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Entry tags:
'Detours' - SPN - Sam/Cas
All my explicitly shippy Cas fic is croatverse fic. Well, except that one cracky Sassy AU. But. Cracky Sassy AU. So. Anyway, here is some croatverse fic, pre-croatsplosion. It's also my fic for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sassy_otp exchange. My recipient is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elanorofcastile and I went with her third prompt, which was "Don't Follow" by Alice in Chains. It also includes the following things from her list of likes: touching/space invasion, languages, angst, drug usage, old magic, mythology, and kissing.
The summary is basically, "Cas does intense things to Sam's body and Sam's totally into it." Here's Cas. There's no time for haircuts during the croatpocalypse, seems like.
Thank you tometonomia for betareading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Detours
Supernatural. Sam/Cas, Dean, past Sam/Ruby. R.
Set in 5x04verse around 2012. Sam hunts alone, except for when he doesn't. ~4500 words
Sam goes to Belleville, New Jersey, and man, life's crazy sometimes. You think you're doing okay, you think you're doing so good until your problem reminds you that you haven't solved anything. You've just been ignoring it. Your problem reminds you of its human face and walks out of the police station just as you're walking in, and then there you are: caught, cracked open.
He hasn't been sleeping, Sam thinks, and Dean just continues to stare incredulously.
"Sammy?" he says.
"...Agent Page, actually," Sam corrects.
To his surprise and delight, Dean laughs.
"We gotta stop meeting like this," Sam says, smiling.
Dean is all out grinning. "Tell me about it."
They're hunting the same thing, following the same signs. It only makes sense, Dean says, if they work on this together. Yeah. Sam's nodding. Yeah, of course. He follows Dean back to his motel, heart thudding and his blood running cold with anticipation. "Home sweet home," Dean says when they get to Pineview Lodge. He opens the door to his room, and Sam sees Cas seated at the table, hunched over a laptop, large coffee beside him, surrounded by books and piles of paper.
He's not wearing the coat. He's not even wearing the blazer, and the first few buttons on his shirt are undone. His hair's more unkempt than ever, and that stubble is verging into caveman territory.
Cas looks up. "Sam."
Sam nods. "Hey, Cas."
It's displacement, he tells himself, not replacement.
"So," Sam says, "what've we got?"
The three of them slide into place like a well-oiled machine. Their individual brands of impatience complement each other, and they make quick work of identifying the manananggal and where it stashes its lower body when it goes to feed at night. It's only after the bodies have been burned that the dirty laundry comes out. Of course Dean brings up Wellington, which is the other case they 'accidentally' ended up working on together.
"You heard what Gabriel said, man," says Dean, and his voice is getting that quaver, his eyes are getting that sheen. "He brought us there just to tell us--"
"And why should we trust him?" Sam demands. "Dude, I still have nightmares about the fucking Nutcracker. If there's one thing we've established by now, it's never trust an archangel."
"That's what I'm saying. What he said about playing our parts? Fuck that shit. We're not playing anyone's parts but our own. We're not letting them get to us. And we can't... we can't let each other get to us."
"Dean--"
"Sam."
"No, Dean, I'm not trying to get anyone," Sam insists. "I'm not trying to get you. I'm trying to get you back."
There: the twitch, the gritting of teeth. Dean's trying to be poker-faced, but Sam knows his tells and he has a sudden flashback to being fourteen, badgering Dean into letting him go to Stephanie Jacob's party. Dean had the same look on his face. They were leaving the next morning to meet Dad two towns over, but Sam badgered and badgered and finally Dean said yes. Be home by midnight. So Sam went to the party and it was okay, he guessed. He didn't know that much about parties.
Dean is shaking his head, and Sam adds, "I'm trying to get us back."
"Sam," says Dean, and his voice is hoarse and his eyes are helpless, and Sam thinks yes, yes, here it comes.
Sam drives north alone. The Croatoan virus is spreading in the south, and more places are getting quarantined these days, these little kingdoms of plague ruled by people with hazmat suits and guns. He tries not to go south of Tennessee if he can help it.
Cas calls four times, and Sam lets it all go to voicemail.
He picks up the scent of demonic possession and follows its trail northeast. It's late October, and anyway wouldn't it be nice to see the leaves turn in New England after sending some black-eyed sons of bitches back to Hell?
+
This turns out to be a bad idea.
+
"It's a good thing your ribs are broken," someone says. "I wouldn't have been able to find you otherwise."
Okay, give him a second here. Last thing Sam knew, he was getting the shit beat out of him by a whole pack of demons in an abandoned Worcester factory, and then a bright flash of light... and now he is-- "Where...?"
"Quabbin Reservoir," says Cas.
Son of a bitch.
Sam squints at the world until it stops swimming and the shadow looming over him resolves into the Winchesters' favorite angel pal, solemn as ever. He hears the buzzing of the woods, a bird cawing in the distance. The sky is too bright above them, and the ground is damp and cold.
"Where's your coat?" Sam asks.
"I don't wear it much anymore. It gets in the way."
It's still weird seeing him without it. He has the blazer, but he doesn't have the tie. Does he still have the loafers? The coat turns Cas into a shapeless bulk, and without it, he is a small man grown gaunt, comprised primarily of angles and wrinkled clothes.
"How do you feel?" Cas asks.
"Peachy," Sam mutters, and then discovers that he is not too far from the truth. His cracked bones have healed, or at least he can move all fingers and toes. It doesn't hurt to breathe. There was a wound on his forehead that bled into his eyes, but when he touches it now, he feels new and tender skin. His body is a collection of new and tender skin, barely any sign of demons fighting dirty.
Cas looks weary.
"We have to fix the sigils on your ribs before Lucifer finds you," Cas says, and then like magic, he takes a flask out of his blazer and hands it to Sam. "Drink up."
"Um. Okay... Why?"
"Because," he says, "this is going to hurt."
So there goes half the flask, maybe more, down the hatch.
One day he'll have to ask Cas if he's sick of this. Babysitting fugitive vessels. Getting babysat by one too, and then playing the secret go-between like the child of feuding parents. Cas comes around whenever things get especially hairy, but every time Sam lets Cas find him, the guy looks increasingly the worse for wear: tears in his clothes that he doesn't bother to mend, bruises that are slow to fade, and those shadows under his eyes. He smells like cheap motel soap. He smells like alcohol. He smells like Dean's deodorant. After expending large amounts of angelic energy, Cas's shoulders would collapse and his breath is labored, and then he looks like this, he looks exactly like he does now.
"I'm sorry," Cas says. "I can't do this as fast as I used to, or as precisely, but--"
"Just do it."
Cas places his palms over Sam's chest. "Ready?"
"Do it!"
And then the searing pain. There is not nearly enough alcohol in the world. Sam cries out and jerks, but Cas only presses down harder and Sam grabs his wrists.
"Sam--"
"Hurry up," Sam says through gritted teeth, then something burns and slices through him, and Sam chokes out a strangled curse. It's nothing like how it was when they were in Dad's lock-up. The pain had been fierce but instantaneous, and he didn't even know what hit him. This is drawn-out and trembling with effort, and Cas's face is pale and strained. Sam is close to hyperventilating, and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he draws blood. One pain to distract from another.
It's over when Cas slumps forward, then sits back, lifting his face to the sky. The aftershocks of pain leave Sam dizzy and sick, and the alcohol sits like a lump in his stomach.
"Jesus fucking--" Sam wheezes. He's still holding on to Cas's wrists. "Fucking... fuck you. Son of a bitch."
"You're welcome," Cas rasps.
"Christ."
"Are you okay?"
"Shit, I... Yeah."
Cas looks at him. He shakes one hand free, leans in, and wipes away the blood that Sam didn't realize was on his lip.
+
They had the following conversation a long while back, maybe in Missoula:
"I remember when you wanted to kill me," Sam said.
Cas said, "Yes."
"So, what, you're my guardian angel now?"
"I'm no one's angel." Then Cas laughed a soft and rueful laugh. "I'm barely an angel. And death won't stop Lucifer from finding you."
"That's real cheerful."
"I'm just doing the same thing I've always been doing. Keep you away from the devil."
"And here I thought you were charmed by my witty repartes."
"When they're actually witty, I am."
Sam snorted. The more human Cas became, the more dickish he got, and he was already a dick to begin with. Sam would have blamed Dean's influence, but he suspected Cas had hidden reservoirs of dickishness heretofore untold.
They let the silence take up space between them. A comfortable silence though, and a respite during which Sam nursed his beer and Cas lit another cigarette. ("What's with the cancer stick, Marlboro Man?" "We're all allowed our vices.")
Then, because it had been niggling at the corner of Sam's mind, he asked, "Hey, does Dean know?"
Cas frowned. "About?"
"About, you know." He gestured at the space between them. "Us?"
Cas exhaled a plume of smoke, curls of silver that looked like the soul leaving the body. "He doesn't like to talk about you."
"Right."
"Except for when he's very drunk."
Sam considered asking him what kind of very drunk things Dean says, but he paused too long and Cas moved the conversation along.
Probably for the best, anyway.
+
"We need to leave this place," Cas says, and before Sam can reply, there are two fingers on his forehead and the world goes through a blender.
The reservoir is now a hotel room. Like, a nice one, and he's lying on top of the softest king-sized bed, and there's a king-sized window with a view of some river. There's a desk by the TV with what looks like a room service menu on top of it. There is a minibar stocked with top-shelf liquor.
"Where are we?"
"Hartford." Cas is standing by the window, looking out at god knows what. "Royal Plaza Hotel. Far enough away for now."
Sam pushes himself up onto his elbows and the room blurs a bit. "Hartford? As in Connecticut?"
"Yes."
"All my stuff's back in Massachusetts."
"Where the demons are, yes. Sam," Cas turns and looks into his eyes, "they've been following you since New Jersey."
"It was a trap," Sam realizes.
"Yes." Cas collapses into a chair, an ungainly action that Sam isn't used to seeing from him. "If you'd actually pick up your phone once in a while, you would've known that."
"I was busy."
Cas gives him a look of frank skepticism. For a second Sam can't quite pinpoint what it is about it that bothers him, but when he does, something twists inside. That's Dean's 'are you kidding me' face. That's Dean's look right there, and Cas is picking up Dean's mannerisms. Does he even know? Is Dean picking up Cas's?
Cas says, "You can't let this thing between you and your brother--"
"Don't talk to me about my brother right now, I'm serious."
As if on cue, Cas's phone starts playing a tinny rendition of 'Enter Sandman'.
"He chose his own ringtone," Cas explains when he sees Sam roll his eyes. "I don't know how to change it back."
Sam says, "Whatever."
The conversation is brief:
"Hello. Yes, I... Urgent matters came up. Very. Hartford. Yes. Looking for God. No, I don't know. No--what? I didn't, it's on the dresser. Then check your bag."
"'Looking for God'?" Sam echoes, when he hangs up.
Cas slips his phone back in his pocket.
Sam says, "I don't think He's in Hartford, man."
Cas says, "I don't either."
+
Sam can't help himself. When he's in the shower, he thinks of Ruby. She had a fondness for jumping in the shower with him, all mischievous eyes and roaming hands. For all that she turned out to be the biggest mole to ever mole, he can't help but think of her small body, slippery against him, her warm breaths, her warmer mouth. Muscle memory is a stubborn thing, and Sam thinks, No one has to know.
He jerks off with one hand as the water rains down around him, his other hand supporting him against the wall. His head is full of her, of her legs around his waist, and her sighs. She would goad him - faster, Sam, harder, oh I bet you can't, I bet you can't - as she rocked against him, her fingernails leaving red marks on his skin. He comes with a silent shudder, the ghost of her laugh in his mind.
The mirror is all fogged up when Sam gets out, and another unbidden memory emerges: Ruby sliding her fingers across the pane, drawing stripes in the stream that catch fragments of his reflection. Sam's mouth, an earlobe, the edge of his tattoo. Her teeth, white and gleaming.
Sam doesn't love her, and he reasons now that he probably never did. He doesn't want her and he doesn't miss her, so this must be okay. Sam's just not going to think about it if it's not. No one has to know.
He comes out of the bathroom in his jeans, toweling his hair. "Cas?"
The room is empty.
Fucking angels.
Sam has only just finished buttoning his shirt when he hears that familiar rustle of air.
"Where the hell did you go?" Sam demands, but he makes it over to Cas in two strides because the guy looks like he's about to fall over and he's carrying all this crap. "What's all this?"
"Supplies," Cas breathes, and jerks when Sam grabs his shoulder, then leans into his touch.
"Supplies for what?"
"For you."
+
There are a number of ways you can try to keep the devil out of your body. There are a number of ways you can keep demons at bay.
Take holy water, yarrow, and malachite dust, and crush them together in an iron bowl as you recite a Theban orison. Use it to write 'light' in ancient script on your forehead and over your heart, and it will lead demons away from you for a day and a night. Add a verse from one of the forgotten surahs and just a dash of ifrit blood, and it will lock your dreams against outside intrusion. (Sam tries not to think of Jess, the devil speaking with her mouth, her voice.)
"This is a prayer for fire," Cas says, writing along Sam's collarbone with his fingers. "It protects you against illusions."
"You could've told me we were doing this," Sam says fuzzily. He's lying on his back on the bed, Cas kneeling on the mattress beside him. The magic is sinking into Sam's skin, making him light-headed and thick-tongued. "Would've saved myself the trouble of showering."
"No, that's good. It's customary to perform ablutions before these kinds of ceremonies, to cleanse oneself."
"'Kay," Sam says, and tries not to think of Ruby.
Cas writes obscure symbols on his body and with every line, with every touch, Sam's grip on this world weakens. The magic mingling with Cas's leftover grace is a hit straight to Sam's veins. He looks at Cas and thinks that's not the lamplight behind his head anymore, that must be a halo. There are rippling afterimages that arch from Cas's shoulders, extending into the light and flickering in the shadows.
"Cas," Sam slurs, and he raises his hand to touch them, but Cas stops him and puts his hand back at his side. "Cas, are those your--"
"Stay still."
Even tripping balls or whatever this is, the strain in Cas's face is apparent, his concentration as clear as the sweat beading on his brow. As magic and grace flow into Sam, Cas's outline flickers. Sam doesn't just see a man holding him down; he sees a pillar of fire. He sees Jimmy Novak's body, yes, but he also sees a dozen wings made of light.
"Cas," Sam murmurs, and isn't sure if he's intimidated, curious, aroused, alight. He reaches up and touches Cas's face, and Cas's eyes flutter shut. He makes a sound in his throat halfway between a growl and a moan.
"Jesus, Cas..."
"Sam, stop," Cas says, voice cracking.
Sam's fingers slide down his face, down his neck, and catches on the collar of his shirt. The next thing he knows, Cas is straddling his waist and pinning his wrists to the bed.
"Stop, we're almost done," Cas rasps. "Sam, repeat after me. Sam--are you paying attention?"
Is this what Cas sees? Everything is so bright. Is this how Cas sees the world, all that grace unraveling the borders of things? Sam looks out the window and is nearly blinded, and this is coming from an angel slowly falling. How do real angels see the world? Sam thinks he can almost imagine it.
"Sam! Look at me." So Sam does, and those blue eyes bore into him. Cas's hands around his wrists are warm, so warm, and Sam curls his fingers to lightly touch the back of Cas's hand. Cas's breath hitches, and he says, "I need you to repeat after me, very carefully."
"Okay," Sam breathes, and then Cas begins.
It's not a language Sam's familiar with. Something from the Near East maybe, with those uvula-twisting vowels and throaty consonants. Cas speaks it like he's been speaking it his whole life, and every few words, he'd stop to let Sam parrot him. Sam's accent isn't perfect, but Cas seems satisfied. With every syllable, the world calms down, returning to the familiar logistics of the third dimension. Cas is less and less the strange creature that angels are, and more and more a man, all that fire and light tucked back into flesh and bone, or perhaps just blown out altogether.
Sam repeats another mouthful of foreign syllables and then that's it, that seems to be it because suddenly all the tension goes out of Cas's body. He leans forward and hangs his head, all the weight on his arms as he trembles.
The tangible world returns to its regularly scheduled programming.
"It's done," says Cas.
"Hey, you okay?" Sam slurs.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, sure you're fine. Cas?" Sam slips his hand from Cas's grip and clutches Cas's shoulder, and Cas looks up, pupils dilated, and for a second Sam sees it again, that flash of infinity in his eyes that strips Castiel of humanity. And then it's gone.
He feels Cas shift to move off him, but Sam tightens his grip on his shoulder and Cas pauses. Sam slides his hand from Cas's shoulder to his neck, thumb tracing his jaw. The feeling of rapture hasn't quite left his body, and if the hard-on Cas has is anything to go by.... If the one he has is anything to go by...
Cas says, "Are you--"
"I'm okay, Cas."
"Good," Cas replies, and offers no resistance when Sam pulls him forward.
+
Cas has done this before. It's a strange thought, but the truth of it is obvious in the way Cas moves, the way he wants. His familiarity with his own desires. Despite Cas having picked up a drinking and smoking habit – and once in Granite City, Sam could've sworn Cas showed up coked the hell out of his mind – Sam is having trouble reconciling him with this particular vice. He imagines faceless men and women in bars across the country falling for blue eyes and a holier-than-thou attitude. Did Dean teach him how to flirt? Oh god, that must've been hilarious.
Then Cas bites Sam's lower lip, and Sam snaps out of his shocked wondering.
The kiss is sloppy and lust-addled, and Cas straightens for a second to yank off his shirt - stained now with malachite and holy oil - before falling upon Sam again, all tongue and teeth. Sam fumbles with Cas's belt, and Cas moans into his mouth when Sam touches his dick through his pants, so Sam does it again, and again, and again.
Cas takes the belt off himself, then unbuttons Sam's jeans.
There is relief in simply tangling with another naked body. The last time Sam got laid was a couple of months ago ago in Ohio, or maybe Pennsylvania. This simple thing of having so much bare skin wrapped around him is water in the desert. They are slick with sweat and holy oil and holy water and whatever the hell else Cas put in his witches' brew. Cas licks his way up Sam's stomach and when Sam kisses him, he tastes the bitterness of powdered malachite on his tongue.
"Oh, fuck," Sam gasps when Cas wraps a hand around his dick. "Cas, jesus..."
Cas jacks him in steady strokes, holding Sam down as he bites along Sam's neck. When Sam manages to gasp out, "Fuck, where did you even--" Cas kisses him quiet.
It doesn't occur to him that this might be a bad idea until they're fucking, and by then it's too late. Cas tangles his fingers in Sam's hair, and Sam has his forehead pressed against Cas's shoulder. With every thrust, Cas makes these low groaning sounds that drive Sam wild. He tightens his fist around a handful of Sam's hair, hard enough to yank his head back and Sam cries out in surprise and pain, and that's all it takes. He comes and he's coming, waves of pleasure that make him shamelessly shout and curse and gasp Cas's name.
This is okay, this is okay, Sam thinks as Cas presses his open mouth to Sam's throat. And if it's not, then Sam's just not going to think about it.
When Cas comes, he calls no one's name, only clutches Sam's shoulders so hard it hurts, and looks at him with an expression of profound wonder, like he doesn't know how he got here, like he doesn't know how the hell he'll get out.
+
Cas offers him a cigarette, and instead of the usual "you know I don't smoke", Sam accepts. Cas doesn't ask any questions, just flicks his Bic easy as you please, and Sam leans forward, puffing until the tip of his cigarette glows red.
He hasn't smoked since Stanford, and even then, only when he was drunk. The first drag makes him cough, which makes Cas chuckle, and then Cas blows smoke rings because he's a smug bastard like that. Been hanging around Dean too much, definitely.
They're sated and slow, still naked in bed and not in any hurry. The air is gilded with the kind of electrified hum that follows a successful hunt. Cas leans his head against the backboard and closes his eyes, and the smoke curls from his mouth, inviting you to see shapes in it. Sam exhales and their smoke swirls together; he sees a dancer, a proffered hand, the branch of a tree.
'Enter Sandman' starts playing. Cas swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his pants, and Sam finds himself studying the scar under Cas's left shoulder blade. It's a wicked-looking thing, pink and jagged, fairly new. He imagines Cas sitting slouched on a bed, whiskey in his hand as Dean threads the needle and tells him to stay still. Cas's body is collecting scars. There are little nicks and bruises here and there that aren't from Sam's teeth or rough grip.
"Are you going to answer that?" Sam asks, because all Cas is doing is staring at his phone while it plays Metallica at him. "Hey."
Cas looks at him, and Sam can't read the expression on his face.
Sam raises his eyebrows.
"I'll call him back," Cas says, and silences his phone. He puts it on the bedside table, puts out the cigarette in the ashtray, then crawls over to Sam.
"Hey now," Sam says, but doesn't do anything when Cas takes his cigarette and puts it out too. Doesn't do anything when Cas leans in for another kiss except kiss back. He tastes smoke. Cas pushes him down to the bed, and Sam slides his arm around Cas's body and pulls him close.
+
It's dark out by the time Cas zaps them back to Worcester.
"The demons are gone," Cas says, "but you shouldn't linger."
Sam's car is still where he parked it, thankfully unharmed. There's no one on this stretch of street, and it makes him feel like he's rolled into a ghost town in the wake of some great disaster. This part of the city creeps him out. Worcester went down the shitter when manufacturing moved south at the turn of the century. You'd never think it if you drive in via Park, but drive through certain Main South neighborhoods and the scars are clear to see. The abandoned factories overflow with the despairing ghosts of poverty and violent deaths, but Sam had no time for them. He had bigger fish to fry.
"So hey," Sam says, taking out his car keys. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Cas replies, not even looking at him, looking instead up the street then down, alert, twitchy.
Sam wants to say more, but what could he say? Feel free to booty-call him whenever? Tell Dean he says hey?
"Take care of Dean, okay?" Sam says.
Cas gives him a sidelong glance. "Of course."
"Take care of you too." Sam opens the car door. "You don't look too good these days."
"Oh, thanks."
"I mean it," Sam says. "Take care of yourself."
Cas turns to face him, focused now, and Sam sees him going through a list of possible replies in his head before carefully settling on, "I should be telling you that."
"So. Go on. Tell me that."
Aha, Sam thinks. This must've been how Dean felt all those times, locked into impromptu staring contests with beings from another world.
"Take care of yourself, Sam," Cas says, and his voice is softer than Sam expects.
He wonders if it would be acceptable to kiss Cas one more time.
"I have to go," Cas announces. "We'll be in touch."
"Okay," Sam says, and the angel is gone before he finishes saying the word.
Sam climbs in the car and turns on the ignition. The radio crackles to life, telling him about Croatoan spreading to the north. He fiddles with the dial until he finds a station playing innocuous nineties rock, and then he gets back on the road and drives.
[originally posted at http://whynot.dreamwidth.org/41256.html |
comments]
sassy_otp exchange. My recipient is elanorofcastile and I went with her third prompt, which was "Don't Follow" by Alice in Chains. It also includes the following things from her list of likes: touching/space invasion, languages, angst, drug usage, old magic, mythology, and kissing. The summary is basically, "Cas does intense things to Sam's body and Sam's totally into it." Here's Cas. There's no time for haircuts during the croatpocalypse, seems like.
Thank you to
metonomia for betareading. All remaining mistakes are mine.Detours
Supernatural. Sam/Cas, Dean, past Sam/Ruby. R.
Set in 5x04verse around 2012. Sam hunts alone, except for when he doesn't. ~4500 words
Sam goes to Belleville, New Jersey, and man, life's crazy sometimes. You think you're doing okay, you think you're doing so good until your problem reminds you that you haven't solved anything. You've just been ignoring it. Your problem reminds you of its human face and walks out of the police station just as you're walking in, and then there you are: caught, cracked open.
He hasn't been sleeping, Sam thinks, and Dean just continues to stare incredulously.
"Sammy?" he says.
"...Agent Page, actually," Sam corrects.
To his surprise and delight, Dean laughs.
"We gotta stop meeting like this," Sam says, smiling.
Dean is all out grinning. "Tell me about it."
They're hunting the same thing, following the same signs. It only makes sense, Dean says, if they work on this together. Yeah. Sam's nodding. Yeah, of course. He follows Dean back to his motel, heart thudding and his blood running cold with anticipation. "Home sweet home," Dean says when they get to Pineview Lodge. He opens the door to his room, and Sam sees Cas seated at the table, hunched over a laptop, large coffee beside him, surrounded by books and piles of paper.
He's not wearing the coat. He's not even wearing the blazer, and the first few buttons on his shirt are undone. His hair's more unkempt than ever, and that stubble is verging into caveman territory.
Cas looks up. "Sam."
Sam nods. "Hey, Cas."
It's displacement, he tells himself, not replacement.
"So," Sam says, "what've we got?"
The three of them slide into place like a well-oiled machine. Their individual brands of impatience complement each other, and they make quick work of identifying the manananggal and where it stashes its lower body when it goes to feed at night. It's only after the bodies have been burned that the dirty laundry comes out. Of course Dean brings up Wellington, which is the other case they 'accidentally' ended up working on together.
"You heard what Gabriel said, man," says Dean, and his voice is getting that quaver, his eyes are getting that sheen. "He brought us there just to tell us--"
"And why should we trust him?" Sam demands. "Dude, I still have nightmares about the fucking Nutcracker. If there's one thing we've established by now, it's never trust an archangel."
"That's what I'm saying. What he said about playing our parts? Fuck that shit. We're not playing anyone's parts but our own. We're not letting them get to us. And we can't... we can't let each other get to us."
"Dean--"
"Sam."
"No, Dean, I'm not trying to get anyone," Sam insists. "I'm not trying to get you. I'm trying to get you back."
There: the twitch, the gritting of teeth. Dean's trying to be poker-faced, but Sam knows his tells and he has a sudden flashback to being fourteen, badgering Dean into letting him go to Stephanie Jacob's party. Dean had the same look on his face. They were leaving the next morning to meet Dad two towns over, but Sam badgered and badgered and finally Dean said yes. Be home by midnight. So Sam went to the party and it was okay, he guessed. He didn't know that much about parties.
Dean is shaking his head, and Sam adds, "I'm trying to get us back."
"Sam," says Dean, and his voice is hoarse and his eyes are helpless, and Sam thinks yes, yes, here it comes.
Sam drives north alone. The Croatoan virus is spreading in the south, and more places are getting quarantined these days, these little kingdoms of plague ruled by people with hazmat suits and guns. He tries not to go south of Tennessee if he can help it.
Cas calls four times, and Sam lets it all go to voicemail.
He picks up the scent of demonic possession and follows its trail northeast. It's late October, and anyway wouldn't it be nice to see the leaves turn in New England after sending some black-eyed sons of bitches back to Hell?
+
This turns out to be a bad idea.
+
"It's a good thing your ribs are broken," someone says. "I wouldn't have been able to find you otherwise."
Okay, give him a second here. Last thing Sam knew, he was getting the shit beat out of him by a whole pack of demons in an abandoned Worcester factory, and then a bright flash of light... and now he is-- "Where...?"
"Quabbin Reservoir," says Cas.
Son of a bitch.
Sam squints at the world until it stops swimming and the shadow looming over him resolves into the Winchesters' favorite angel pal, solemn as ever. He hears the buzzing of the woods, a bird cawing in the distance. The sky is too bright above them, and the ground is damp and cold.
"Where's your coat?" Sam asks.
"I don't wear it much anymore. It gets in the way."
It's still weird seeing him without it. He has the blazer, but he doesn't have the tie. Does he still have the loafers? The coat turns Cas into a shapeless bulk, and without it, he is a small man grown gaunt, comprised primarily of angles and wrinkled clothes.
"How do you feel?" Cas asks.
"Peachy," Sam mutters, and then discovers that he is not too far from the truth. His cracked bones have healed, or at least he can move all fingers and toes. It doesn't hurt to breathe. There was a wound on his forehead that bled into his eyes, but when he touches it now, he feels new and tender skin. His body is a collection of new and tender skin, barely any sign of demons fighting dirty.
Cas looks weary.
"We have to fix the sigils on your ribs before Lucifer finds you," Cas says, and then like magic, he takes a flask out of his blazer and hands it to Sam. "Drink up."
"Um. Okay... Why?"
"Because," he says, "this is going to hurt."
So there goes half the flask, maybe more, down the hatch.
One day he'll have to ask Cas if he's sick of this. Babysitting fugitive vessels. Getting babysat by one too, and then playing the secret go-between like the child of feuding parents. Cas comes around whenever things get especially hairy, but every time Sam lets Cas find him, the guy looks increasingly the worse for wear: tears in his clothes that he doesn't bother to mend, bruises that are slow to fade, and those shadows under his eyes. He smells like cheap motel soap. He smells like alcohol. He smells like Dean's deodorant. After expending large amounts of angelic energy, Cas's shoulders would collapse and his breath is labored, and then he looks like this, he looks exactly like he does now.
"I'm sorry," Cas says. "I can't do this as fast as I used to, or as precisely, but--"
"Just do it."
Cas places his palms over Sam's chest. "Ready?"
"Do it!"
And then the searing pain. There is not nearly enough alcohol in the world. Sam cries out and jerks, but Cas only presses down harder and Sam grabs his wrists.
"Sam--"
"Hurry up," Sam says through gritted teeth, then something burns and slices through him, and Sam chokes out a strangled curse. It's nothing like how it was when they were in Dad's lock-up. The pain had been fierce but instantaneous, and he didn't even know what hit him. This is drawn-out and trembling with effort, and Cas's face is pale and strained. Sam is close to hyperventilating, and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he draws blood. One pain to distract from another.
It's over when Cas slumps forward, then sits back, lifting his face to the sky. The aftershocks of pain leave Sam dizzy and sick, and the alcohol sits like a lump in his stomach.
"Jesus fucking--" Sam wheezes. He's still holding on to Cas's wrists. "Fucking... fuck you. Son of a bitch."
"You're welcome," Cas rasps.
"Christ."
"Are you okay?"
"Shit, I... Yeah."
Cas looks at him. He shakes one hand free, leans in, and wipes away the blood that Sam didn't realize was on his lip.
+
They had the following conversation a long while back, maybe in Missoula:
"I remember when you wanted to kill me," Sam said.
Cas said, "Yes."
"So, what, you're my guardian angel now?"
"I'm no one's angel." Then Cas laughed a soft and rueful laugh. "I'm barely an angel. And death won't stop Lucifer from finding you."
"That's real cheerful."
"I'm just doing the same thing I've always been doing. Keep you away from the devil."
"And here I thought you were charmed by my witty repartes."
"When they're actually witty, I am."
Sam snorted. The more human Cas became, the more dickish he got, and he was already a dick to begin with. Sam would have blamed Dean's influence, but he suspected Cas had hidden reservoirs of dickishness heretofore untold.
They let the silence take up space between them. A comfortable silence though, and a respite during which Sam nursed his beer and Cas lit another cigarette. ("What's with the cancer stick, Marlboro Man?" "We're all allowed our vices.")
Then, because it had been niggling at the corner of Sam's mind, he asked, "Hey, does Dean know?"
Cas frowned. "About?"
"About, you know." He gestured at the space between them. "Us?"
Cas exhaled a plume of smoke, curls of silver that looked like the soul leaving the body. "He doesn't like to talk about you."
"Right."
"Except for when he's very drunk."
Sam considered asking him what kind of very drunk things Dean says, but he paused too long and Cas moved the conversation along.
Probably for the best, anyway.
+
"We need to leave this place," Cas says, and before Sam can reply, there are two fingers on his forehead and the world goes through a blender.
The reservoir is now a hotel room. Like, a nice one, and he's lying on top of the softest king-sized bed, and there's a king-sized window with a view of some river. There's a desk by the TV with what looks like a room service menu on top of it. There is a minibar stocked with top-shelf liquor.
"Where are we?"
"Hartford." Cas is standing by the window, looking out at god knows what. "Royal Plaza Hotel. Far enough away for now."
Sam pushes himself up onto his elbows and the room blurs a bit. "Hartford? As in Connecticut?"
"Yes."
"All my stuff's back in Massachusetts."
"Where the demons are, yes. Sam," Cas turns and looks into his eyes, "they've been following you since New Jersey."
"It was a trap," Sam realizes.
"Yes." Cas collapses into a chair, an ungainly action that Sam isn't used to seeing from him. "If you'd actually pick up your phone once in a while, you would've known that."
"I was busy."
Cas gives him a look of frank skepticism. For a second Sam can't quite pinpoint what it is about it that bothers him, but when he does, something twists inside. That's Dean's 'are you kidding me' face. That's Dean's look right there, and Cas is picking up Dean's mannerisms. Does he even know? Is Dean picking up Cas's?
Cas says, "You can't let this thing between you and your brother--"
"Don't talk to me about my brother right now, I'm serious."
As if on cue, Cas's phone starts playing a tinny rendition of 'Enter Sandman'.
"He chose his own ringtone," Cas explains when he sees Sam roll his eyes. "I don't know how to change it back."
Sam says, "Whatever."
The conversation is brief:
"Hello. Yes, I... Urgent matters came up. Very. Hartford. Yes. Looking for God. No, I don't know. No--what? I didn't, it's on the dresser. Then check your bag."
"'Looking for God'?" Sam echoes, when he hangs up.
Cas slips his phone back in his pocket.
Sam says, "I don't think He's in Hartford, man."
Cas says, "I don't either."
+
Sam can't help himself. When he's in the shower, he thinks of Ruby. She had a fondness for jumping in the shower with him, all mischievous eyes and roaming hands. For all that she turned out to be the biggest mole to ever mole, he can't help but think of her small body, slippery against him, her warm breaths, her warmer mouth. Muscle memory is a stubborn thing, and Sam thinks, No one has to know.
He jerks off with one hand as the water rains down around him, his other hand supporting him against the wall. His head is full of her, of her legs around his waist, and her sighs. She would goad him - faster, Sam, harder, oh I bet you can't, I bet you can't - as she rocked against him, her fingernails leaving red marks on his skin. He comes with a silent shudder, the ghost of her laugh in his mind.
The mirror is all fogged up when Sam gets out, and another unbidden memory emerges: Ruby sliding her fingers across the pane, drawing stripes in the stream that catch fragments of his reflection. Sam's mouth, an earlobe, the edge of his tattoo. Her teeth, white and gleaming.
Sam doesn't love her, and he reasons now that he probably never did. He doesn't want her and he doesn't miss her, so this must be okay. Sam's just not going to think about it if it's not. No one has to know.
He comes out of the bathroom in his jeans, toweling his hair. "Cas?"
The room is empty.
Fucking angels.
Sam has only just finished buttoning his shirt when he hears that familiar rustle of air.
"Where the hell did you go?" Sam demands, but he makes it over to Cas in two strides because the guy looks like he's about to fall over and he's carrying all this crap. "What's all this?"
"Supplies," Cas breathes, and jerks when Sam grabs his shoulder, then leans into his touch.
"Supplies for what?"
"For you."
+
There are a number of ways you can try to keep the devil out of your body. There are a number of ways you can keep demons at bay.
Take holy water, yarrow, and malachite dust, and crush them together in an iron bowl as you recite a Theban orison. Use it to write 'light' in ancient script on your forehead and over your heart, and it will lead demons away from you for a day and a night. Add a verse from one of the forgotten surahs and just a dash of ifrit blood, and it will lock your dreams against outside intrusion. (Sam tries not to think of Jess, the devil speaking with her mouth, her voice.)
"This is a prayer for fire," Cas says, writing along Sam's collarbone with his fingers. "It protects you against illusions."
"You could've told me we were doing this," Sam says fuzzily. He's lying on his back on the bed, Cas kneeling on the mattress beside him. The magic is sinking into Sam's skin, making him light-headed and thick-tongued. "Would've saved myself the trouble of showering."
"No, that's good. It's customary to perform ablutions before these kinds of ceremonies, to cleanse oneself."
"'Kay," Sam says, and tries not to think of Ruby.
Cas writes obscure symbols on his body and with every line, with every touch, Sam's grip on this world weakens. The magic mingling with Cas's leftover grace is a hit straight to Sam's veins. He looks at Cas and thinks that's not the lamplight behind his head anymore, that must be a halo. There are rippling afterimages that arch from Cas's shoulders, extending into the light and flickering in the shadows.
"Cas," Sam slurs, and he raises his hand to touch them, but Cas stops him and puts his hand back at his side. "Cas, are those your--"
"Stay still."
Even tripping balls or whatever this is, the strain in Cas's face is apparent, his concentration as clear as the sweat beading on his brow. As magic and grace flow into Sam, Cas's outline flickers. Sam doesn't just see a man holding him down; he sees a pillar of fire. He sees Jimmy Novak's body, yes, but he also sees a dozen wings made of light.
"Cas," Sam murmurs, and isn't sure if he's intimidated, curious, aroused, alight. He reaches up and touches Cas's face, and Cas's eyes flutter shut. He makes a sound in his throat halfway between a growl and a moan.
"Jesus, Cas..."
"Sam, stop," Cas says, voice cracking.
Sam's fingers slide down his face, down his neck, and catches on the collar of his shirt. The next thing he knows, Cas is straddling his waist and pinning his wrists to the bed.
"Stop, we're almost done," Cas rasps. "Sam, repeat after me. Sam--are you paying attention?"
Is this what Cas sees? Everything is so bright. Is this how Cas sees the world, all that grace unraveling the borders of things? Sam looks out the window and is nearly blinded, and this is coming from an angel slowly falling. How do real angels see the world? Sam thinks he can almost imagine it.
"Sam! Look at me." So Sam does, and those blue eyes bore into him. Cas's hands around his wrists are warm, so warm, and Sam curls his fingers to lightly touch the back of Cas's hand. Cas's breath hitches, and he says, "I need you to repeat after me, very carefully."
"Okay," Sam breathes, and then Cas begins.
It's not a language Sam's familiar with. Something from the Near East maybe, with those uvula-twisting vowels and throaty consonants. Cas speaks it like he's been speaking it his whole life, and every few words, he'd stop to let Sam parrot him. Sam's accent isn't perfect, but Cas seems satisfied. With every syllable, the world calms down, returning to the familiar logistics of the third dimension. Cas is less and less the strange creature that angels are, and more and more a man, all that fire and light tucked back into flesh and bone, or perhaps just blown out altogether.
Sam repeats another mouthful of foreign syllables and then that's it, that seems to be it because suddenly all the tension goes out of Cas's body. He leans forward and hangs his head, all the weight on his arms as he trembles.
The tangible world returns to its regularly scheduled programming.
"It's done," says Cas.
"Hey, you okay?" Sam slurs.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, sure you're fine. Cas?" Sam slips his hand from Cas's grip and clutches Cas's shoulder, and Cas looks up, pupils dilated, and for a second Sam sees it again, that flash of infinity in his eyes that strips Castiel of humanity. And then it's gone.
He feels Cas shift to move off him, but Sam tightens his grip on his shoulder and Cas pauses. Sam slides his hand from Cas's shoulder to his neck, thumb tracing his jaw. The feeling of rapture hasn't quite left his body, and if the hard-on Cas has is anything to go by.... If the one he has is anything to go by...
Cas says, "Are you--"
"I'm okay, Cas."
"Good," Cas replies, and offers no resistance when Sam pulls him forward.
+
Cas has done this before. It's a strange thought, but the truth of it is obvious in the way Cas moves, the way he wants. His familiarity with his own desires. Despite Cas having picked up a drinking and smoking habit – and once in Granite City, Sam could've sworn Cas showed up coked the hell out of his mind – Sam is having trouble reconciling him with this particular vice. He imagines faceless men and women in bars across the country falling for blue eyes and a holier-than-thou attitude. Did Dean teach him how to flirt? Oh god, that must've been hilarious.
Then Cas bites Sam's lower lip, and Sam snaps out of his shocked wondering.
The kiss is sloppy and lust-addled, and Cas straightens for a second to yank off his shirt - stained now with malachite and holy oil - before falling upon Sam again, all tongue and teeth. Sam fumbles with Cas's belt, and Cas moans into his mouth when Sam touches his dick through his pants, so Sam does it again, and again, and again.
Cas takes the belt off himself, then unbuttons Sam's jeans.
There is relief in simply tangling with another naked body. The last time Sam got laid was a couple of months ago ago in Ohio, or maybe Pennsylvania. This simple thing of having so much bare skin wrapped around him is water in the desert. They are slick with sweat and holy oil and holy water and whatever the hell else Cas put in his witches' brew. Cas licks his way up Sam's stomach and when Sam kisses him, he tastes the bitterness of powdered malachite on his tongue.
"Oh, fuck," Sam gasps when Cas wraps a hand around his dick. "Cas, jesus..."
Cas jacks him in steady strokes, holding Sam down as he bites along Sam's neck. When Sam manages to gasp out, "Fuck, where did you even--" Cas kisses him quiet.
It doesn't occur to him that this might be a bad idea until they're fucking, and by then it's too late. Cas tangles his fingers in Sam's hair, and Sam has his forehead pressed against Cas's shoulder. With every thrust, Cas makes these low groaning sounds that drive Sam wild. He tightens his fist around a handful of Sam's hair, hard enough to yank his head back and Sam cries out in surprise and pain, and that's all it takes. He comes and he's coming, waves of pleasure that make him shamelessly shout and curse and gasp Cas's name.
This is okay, this is okay, Sam thinks as Cas presses his open mouth to Sam's throat. And if it's not, then Sam's just not going to think about it.
When Cas comes, he calls no one's name, only clutches Sam's shoulders so hard it hurts, and looks at him with an expression of profound wonder, like he doesn't know how he got here, like he doesn't know how the hell he'll get out.
+
Cas offers him a cigarette, and instead of the usual "you know I don't smoke", Sam accepts. Cas doesn't ask any questions, just flicks his Bic easy as you please, and Sam leans forward, puffing until the tip of his cigarette glows red.
He hasn't smoked since Stanford, and even then, only when he was drunk. The first drag makes him cough, which makes Cas chuckle, and then Cas blows smoke rings because he's a smug bastard like that. Been hanging around Dean too much, definitely.
They're sated and slow, still naked in bed and not in any hurry. The air is gilded with the kind of electrified hum that follows a successful hunt. Cas leans his head against the backboard and closes his eyes, and the smoke curls from his mouth, inviting you to see shapes in it. Sam exhales and their smoke swirls together; he sees a dancer, a proffered hand, the branch of a tree.
'Enter Sandman' starts playing. Cas swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his pants, and Sam finds himself studying the scar under Cas's left shoulder blade. It's a wicked-looking thing, pink and jagged, fairly new. He imagines Cas sitting slouched on a bed, whiskey in his hand as Dean threads the needle and tells him to stay still. Cas's body is collecting scars. There are little nicks and bruises here and there that aren't from Sam's teeth or rough grip.
"Are you going to answer that?" Sam asks, because all Cas is doing is staring at his phone while it plays Metallica at him. "Hey."
Cas looks at him, and Sam can't read the expression on his face.
Sam raises his eyebrows.
"I'll call him back," Cas says, and silences his phone. He puts it on the bedside table, puts out the cigarette in the ashtray, then crawls over to Sam.
"Hey now," Sam says, but doesn't do anything when Cas takes his cigarette and puts it out too. Doesn't do anything when Cas leans in for another kiss except kiss back. He tastes smoke. Cas pushes him down to the bed, and Sam slides his arm around Cas's body and pulls him close.
+
It's dark out by the time Cas zaps them back to Worcester.
"The demons are gone," Cas says, "but you shouldn't linger."
Sam's car is still where he parked it, thankfully unharmed. There's no one on this stretch of street, and it makes him feel like he's rolled into a ghost town in the wake of some great disaster. This part of the city creeps him out. Worcester went down the shitter when manufacturing moved south at the turn of the century. You'd never think it if you drive in via Park, but drive through certain Main South neighborhoods and the scars are clear to see. The abandoned factories overflow with the despairing ghosts of poverty and violent deaths, but Sam had no time for them. He had bigger fish to fry.
"So hey," Sam says, taking out his car keys. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Cas replies, not even looking at him, looking instead up the street then down, alert, twitchy.
Sam wants to say more, but what could he say? Feel free to booty-call him whenever? Tell Dean he says hey?
"Take care of Dean, okay?" Sam says.
Cas gives him a sidelong glance. "Of course."
"Take care of you too." Sam opens the car door. "You don't look too good these days."
"Oh, thanks."
"I mean it," Sam says. "Take care of yourself."
Cas turns to face him, focused now, and Sam sees him going through a list of possible replies in his head before carefully settling on, "I should be telling you that."
"So. Go on. Tell me that."
Aha, Sam thinks. This must've been how Dean felt all those times, locked into impromptu staring contests with beings from another world.
"Take care of yourself, Sam," Cas says, and his voice is softer than Sam expects.
He wonders if it would be acceptable to kiss Cas one more time.
"I have to go," Cas announces. "We'll be in touch."
"Okay," Sam says, and the angel is gone before he finishes saying the word.
Sam climbs in the car and turns on the ignition. The radio crackles to life, telling him about Croatoan spreading to the north. He fiddles with the dial until he finds a station playing innocuous nineties rock, and then he gets back on the road and drives.
[originally posted at http://whynot.dreamwidth.org/41256.html |
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