this, drug Sam to get him to sleep, but he has to, his little brother isn’t functioning right and Dean’s sure this probably has set back any progress they might have made (ha).

Why Sam looks more panicked, looking at Dean, pleading at him to not sleep more than anything twists something in Dean’s gut—why would Sam be afraid of sleeping?

He watches as Sam fights to stay awake, breathing quickly, harshly, “De’n, please don’make me sleep,” rolls thickened from Sam’s tongue, like it’s a warning, like a fear of Sam’s and Dean frowns, he doesn’t understand why Sam wants to fight this—Sam’s always been stubborn, questioning, never likes doing what he’s told but this, this isn’t one of those things Dean can write off.

Something is seriously wrong.

“Please don’t—he’s g’nna come,” is the last thing uttered from Sam, completely collapsed against the table, all signs of wakefulness gone. Dean observes his brother; his eyes trace the traces of sleep deprivation under Sam’s eyes, smeared like eyeliner in dark patches and Sam should be relaxed, he should be smoothing over lines of tension but…

Sam looks far from relaxed.

Dean wrestles Sam into bed (his brother is lighter, he feels less solid, his body is still strung up) and Dean stares at Sam, he catalogues every physical feature and there’s no way Dean should have ignored Sam’s condition, no way he should have thought everything was fine, go about the day like everything’s merry, fight their normal battles, “hey, Sam, say those fifty words of Latin and send this demon bitch back to Hell,” because obviously Dean wants to ignore everything, he wants everything back to how it was, just him and Sam, how it should have been.

Dean lashes out against the wall (it’s not a lamp this time), maybe fractures his knuckles, he doesn’t care.

- -

Elbows placed on the roof of the Impala, “just, please, I don’t know what I’m doin’ here. I’m tryin’ to do this but I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Please, Cas, I need your help.”

Dean’s not sure how he’s supposed to pray for an angel, how he’s supposed to call one but he doesn’t care, he’s never been great with formalities.

Dean’s desperate; he’s at the edge of his cliff, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s thinking of doing something, a lot of something, what that something is, he doesn’t know, but fuck, he’s not going to wait here, watch his brother decay, watch his everything compressed into flesh and blood and stupid, floppy hair die of a self-torturing mechanism.

There’s a flash of wind, flutter or wings and Castiel is here, still that annoying combination of curious and blank, that same gravel-rough voice with, “you’re not my only obligation, Dean,” and Dean would make a snarky comment but he’s more concerned with other things.

“Cas, I need your help—I’m trying not to assume the worst but it’s hard, Sam’s not talking to me—”

“You want me to check if he’s back on demon blood,” and Dean’s forgotten that Castiel was always blunt, always to the point that Dean finds a little annoying—he likes being humored, he likes to explain the situation. He’d forgotten how little fun the angel was in that territory.

Dean hates how he’s assumed the worst with Sam, that he still finds reasons not to trust Sam—he knows Sam is desperate, he wants to fix everything, he wants things that can never be and Dean wants to give himself over, he wants to trust Sam.

He’s too fucking embittered to move on and Dean hates that.

Dean doesn’t answer (he hates agreeing with the angel) deflects with, “’m jus’ worried about Sam. I can’t get anything out of him; he’s harder to crack than an oyster—”

“What does a sea muscle have to do with Sam on demon blood?”

Dean could almost appreciate the sudden break in seriousness but it’s not the time, not the right place. Dean shakes his head, “never mind,” and leads into the hotel.

Dean sort of expects Sam to be awake, his brother’s always awake, the last few weeks ingrained in his conscious and it surprises him to see Sam still in the bed, body uncoiled but it’s still strung-up, Sam’s still tensed and Dean frowns—Sam isn’t relaxed, there’s frown lines between his eyebrows.

The oldest Winchester doesn’t remember Castiel moving (must be an angel thing) and he’s got two fingers on Sam’s forehead, swipes them down his cheek, opposite side, repeats on the opposite side and maybe he’s frowning (he’s always frowning, isn’t that a surprise?), retreats his fingers and he’s turned back to Dean.

“Well?”

“I’m sensing it’s not a naturally-induced sleep—”

“I did pump'im full of half a bottle of ibuprofen. Practically inhaled coffee to avoid going to sleep.”

Castiel tilts his head, slow with, “your brother is stressed—”

“Isn’t that a surprise?” is cocked with sarcasm and Castiel doesn’t get it, doesn’t get a lot of human euphemisms.

“This isn’t something that should be taken lightly, Dean.”

Maybe it’s because of the sudden stress in the angel’s voice, the change in tension in Castiel’s voice and he’s looking at Dean, it’s not that stare that travels through Dean but rather, it pierces Dean, doesn’t exit out his body. Dean feels the severity of it and his stomach plunges, he feels ultimate dread.

“What do you mean?” rolls from Dean’s tongue hesitant and he doesn’t know if he wants to hear any of it, afraid of what Castiel could say, if this is a confirmation of how truly things are fucked-up between him and Sam.

“I could feel another presence, not demon blood, but something else.”

Dean hates when the angel does dramatic pauses.

“What ‘something else’?”

“Lucifer.”

How is Dean supposed to respond that? How is he supposed to come up with some nonchalant joke, brush away the serious undertones and make light of a situation, be the one to make everyone laugh to forget about the imminent death staring them in the face?

He can’t, there is no way.

It explains so much and leaves a bitter residue in Dean’s mouth. He knows there’s nothing he can do and that’s just it—he can’t do anything, he can’t stop a force that encompasses more power than Dean can ever achieve in lifetime, a force older than the Earth, than any spell (he suspects maybe Cas, too) and it hurts, it hurts worse than anything Dean’s ever felt.

He can’t protect Sam even if he tried.

He’s failed.

- -

“I’m doing everything for you, giving you everything you’ve ever been denied of.”

Maybe he should let it happen.

“I know you better than anyone, better than your father, than Dean—I know what you need.”

It all sounds too promising.

“Just say those three letters,” a caress to his face, voice gentle, a soft lull against his tired senses. He’ so tired, he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

“Is it fair the that the world makes you so weary, expects so much, takes from you without ever apologizing, Sam?”

Lucifer’s words run like water over his skin, gives gentle touches over his senses and it’s almost the most peaceful he’s been in a long time. He’s got a purpose somewhere, wedged under this sudden calm Sam feels, there’s a bleating reason why he’s supposed to resist, why he’s not allowed to listen to this.

He’s just so tired of dealing with the world.

- -

“Wait—wait, how did Lucifer find Sam? Aren’t those things—whatever they’re called—you put on our ribs—,” Dean grimaces, he’s still not used to that idea, “—supposed to shield us from angel sonar?”

Castiel is staring at Sam, tilts his head, a pensive move, “they do.”

“Then why—”

“”Humans are easier to find when they’re sleeping—the mind’s less guarded, easier to influence. I suspect Lucifer is using the time when Sam’s asleep to come to him."

Castiel regards Sam, the stress evident on Sam’s face, the tightness of coiled muscles and Castiel stands to full height. “His mind is distraught. I’m going to bring Sam back to consciousness.”

- -

He can do it, right here, right now, he can do it.

He can give in.

There’s a pulling sensation, pours of over his body and everything shifts, Lucifer is suddenly upright with, “you can’t keep him from me. You can’t stop fate from happening.”

Sam’s last awareness is the sound flutter of wings.

- -

Sam doesn’t open his eyes, a film of sleep trying to lull him back to lost consciousness and he wants to, god, does he want to. He’s tired, tired of everything and Sam wants it to end.

Sam remembers those words, Lucifer’s tone, calm, composed, so sure and confident that it scares Sam, it makes him uneasy and through his mind, under the protective layers of mind, it makes him think, it makes Sam recall the decisions he’s made to avoid what everyone and everything wanted him to turn into.

He really was destined to become evil.

“Sam.”

Gravel-thick and familiar, Sam responds to that sound, eyes pulling open, his vision focuses through a haze of sleep-muddled film and Castiel’s image sharpens, takes up most space in his line of vision. He looks concerned (who would want to be for him?), he looks a lot of things that he hasn’t been able to name and Sam feels pressure on his forehead, realizes that the angel’s fingers are pressed there but retreat.

“How are you feeling?”

He doesn’t answer at first, “tired,” croaking from his throat, rolls dense on his tongue, sluggish in movement. He’s not going to deny it, he can’t anymore, not after Lucifer keeps pressing, gentle force against his ever-weary mind, his body ready to go under (he’s lost weight, he’s lost muscle mass) but Sam doesn’t have the energy to be angry at himself for not trying harder.

He’s an utter failure.

“It is to expected,” and Castiel is up, turning away from him and it’s then that Sam sees Dean, through the darkened room, staring at him, seeing Sam for he’s worth (how much can Dean see?) but Sam doesn’t have enough left in him to say anything, to turn away, get angry at Dean for forcing him to go to sleep and staying even longer with Lucifer.

- -

Castiel watches them, he sees the brothers staring at each other and Castiel is slightly intrigued.

Humans are such interesting creatures.

Castiel is aware of how old he is, he is aware of how much he’s seen; the blood on his hands, the acts he’s committed—however, none of it’s as interesting as these two humans he’s chosen to be with. Castiel sometimes thinks back to his previous stance on humans, not much different than the view of a lot of angels—small, flawed, inferior beings that destroy what they touch. He thinks back to his original view of Sam sometimes, his notion of Sam being an abomination, something built to ruin mankind.

He thinks he’s come far, all because of these two beings (there are others, but these two are the most important) refuse to follow the Heavenly code set for them.

Dean moves first, he’s striding hesitantly across the room and kneels in front of Sam. Castiel still has enough power from Heaven to have super-heightened abilities and hears a soft, “I’m sorry, Sammy,” and Castiel wonders if these brothers will ever stop apologizing.

“It’s okay, Dean, ‘s’not your fault.”

“Should’ve protected you—I failed you, Sammy.”

“Dean, you couldn’t, not from this.”

Castiel doesn’t know how these two have carried on like this, so much guilt, blaming themselves.

It’s a wonder how they’ve not crashed and burned yet.

Castiel moves, he’s approaching into the room from the doorway and they notice him, Sam looking at him with tired gratitude. “Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel hovers at the side of the bed, Sam’s attention focused on him and Castiel can see the tiredness in Sam’s eyes, resists the pull of looking into Sam’s mind to assess the damage done by Lucifer (Dean told him about personal boundaries, “that’s a bad thing, Cas, a little creepy, too.”) and looks back to Dean.

“I pulled you from your dream and stopped Lucifer from doing any more harm.”

Sam smiles at that (it’s hollow), “thanks, Cas, but he’s going to come back. It’s not going to matter.”

Castiel sighs (it’s hard dealing with people who have little self-esteem) and says, “there are ways to keep Lucifer away, Sam.”

He can see the exact moment the youngest Winchester’s face considers this, can see Sam turning it over in his mind, almost hesitant with, “there are?” as if he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, like he’ll be disappointed with the end answer.

“Yes,” Castel keeps his eyes trained on Sam, “Lucifer cannot hope to use his true power in the vessel he’s taken now—it will cause his vessel to burn faster and Lucifer must take caution. He’s limited. There are spells to block someone from another’s mind. With Lucifer in a weakened state, I can perform a spell on your mind using some of my Grace—,” he doesn’t mention how his Grace is no longer unlimited, that’s okay because if he can have a hand in preventing this Apocalypse, then it’s worth it—, “and it will create a barrier between you and Lucifer.”

He studies the youngest Winchester’s face, looks back to Dean to see if he approves and watches both of them, sees the hope sparking in their eyes and Sam looks, as Dean says, sold.

“Do it,” Sam sounds positive, “if it’s going to help keep Lucifer, do it.”

- -

Castiel does, he collects some materials, creates a small alter of the items, chants in a language neither of the brothers recognize and before Castiel places his fingers on Sam’s forehead, “I will need to periodically check your mind, Sam, to know if I need to increase the power of the spell if Lucifer tries to pierce through.”

Sam nods, a soft, “I trust you, Cas.”

Sam’s out before Castiel retreats his fingers.

- -

“You know, it’s really creepy when you do that.”

Castiel spares a glance toward Dean, “this is required, Dean.”

“But the whole,” Dean waves his hand around, makes small circles, “watching thing. You really have to stare at my brother twenty-four seven?”

The angel doesn’t dignify an answer, he’s got a job to do, he’s going to make sure this goes right and seeing the eased muscles of Sam’s face tells him it’s working. He doesn’t sense Lucifer’s presence in Sam’s mind, he doesn’t feel a force trying to break through—it’s flat, it’s blank, Sam’s mind is at peace.

- -

Dean knows from a lifetime of experience, eventually, a good thing goes bad, doesn’t matter how much he tries, he fights, it will eventually become destroyed.

He feels guilty, he feels horrible, he feels all kinds of things that he does on a daily basis magnified, shot through him with a steroid boost. He was stupid, he knows that, he knows that he could have tried harder, tried to find out why Sam was so afraid of sleeping, why his brother seemed too scared to shut his eyes for a moment.

Dean is angry, he’s been nothing but angry, at everyone, everything, just so tired of dealing with everything. Sam was his only constant, Sam was the one thing he depended on, could think to never let him down, always had his back and they could go through life like that, they could be the one team that not even Heaven or Hell could break.

He’d been wrong, so very wrong.

Dean hates how he couldn’t see past his own return from Hell, how he didn’t see anything wrong with Sam, “hey, he didn’t go to Hell, he doesn’t have mind-shattering memories of pain and torture and hurt, so he’s fine,” was his main excuse for refusing to see anything change.

It should have been obvious; it should have been the easiest thing to see—he sees it now, the conspiring forces against him and Sam, the implications of their words and he let it get to him, he let them believe Sam was evil, he let them get away with so many things, all of it causing him so much grief.

When he looked at Sam, all he could see was betrayal, a brother choosing a demon over him (he refused to listen to Sam’s reasons, they weren’t reasons to him, excuses, excuse, excuses, nothing but lies) and he knows Sam is sorry, he tries to tell Dean every day, with every glance.

He ignored them.

Dean wishes he could have found out sooner; could have stopped his own self-loathing and torture to see Sam was in pain, dead tired, Lucifer eating away at his subconscious.

He watches Castiel, in those moments of awake and sleep, staring at Sam, checking him, fingers on his head, in his hair, assessing Sam to see what’s happening. Dean hates himself for it, can’t stop himself but he’s jealous, he’s envious of Castiel, of his brother looking at Castiel like he’s the one who’s going to save Sam from his nightmares.

He’s supposed to be the big brother, he’s the one who’s supposed to protect Sam, assure his brother, make his brother relived not Castiel, not this angel who used to look at Sam differently, like Sam was a mistake, like his little brother never mattered.

He still hears John’s words, telling him to take care of Sammy, protect him and Dean tries, he really does, and to fail, to not be able to help Sam in his time of need—it hurts, it hurts worse than any words could describe.

Dean wonders if Castiel knows this, that he’s jealous, that he’s envious, of an angel that is helping his brother when he can’t.

Dean’s grateful for this, he really is, but not the one being able to help Sam makes him feel useless, that this new savior of Sam’s, this angel that has done nothing but break his brother’s faith, is now more needed than Dean is.

He ignores that voice in his head, tells him that nobody’s ever needed him.

He rolls over on his bed, puts his back toward them and closes his eyes, tries to will always those self-loathing thoughts and goes to sleep.

- -

It continues for another week before Castiel encounters a change.

Castiel slowly ups the spell, making sure it works, supervising the efficiency of the spell. Dean went to sleep three hours prior, Castiel still stands vigilante over Sam, sits in a chair beside Sam. He sometimes allows himself to dip into Sam’s tranquility, feel the effects of the spell working, settles into Sam’s peaceful state of mind.

Castiel notices Sam shift, turns his face, hunches into his body and noise dips from his throat, it’s soft, not meant to be heard and Castiel is on him, puts a hand over Sam’s head, placed gently in hair, prepares to increase the spell’s power an when he slips into the youngest Winchester’s mind, he stops because—

There isn’t any trace of Lucifer, there isn’t a force frittering at the edge s of Sam’s consciousness.

It isn’t anything close to dangerous.

Castiel gets confused, presses deeper into the layers of Sam’s dream and—

Oh.

- -

Sam’s having an erotic dream.

Castiel has already slipped into Sam’s mind, is already on the top layer of his dream and he feels the dreams, he can sense the energy dreams give off, feeding the mind, the body, and Castiel finds himself on cusp of the energy and Castiel would like to say he’s not affected, he can resist.

That was before he started Falling.

Grace is what sustains an angel, it what an angel uses to live eternally; it puts them above worldly desires and temptation, it’s what keeps an angel pure. As long as an angel is connected to Heaven, their Grace is unlimited, it is forever replenished, there is no worrying if it runs out.

Castiel is cut from Heaven, he is Falling and he’s becoming affected by human desires.

It’s small, urges here and there, but what’s left of his Grace keeps most of it at bay, it keeps temptation down to the barest minimum, however, it’s there, always lurks under his skin (not his skin, never was his skin), burns slow down his spine, collects at the base before it fades.

Castiel doesn’t want to go any farther, already feels the low thrum of temptation kindling, and he thinks maybe, just maybe he can—

“C’mon, Cas, you’re off the angel squad, might as well enjoy what you angels call sin,” cuts Dean’s voice, that confident tone somehow ingrained the angel’s head.

Castiel sinks through the layers, softly, afraid he might cause a disturbance, that somehow Sam will be aware that he’s intruding on something private. He peels through slowly, starts seeing clear images that he can recognize. Castiel is aware that he’s being affected, he’s inside Sam’s mind, feels his emotions, slightly connected with younger man’s mind and his Grace can’t completely shield him from the affects.

He sees the image before him, he sees Sam, he sees a lot of Sam, actually, a lot of another person—two people, and he sees Sam in the middle.

Castiel might understand it, the human need to feel loved, accepted, needed, and seeing Sam in this, seeing him want to be loved, having a life that neither wanted nor accepted him, he might see the reason behind this dream. He’s spent millions of years alive, thousands watching humankind grow, expand, develop emotions that have crippled them, yet have given them reason to continue with purpose.

It’s a woman that lies in front of Sam, a man pressed to his back, trails a hand down Sam’s side; the woman fists the blanket, Sam’s mouth on her chest, tongue swipes through the middle of her breasts. He sees the male, shaggy hair, doesn’t look combed, run his mouth down Sam’s spine, mouths at his covered vertebrae, hands on either side of him. Sam looks different, he looks—younger, he looks less muscled, he looks leaner, he looks—he looks carefree.

He thinks this was before everything conspired against the brothers.

Castiel has watched humans have sexual relations; he has seen the most debauched days of the Earth, to the most restricted and repressed ages, all of it creating so many memories, things Castiel believed he had forgotten become triggered by a sight, a smell. It was at that time, he felt no need for it, he had no desire, his Grace kept him firmly repelled.

Castiel isn’t so sure this time.

The woman sobs, her breath hitches, Sam’s mouth on her nipple, tongue flicks in down-up movements, fingers down her side. Hair in his face, sticks to his neck, sweat slides down his face, down and under his chin. The man’s fingers are on Sam’s hips, squeeze, drag of flesh up his sides, curves around the heated to Sam’s chest, Sam arching, disconnects his mouth to moan. His mouth is covered by the man’s, hand on Sam’s face, twists his head to an angle to make it work. They’re a vibrating coil, clenched in throes of pleasure, twisted in need.

Its low, in the pit of his stomach but Castiel feels it, the steady climb of want in his body, the increasing want to do something, to maybe join. It’s foreign to Castiel, it’s not what he’s used to and he’s slightly intimidated by it, millions of years going by without ever wanting anything like this suddenly in his body, changing him, driving him toward what he’s seen humans do in an infinite number of situations.

Sam clenches his teeth, the man’s hand on that part of Sam, the source of a male’s main pleasure and Castiel watches, entranced, almost scientifically fascinated by this. He sees the man corkscrew his hand, drive up, pauses, squeezes and draws down and in result, Sam keens, makes a noise that he’s never heard the male make.

“Want me to fuck you while you fuck her, huh, Sam? Make you feel so good while you make her feel good? I know you want to, want to be fucked from both ends.”

Castiel’s heard this many times, what they refer to as dirty talk, humans telling what they’ll do and he’s never understood it—now he has these inhibitions, he can feel a steady climb of human desire and he’s a lot more affected than he thought. It gives him something to think about, it gives Castiel images of what the three of them will look like and his hand hitches, ascends toward the source of his growing arousal.

He watches as Sam move between her legs, allows himself to sink inside her and the man plasters to his back, grips Sam’s hip and pushes into Sam’s body.

Castiel’s breath catches.

They move in a shaky rhythm, obviously trying to establish a rhythm, settling on a cause and effect rhythm. Sam thrusts forward, buries his face in her neck, grunts, breathes differently, the male behind him moves back, withdraws and meets Sam as he pushes his hips back, withdraws from the woman. Castiel sees the man hesitate, wanting to go faster, Sam wanting more, the woman’s moans becoming more wanton.

Castiel senses the increase in heat, the sudden awareness of sweat on his own skin, a dull throb between his legs and he curiously presses a palm to the slight bulge and—

Fuck, he feels it, a spike in feeling shooting through his stomach, leaves a cool-warm sensation spiraling through his body. He almost hunches forward, this new feeling leaving Castiel is confusion, in hunger, want and he needs something more, he needs to do something more to relive this awful pressure that builds.

Sam gasps, he moans, twists and bucks, needs more, wants more, has to have everything all at one. He can see Sam losing it, he can see a lot of things that he never imagined Sam to do. The male behind him bites his neck, rolls the flesh between his teeth, presses until indentions can be seen. The woman does the Sam, opposite of Sam’s neck and soon, Sam is the one moaning, he’s the one being assaulted with feeling, of warmth, of love and Castiel feels all of it, his being drowning in the sensations and feelings and desires of Sam’s mind.

There’s a ghost of a sensation down his spine, where hands should be, legs tangled around his waist, back pressed to his body and he forgot, of course Castiel forgot—he’s in Sam’s mind, he’s going to feel what Sam wants, desires, and his body is falling for it, his Grace has stopped trying to protect him. His human vessel is responding, it grows in desire and the want to relive itself. Castiel cannot deny it any longer, it hurts, hurts worse and better than anything he’s ever felt.

Castiel does what he saw earlier, peels at his dress pants, hand inside before he can really understand what he’s doing. He remembers from days of past, of hands on cocks and fingers pressing into heated flesh. Castiel mimics them. His body is responding, keeps his eyes on the image before him, Sam’s back pressed to another man’s chest, head on his shoulder, open-mouthed and panting, can’t decide if he wants to keep in control or let it all happen.

Castiel twists his hand, goes over the head of his cock, presses a thumb to the slit and makes a noise, surprises him before he slips back into it, and his eyes almost fall closed, he nearly surrenders tot his new feeling but forces himself open, keeps his eyes pressed toward the people writhing in Sam’s mind and Sam himself.

They’re close, the angel feels Sam’s mind close in, become frantic, desperate for this release that Castiel’s heard (and seen) so much about. Sam’s making more noise, hands on his chest, down his sides, his hips, keeps him trapped between their bodies, keeps him in an embrace of heated flesh and sweat and want.

Castiel gets closer, watches them, mouth open, hand moving faster, remembers techniques humans have used and he’s—he’s—

He’s coming, he’s shuddering, he might be screaming, he’s doing something. There’s liquid coming out of him, warm, clear-white, somewhat opaque and Castiel curls in on himself. He keeps his eyes open, watches as Sam, and the others, come, Sam nearly sobbing, gasping, moaning.

Sam looks—

He looks beautiful.

Castiel catches himself in that thought before awareness blanks his mind, surrenders to the all-encompassing feeling of an orgasm, spirals through his body, out his body in liquid and Castiel collapses, he’s breathing harshly, trying to recover, anything to get him out of this weakened state.

It’s then that Castiel pulls himself out; he descends up and out of the layers of Sam’s dream, out of his mind until he’s aware physically of his vessel. He’s breathing harshly; drag of each breath flowing quickly, desperate and he needs a moment, many moments, to sort out what he allowed to happen.

He watched Sam, Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood (he scoffs, has grown to see that Sam is not defined by that title) have an erotic dream, that Castiel let himself see, become affected and participate (indirectly) in.

There’s a stab of shame in his stomach and Castiel is confused, has never felt this emotion on a human level and it reels him in with shame, hot and buzzing through his system. It’s because he’s becoming affected by human perceptions, by their wants, completely morphs him closer to becoming one of them, he has to stand up, he has to do something to get rid of this feeling, he hates it, he hates it more than anything.

He takes a looks at Sam, looks at the body he saw writhing, pressed between two warm bodies and the angel immediately notices the difference between them. He studies Sam, doesn’t see a trace of what he saw, that happy, care-free Sam, that one in his dream’s eye that was shown him and Castiel finds this strange, he finds himself almost… disappointed.

That was the Sam he used to be, that was a Sam, once upon a time, who was happy, who was okay with trusting people—and it hits the angel.

That was a memory, that was something Sam did, a far cry from what this Sam is. This Sam, the one that lies in front of him, is not like that Sam. This one is colder, less happy smiles less, protected, guarded, always suspicious of something happening.

That was a Sam that could trust the world, could be happy, content with what he had.

It makes Castiel feel a sensation close to sorrow.

Castiel stands, looks at Sam sleeping, sees the composed way the body lies and almost, for a moment, does Castiel want Sam to stay like this, wants Sam to be happy, to have no worry of having to fight for his life, to pay for his family’s spat toward each other.

Just that one thing, just something that he doesn’t have to feel guilty over.

Castiel hates this new development of human emotions, gives him all kinds of thoughts he never wanted.

- -

Sam floats below the surface of consciousness, barely grazes the awareness of his mind. He’s almost not aware of where he is, soft, thin warmth over his body and he realizes he’s in a bed, he was actually sleeping, concept that still amazes him.

He’s upright, rubs at his eyes, hand pulling through messy hair and—

Wetness in his pants, down his legs, dried, pants stuck to his legs.

Oh.

Internally, Sam’s panicking; he’s going over every scenario, everything that doesn’t point to having what he thinks he had. All the evidence, all of it stuck to his thighs and pants, points to what he wants to avoid.

He had a wet dream.

He remembers then; dread slicking his stomach, what Castiel said to him, kneeling beside his bed performing the spell, telling him what he’s going to do.

Sam panics because—because—

Castiel might have seen what he was dreaming about.

Sam doesn’t really remember the dream, the contents, all hazy, like a weathered filmstrip and he tries to remember, goes through any type of erotic material he might have seen lately, what might have left a big enough impressions on his mind to make him want to see it again.

He comes up blank.

It’s when he looks up does his eyes fall on Castiel’s figure, stands so quietly on the other side of the room, almost as if his presence isn’t seen and if Sam didn’t know who Castiel was, what he really was, underneath that deceptive body of skin and flesh and blood, he’d think Castiel wasn’t something real, wasn’t something that could actually exist.

“Hey, Cas,” and Sam could hit himself, the words come out nervous, shaky, not at all how Sam’s used to talking.

Castiel doesn’t move, “hello, Sam.”

It’s awkward (for Sam) and the youngest Winchester tries to come up with something to say, words that can pass for normal, words that won’t begin a conversation that Sam’s afraid will turn down a road that he’s uncomfortable with.

He looks to the side, sees Dean, buried under the blankets, light snores rolling from his throat and sigh—at least Dean isn’t up to make this any weirder.

“How are you sleeping, Sam?”

Normal conversation, Sam can do that; he can navigate through this with no consequences.

“Fine, it’s fine.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, blows the long bangs out of his face but they fall back and Sam doesn’t move them, gives him something to hide behind, doesn’t try to straighten out the rest of his hair because he’s nervous, he has a nervous habit of pulling on his hair and it’s soothing, it’s a mechanism Sam uses to cope.

It doesn’t really work, not when there is an angel in front him, looking at him, sees through him, makes Sam feel naked.

Sam thinks about moving, shifting, getting up to assure the angel that he’s find, he’s thankful of him doing this but Sam can’t move, can’t make himself do anything, just sitting there to be scrutinized. Castiel does that head tilt, that inquiring look that’s oddly adorable (“now’s not the time for that,” Sam thinks), steps forward and the youngest resists burrowing back under the blankets.

Sam looks at Castiel’s face, looks for any sigh of something different, if there’s blush on his face, if Castiel is looking at him different—he can’t tell, he can never see what the angel is feeling, thinking and it frustrates Sam at times, Castiel being unreadable, that blank look on his face. He’s a brick wall, movements solid, sealed, unable to be read.

“I take it the spell is working?”

“Yeah, it is, thanks for that, Cas.”

Sam squints slightly, thinks there may be a change in Castiel’s voice, looks for anything (it’s not likely, Castiel’s voice is always like gravel, always roughened) ad he can’t tell, never any spike in Castiel’s voice.

Castiel nods, turns around and, “if you are okay, Sam, then I must continue my search. I will be back in time to do the spell for you to sleep.”

A flap of wings and Castiel is gone.

Sam sighs, thinks that maybe nothing happened, maybe Castiel didn’t see anything, he’s just being paranoid.

#sassysanta2012 #corabael #sastiel #supernatural #fanfiction #sastiel fiction

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