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fic I'm probably not going to finish...
Ok, so I'm going to spam you now, with fic I'm probably not going to finish. This story was tentatively titled "In Between". I started writing it in ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kijikun's journal as commentfic and got 6000 words in before I lost my way and canon moved forward.
In Between
Sam/Castiel, ~6000 words.
Assume a happier end to last season. Dean wants a normal life, Sam wants to keep hunting, and Castiel wants to help.
When it's over, when Lucifer's beaten back, and the angels have retreated to heaven, it's Dean who decides he wants a normal life. He stays around long enough to pick up the pieces, to help the surviving vessels home to their families, and do post-Apocalyptic cleanup. But Sam catches him watching them, the happy families, with this look. Every day the looks last a little longer, are a little less guilty.
"I'm done man," he says to Sam. They've just buried a child. Thirteen year old girl who'd been ridden by an angel. She didn't have the same scruples as Cas, and the girl - they didn't even know her name - hadn't survived. "I just--"
Dean stays on, until they're done. They head to Bobby's, to regroup, and Dean stays another few weeks. But one day, Sam knows, he will wake up at Bobby's place, and Dean won't be there with him.
"Do you still want that?" Dean asks him.
They're watching last happy family, pulling together for a startlingly raw group hug. They clutch each other like they're afraid it'll all start up again. They lost a year to this war, but tonight they'll go home, maybe have dinner together. Soon enough they'll be driving the kids to soccer, arguing about bills. They brought her home, Jane Deshaun, beloved wife and mother.
Does he? A wife, two kids and a respectable career.
"No," he says. It's only afterwards that he realizes it isn't a lie.
Castiel is the last angel on earth. The others are locked up in prisons of their own making, in heaven and hell. He doesn't have the powers he once had, but he's still not human. He uses what he does have to help with the cleanup efforts: flies from one corner of the world to another, tracking down the families of vessels, and all the other bloodlines. Just in case. He's there, every time there's a fire that needs putting out. Every time there's a bunch of demons that need killing.
They're friends now, Sam and Cas, but Sam doesn't know what his plans are. He doesn't know how to ask Castiel where he's going, now that the apocalypse is over, and he's the only one of his kind still free. He'd escaped the recall - he wasn't angel enough for his brothers anymore - but none of them wanted to risk going after him.
Sam gets used to seeing Castiel's back during the cleanup effort. They always seem to be heading in different directions, on different missions.
But at Bobby's house, where it's just the four of them, drinking beer and tequila and trying (in vain) to get Cas drunk, he seems to be everywhere. Counting the cracks in the ceiling, when Sam comes down for breakfast. Watching the sunrise, like he hasn't seen millions of them, when Sam comes in from walking Bobby's dogs. And of course, talking and hanging out with Dean. He's never seen his brother do so much talking.
Dean and Castiel's last Manly Outing is a trip to the mall. They come back with a car full of bags. Bobby gripes, sneers, and gripes some more, but finally he concedes a mostly unused dresser to Castiel's new wardrobe.
"Gotta have somewhere to kick up your boots," Dean says.
Cas sighs. If sighs can be sarcastic, doubtful, and fondly annoyed, this one is. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement.
When Dean leaves, Castiel doesn't go with him. He hangs back with Bobby, while Dean mother hens Sam, and Sam hugs Dean just long enough, and tight enough to embarrass him. He's got it down to a science.
Then it's Castiel's turn. He smiles at Dean, this tiny awkward thing. Calling it a smile is being generous. Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, and looks him over. "Looking good."
"Your selections were wise."
"Yeah, I know. I'm awesome."
"Yes," Castiel says.
Dean laughs. He and Bobby say their goodbyes, then he and Sam all over again. And that's it; Sam is watching his brother drive away.
Sam wakes up. For a few seconds it's like every other day, since they saved the world. He burrows into the covers, hoping to enjoy a few minutes of quiet, before Dean shakes himself awake, curses and starts complaining about the lack of bacon in the house. Then he remembers: watching the Impala move off without him; hanging on to Dean just long enough to piss him off.
"Do you have--"
"Yes Dean."
"What about--"
"Yup."
"Yeah, but what if--"
"I'll be ok," he says. Dean stares at him, searching his face.
"Yeah," he says finally. "I guess you will."
Dean calls him every day. He texts Sam too, but the important thing is the call, just before bed. Dean asks Sam a few awkward questions. How's it going? Meet any hot demon girls lately? Until he gives up, and settles into his usual interrogation. Sam lets him ask all the questions he needs, and maybe-- maybe Sam needs this too.
When he calls Dean for advice, it's easier. Dean is at the garage, or out for a run, but he excuses himself immediately, and stays on, until they've worked through all the possibilities. Maybe one day Dean will come back to hunting, but for now, Sam's the one keeping the family business going. He finds that he's surprisingly ok with that.
Castiel still needs to call ahead. They'd agreed that the sigils should stay where they were. He doesn't call everyday like Dean does, and he doesn't ask how Sam is doing, or for all the details of his cases. They don't talk about the daily minutia of Sam's mostly solitary life. Instead, he's there to help when Sam needs it. Or to talk about-- so many things, most of them arcane.
Castiel visits Dean sometimes, but Bobby more often. Dean doesn't need an angel's help to fix cars and pick up women. So when Castiel visits they just, "Hang out."
"And you do...?"
"Many things. Dean is teaching me about sports." Or cars. Or pool. Sam doesn't want to think about it, Dean being Castiel's guide to humanity. The brothel story was horrifying enough. Castiel still has so many blindspots, and Dean is enough of a jerk to exploit all of them. Sam just-- doesn't want to know.
When he misses Dean, he calls him. They talk about Saturday morning cartoons, or hash out the details of Sam's latest case. Dean tells him about his latest girlfriend. There aren't a lot of them, and none last more than a week.
Castiel's calls are random. Sam starts calling him back, and finds himself emulating Cas. He tells Castiel about an interesting spell he'd broken in Florida. A strange rock formation in Kansas - there was nothing supernatural about it, just five ancient, jagged boulders dumped in the middle of a field of wheat. But Castiel finds geological phenomena fascinating, and he's always interested in new spells and enchantments that Sam comes across. He wants all the details, his attention as focused over the phone, as it is in person.
Over time, they settle into a pattern despite themselves.
Of course Dean offered him the Impala. Sam refused, knowing it would break his brother's heart to give up the car. He buys a sensible, ordinary looking sedan with lots of trunk room and a high safety rating. Bobby helps refit it for a hunter's lifestyle.
On his fourth solo hunt, he wrecks it. He's chasing an SUV full of upwardly mobile vampires, after clearing out their nest. So far as he knows, it's the last of them. He's wrong. A Volvo speeds up beside him. Sam catches sight of it just as it slams into the side of his own very safe, very tasteful Volvo, sending it into a electrical post. Instead of finishing him off, they leave him. Maybe they even think he'll die. There's blood everywhere - this much he registers before he blacks out.
He wakes up in a hospital bed with a concussion, cuts and bruises, some cracked ribs and nothing worse.
When they tell him the Volvo is beyond saving, he's happy. That part he doesn't tell Dean.
Castiel tags along when Sam shops around for his next car. He insists. "The backseat of the Impala was never comfortable."
"I wouldn't make you sit in the backseat, Cas."
"I know." Castiel still inspects every vehicle with his terrifying attention to detail. "I like the blue one."
Sam buys it.
In a lot of ways, Sam's life post-apocalypse is the same as it ever was. Except for those few years he spent at Stanford. He settles back into the routine of hunting - researching, driving, planning, killing and cleaning up - with more ease than he expected. It's become second nature, and even without his dad around, or Dean around (or Ruby, though that's a thought he tries to avoid), it's comfortable.
There's no real mission, which is something that's different. Sam starts out stalking the same side roads and towns that he grew up in, doing it much the same way his brother did, and their dad before him. But quickly, he branches out. He finds that he likes traveling when it means seeing something new. When it isn't going from motel, to motel, to motel, all of them vaguely alike.
Castiel takes him to Winnipeg, to investigate a series of disappearances, and once that case is through, he figures-- why not? He's smart about it. He flies under multiple passports, and from different airports. He takes care not to establish a pattern, and to dress differently, style his hair differently.
When he tells Dean that he's going to Cuba on a case, he whistles.
"Sure you don't want to come?"
"Nah. Knock back a couple of mojitos for me."
When he's done, nest of ghouls gone bad rooted out, and tired enough to sleep for a week, but too wired to even nap, he heads down to the pool, orders a string of mojitos and flirts with a pretty girl. In that order. He doesn't take her up to his room. Dean would have, but Sam isn't Dean. He can't say though, that he didn't like the attention. In the morning, once he's well slept and sober, he decides that the takeaway is that he's allowed to have some fun.
There's no mission, just the job, and Sam's allowed to take his time.
It's late. Sam's lying in bed, in another of an endless string of motel rooms. Castiel is in the desert. Dean had begged off early - just a quick call, before heading out on a date. It was the end of the week, and quiet on Sam's front. He'd expected to listen to Dean ramble about Godzilla vs. Mothra for at least an hour.
Instead he talks to Castiel.
"I was here during the last ice age. The desert was much larger then."
"What were you doing there?"
"My garrison was protecting a young boy."
"Who was he?"
"Not who, but what - what he represented. The cupids worked hard to ensure his birth."
"More angel eugenics." There's a pause, and Sam wonders if Castiel gets the reference.
"Yes. He was an ancestor of yours."
"Have you met a lot of my ancestors?"
"Yes," he says simply.
Sam could get angry again, over how thoroughly his family's lives have been manipulated. But it's late, and he's tired, and this is Cas. Instead he asks a question that he should have asked months ago. "So is it over?"
"Averting the apocalypse earned us all reprieve, but... that's unlikely. " Then there's just quiet from Castiel's end. The silence goes on long enough for Sam to wonder about cell phone coverage in the Sahara. He rolls over to his side, tucking his cell between his shoulder and his ear, and starts typing.
"It will never be over," Castiel says. "Not until-"
"What?"
"Not until every angel is dead."
"You're saying they could come back."
"They will. Perhaps not in your lifetime."
"But in yours. You're still- you don't age, do you?"
"No. I am diminished, but still an angel."
"Are you safe? Cas?"
"No, Sam." Sam hears what Castiel isn't saying - isn't bothering to say, because he doesn't need to. He's the last angel on earth, the only one to rebel and live. He's far from heaven's favourite, and with Lucifer gone, Castiel is the biggest thorn in their side. A wild card whose loyalties are solidly with earth and its inhabitants.
"So what are we going to do about?"
They're in Mexico, investigating an ancient temple that doubles as one of the new seals on hell. All that's left of it are lines in the ground, where walls once stood. Nubs of grown over stone, but Castiel leads him straight to where the altar was.
"Have you been here before?"
"Yes." Castiel stops in front of a low hill, raises his hands and looks into the sky. They've been chatting all the way up the hill - or rather, they've been doing what passes for chatting with Castiel, considering his small talk consists mostly of blank stares and tangential comments - but he goes silent, and so still that Sam isn't sure he's breathing. Strictly speaking, he doesn't need to, so it's a possibility.
He's wearing jeans and a shirt, instead of a suit and trench coat, but Sam is suddenly reminded of those early days, when it was impossible to forget that Castiel isn't human.
Everything about the scene is mundane. Ancient ruins so grown over and degraded that they've become a playground for children, and a rest stop for tourists. Insects buzz softly. A bird flies overhead. Sam can hear hikers talking and laughing in the distance. Still far off enough that he won't have to explain to them what Castiel is doing.
Sam settles in on nearby rock, and waits. Everything is mundane except Cas - the wind ruffling his hair is the only indication that he's not a statue.
Finally he lowers his arms.
"So?"
"It's solid," Castiel says. He walks over to where Sam is sitting. The sun is warm on Sam's back, and lighting up Castiel - his hair is a shade lighter, his eyes a bright and brilliant blue. He stops less than a foot away, and Sam halfway thinks he won't stop at all. "Are you ready?"
"What?"
"To go," Castiel says, tilting his head.
"Oh. Yeah, we can head out." Sam stands. Cas doesn't move back, and Sam comes close to brushing against him. He looks down into Castiel's eyes, shining and bright, and thinks oh. Cas just extends two fingers, taps them against Sam's forehead, and they're gone.
The Tokyo Stock Exchange is a seal. So is a nameless square of parking lot in Lisbon.
Castiel takes Sam to both of them. He spends two months flitting all over the world with Castiel, visiting all the seals that are accessible to humans. There are other seals, not connected to places, but to people or events. They make a list of them and work through it. Is this one secure? This one?
Sam is so used to the routine that he doesn't think of it.
He wakes up, makes coffee, gulps down an apple and a banana, goes for a run, showers. For two months most of his time is devoted to thinking about seals. When he forgets what it's like to live without eyestrain and a headache, Castiel frowns him into going outside.
"We should send this list to Bobby," Castiel says.
"Yeah, that's a good idea. Should have thought of that."
"Bobby would know others who could use this list."
"What do you mean 'use'?"
Castiel frowns. "Earth stands between heaven and hell. We need to ensure that heaven can't play the same game with humanity."
"You want people to be able to guard the seals. Really guard them."
"No one has a more vested interest in preventing the end of the world."
"That's... that's a really good idea," Sam says. He's already typing up an email to Bobby, and running through his contacts, figuring out which hunters they could tap for this kind of generational mission. How would they keep it from being lost?
Castiel stares searchingly at the ugly wallpaper. "In ancient times, such information was engraved in holy places and documents."
"I'm not starting a religion," Sam says.
"No. No... that would not be my choice either."
Sam sends off the email. Sighs. "We'll figure it out, Cas." Castiel frowns again, his mouth hard and his brow lined. Sam doesn't think about it, just reaches out and puts his hand over Castiel's.
Castiel looks up, his frown having given over to surprise. Not unhappy surprise, Sam notes. Then finds himself searching Castiel's face for-- he doesn't know what, but something. Hints of something more than what he already knows is there. Castiel's eyes drop, then flicker back up to Sam. He smiles softly, and doesn't say a word.
Only an angel can kill another angel, but there are weapons, spells and beings strong enough to hurt them. An old demon with an angel's spear, that was something to worry about.
Sam chops down with Ruby's knife, making a mess of a demon's throat. It bursts open, streaming blood and black smoke. Sam leaps backwards. The demon rockets forward, following him, until it hits the salt and marker line of the makeshift devil's trap. It circles the trap, looking for a break in the line, a way out. There isn't one.
"Sam!" Tamara yells. "I need you."
Sam leaves the trapped demon and heads toward Tamara's voice. There's a quickly growing cloud of smoke - the demons set fire to the warehouse's stock, as soon as things went south - so he pulls his t-shirt up over his mouth and stumbles forward blindly. His eyes are streaming tears, and his throat is on fire. They need to get out. At this rate, the smoke will get to them before the demons.
"Tamara, where are you?"
"Here, Sam! Goddammit." A crash that sounds like crates falling, or something being slammed into them. Screw it - he breaks into a run, no way to tell if his way is clear, except what little he can hear through the chaos. He breaks through to a clearing. The smoke is thinner here - ventilation nearby?
"Took you long enough," she says roughly. She's half pinned by a pile of burlap and other packing materials, trying to swim her way out.
"What the hell?"
"I hate demons," is her only explanation.
He gives her a quick once over, packing materials or no. "You ok?"
"Fine. Just embarrassed. Let's get out of here before it all goes up." He pulls, she pushes and wriggles, and then she's out, stumbling to her feet. "Where's the angel?"
"He was with you."
"He-" Tamara stops, searching his face. "Sam, we need to get out of here."
He turns away from her, blindly searching the warehouse. He can't see farther than a foot ahead of him. "Cas!"
Tamara grabs his arm. "Sam, do you hear that? They're all gone. We need to get out of here now."
"Cas!" There's no reply, just the roar of the growing fire.
"Sam!" Tamara yells, frustration obvious. She waits two beats, shakes her head. "He can take care of himself and if we don't leave now, we're going to die in here." Sam keeps on scanning the smoke around him. She's right of course, but he can't just leave.
Tamara turns, takes two steps away from Sam, when the smoke in front of her clears in a burst of clean-smelling air.
"We must leave," Castiel says. Sam gives him a quick once over - singed and covered in blood, but alive. The spear, roughly broken in half, is buried in his side, but Cas keeps his feet.
"Cas, are you-"
"Now."
"Cutting it close there, feathers," she says.
"Sam, Tamara," he says, holding out his hands. They crowd close, on either side of him, and he touches his fingers to their foreheads.
Sam and Tamara spend the night in the hospital. Smoke inhalation and exhaustion keep them from being able to resist the doctors' attentions, and Castiel is nowhere to be found. Tamara's a pro, and together they manage to spin out a credible cover story, and pull out fake IDs before they both go under.
When they're released, Tamara heads off to Georgia on a job.
Sam checks himself into a motel. He has a shower, sleeps for a few hours, goes out for lunch. He takes the long way back to the motel, through the park. When he hits the end of the bike path and arrives back at the town proper, he pulls out his cell phone and hits speed dial.
"Sam," Castiel answers.
"Are you all right?"
"I..."
"Answer me."
"I'm healed."
Sam rattles off the street address and hangs up. He slips his phone back into his pocket, and takes a deep breath. He only ever has enough time for one, before Castiel appears. As he's letting this one out, he hears the familiar soft rustle behind him.
"Sam," Castiel says simply, his voice empty of any emotion. Sam turns to look at him, and his face is just as blank. He closes the distance between them, two strides, then he's grabbing Castiel's shirt and pushing him back against the wall. Castiel is surprised enough to let him.
"Never do that again."
Castiel's eyes are wide and bright, and his lips are slightly parted. His eyes drop, flickering over Sam's face, to stop at his lips. Sam's gut twists at that, but he hangs onto the anger, the sharp fury that has his hands crushing Cas, his back surely scraping against the brick wall.
"No," Cas says. "No, I won't." He looks up then, hopeful. If Sam had ever thought that Dean and his dad were bad about bottling things up, it was because he hadn't met Castiel, who is the undisputed king of not talking things out, or talking about things period. While at the same time being king of the uncomfortable overshare. As Dean said, it's part of his freaky dork-angel charm. But now, it isn't so charming.
"I won't leave you like that, again."
"And you won't just disappear, leaving me and Tamara to work things out by ourselves, stuck in a hospital bed, while you're walking around with a spear in your side."
"I'm fine."
"You're fine now," he says, expecting Cas to duck his head again. Instead he sets his jaw.
"There was nothing you could have done," he says, which might as well be an admission.
"Ok first of all, you don't know that. Just because there's nothing in your vast experience to suggest a mere mortal could do something-"
"Sam."
"No," he says. He lets go of Castiel, who drops the half inch back down to the ground, and doesn't even put his clothes back into order. He looks-- untouchable. Like nothing Sam can do will ever affect him. "Let me finish. You don't know Cas. We could have found something." Castiel looks sorry, but unconvinced. "You don't get to just drop me off somewhere convenient, while you fly off to deal with shit alone."
Cas frowns. It's his usual 'crazy humans' confused frown, but for the first time there's nothing cute in it. It's just infuriating. "You needed-"
"We're supposed to be partners, Cas. You don't do that to your partner." Sam's supposed to be the smart one, the one for whom words come easily, but now he's tripping over them trying to get Castiel to see, to get out even a fraction of what he needs to see. His inner Dean is telling him to man up - not that Dean had ever manned up enough to talk about his feelings - but Sam's left staring at Castiel, running his hands through his own hair, and trying to will him to just-
"Oh," Castiel says, expression going strangely soft. "I'm sorry." He steps a little closer to Sam, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Sam's gut twists again, caught between his still burning anger and something else. It's an effort to convince himself that it isn't an invitation: Castiel's too-hot body close, and open to him. He's supposed to be the smart one.
"Do you want to get some breakfast?" Castiel asks. "And... talk?" It comes out more awkwardly than a thirteen year old asking out his crush could manage. Normally he'd be looking to Sam or Dean for approval, for how successfully he'd faked humanity. Normally too, he'd be on the knife edge of serious irritation or deep disappointment, because Castiel hates having to pretend. Hates doing things the slow, human way, small talk and everyday rituals especially. That Castiel is volunteering to share a meal with him is-- new, and possibly desperate.
"I already ate."
"Oh."
"But we could go for coffee?"
"Yes," Castiel says quickly, his expression somehow bright and tortured at the same time. His hand drops from Sam's shoulder, managing to land in the small of his back, a quick press of fingers, before falling to Castiel's side.
He follows Cas, a few steps behind, finding himself breathless and his limbs heavy. He's supposed to be the smart one, he reminds himself for the third time.
He spends the next three weeks jerking off before bed. He hasn't masturbated this much in-- ever. There's always been someone there. Dean or his dad, when he was a kid. When he went to Stanford there was Jim, the roommate from hell, for the first year, and then there was Jess. Sam has never had so much time to himself, and he's just taking advantage of it, like anyone would. He tries valiantly to ignore the voice that reminds him he's had almost a year to himself, without compulsive masturbation being an issue, and that he's never before masturbated to thoughts of Castiel.
Castiel goes twelve rounds with the most powerful pagan god that Sam's ever seen, outside of Kali. They win, finally, but Cas ends up shirtless and bloodied.
That night Sam pictures Castiel lying beside him in bed, gentle and so open, so easy. But he keeps going back to that afternoon, Castiel on his hands and knees, looking up at Sam, his lips bloody and parted enough for Sam to just--
The job in Coney Island goes too smoothly. Sam keeps expecting complications, but none turn up. After he's wrapped things up, washed his hands and brushed off his jeans, he calls Cas.
"Meet me at the bench in front of the Dragon Coaster in ten minutes."
"Why ten minutes?"
"The line for ice cream is pretty long."
"I could just-"
"Ten minutes."
"Ok."
Armed with vanilla-chocolate swirl for himself, and strawberry for Castiel, Sam pushes through the crowd lining up for the Dragon Coaster. He spots Castiel, staking out a bare three feet on the bench, the other side having been colonized by kids. He's wearing faded jeans, a plain cotton t-shirt and sunglasses.
"Dean gave them to me," he says before Sam can even ask. Castiel shifts toward the fence, making room for Sam on the bench. It's a tight fit, but Castiel's personal bubble is nonexistent and Sam... Sam does not mind being close to him.
"Strawberry," he tells Cas, and hands over his ice cream. "Why did Dean give you sunglasses?"
"I stare too much."
"No you don't," Sam says. And my god, he thinks, more than a little horrified, because Castiel does indeed stare too much, but Sam is apparently prepared to defend his honor on this or any charge. "Ok, you do, but it's not that bad."
Sam wants to reach out and pluck the glasses right off of Castiel's face, but that would be a) ridiculous; and b) possibly well received, and possibly not well received. Sam has no idea how it would be received, because it's Castiel, who is usually easy to read, but impossible the rest of the time.
He clutches his ice cream cone with one hand, clutches his thigh with the other, and watches Castiel slowly demolish his own cone, with tiny, deliberate, strategic licks. He starts at the top, first just tasting it, rolling the flavour around in his mouth. Whenever the ice cream threatens to spill over, he cleans the sides with a decisive swipe of his tongue. It's methodical, and shouldn't be sexy at all.
Somehow it is, enough for Sam to have forgotten about his own ice cream. He's watching Castiel crunch through the last of pieces of his cone, when the vanilla-chocolate swirl starts dripping onto his hand. It's cold and sticky, and startles Sam enough that he's jolted back to himself.
"Dammit."
"Oh," Castiel says, staring at Sam's sticky hand.
He forgot napkins, he realizes. He's halfway off the bench, when Castiel pushes Sam back down with one hand, and disappears into the crowd.
"Hey mister," says one of the kids. "Your ice cream is melting."
"Thanks."
"Aren't you gonna do something about it?"
"I'm waiting for my friend to- hey." Castiel is back, faster than any human could be, with wetnaps, napkins, a bottle of water and fresh ice cream, this time in a cup.
"I got you banana chip. They were out of vanilla-chocolate swirl."
"Oh," Sam says stupidly, and takes the cup of ice cream with his clean hand. Castiel takes the ruined cone and trashes it, then settles in beside Sam, watching him juggle wetnaps and ice cream.
"Do you want me to help you?" he asks, more intense than an ice cream disaster really warrants. But maybe Sam is reading more into it than is really there.
"Yeah, thanks." He holds out the ice cream for Castiel to take, but he ignores it. Instead Cas pushes the sunglasses up onto his head, squints at Sam's sticky hand and methodically, carefully, sets to cleaning it. Sam just stupidly holds onto his tiny cup of ice cream, while Castiel runs a wetnap across the palm of his hand, the inside of his wrist, each of his fingers.
He looks up, a little - not panicked because no, he is a grown man who doesn't panic over ice cream disasters and inadvertently erotic public displays of... feeling - concerned, and finds that yes, people are staring. Parents are staring.
"Cas, uh, you can't..." He half-heartedly tugs his hand away, but Castiel is holding on to it solidly, his fingers wrapped in a loose bracelet around Sam's wrist. "Has Dean had the PDA talk with you?"
Castiel looks up, his expression strangely hard. Not angry, but just set. "Yes," he says. Then he unfolds a napkin and quickly dries off Sam's now clean hand. He balls up the detritus, and tosses it the five feet to the garbage can, perfect swish. Done, he lets go of Sam's hand. It drops to Castiel's thigh and stays there, as though Sam himself has no control over it. Castiel leans back against the fence, letting his legs fall open comfortably. Such a human posture, Sam thinks absently, hysterically, as his hand slides a little closer to Castiel's inner thigh.
"Eat your ice cream," Castiel says.
"Yeah," Sam says, sounding far more breathless than he'd like.
Castiel goes radio silent for a few weeks, researching a lead. Sam fills the time with a case, and yet more compulsive masturbation. It's getting to be embarrassing. One night, when he's done, the sheets a tangled mess at the foot of his motel bed, his sweats and underwear pushed down his thighs, hand still wrapped around his soft dick, he's struck by something. A question he'll never ask anyone.
Is it worse, ethically speaking, to jerk off to:
a) Castiel on his knees because Sam put him there, roughed up, and lips bloodied, like they'd been that time. Rubbing his thumb over Castiel's bottom lip, worrying it until they part and Sam can see the pink of his tongue. "Unzip me," he says. Castiel blinks up at him, surprised but not scared, no, because he immediately moves to obey. His fingers popping the button of Sam's jeans, tugging down the zipper, parting the the fabric, and reaching inside. "Suck me."
or,
b) The bench near the Dragon Coaster. Castiel sitting between Sam's knees, ineffectually wiping the sticky ice cream off one of his hands. "Maybe you should use your mouth." Castiel frowns at the ice cream that just won't come off, that's slowly dripping it's way down Sam's forearm. "All right," he says, putting aside the wet naps and crumpled up paper napkins, to pull Sam's hand to his mouth. He starts with the palm, licking broad stripes across it, his tongue wet and slick. Sam jerks in his hold, an automatic reaction, but Castiel is too strong, holds him in place easily. He makes his way to Sam's thumb, circling it, laving each joint, each milimeter of skin until it's clean. When he gets to the top, to Sam's nail, he sucks it into his mouth, humming absently.
Sam can't even begin to answer that question.
"Rise and shine, peaches."
"Dean?"
"Who else but your brother would be calling you at," Dean pauses. "Four in the morning."
"Asshole," Sam mumbles, rolling over to turn on the light. He groans the whole way.
"You ok?"
"Yeah, I just took a few hits during the hunt."
"Are you-"
"Dean, I'm good. Just some bruises. This call have a point, or are you just taking advantage of the time difference?" Like a dick, is the unspoken and obvious addition.
"Yeah, Bobby's found something. Wants to round up the troops. Said I'd call you." Because this way I could torture you, like the jerk big brother I am, Sam silently adds.
"Did you call Cas?"
"About a million times. I finally gave up and left a voicemail. What's going on with him?"
"He thinks he found something important."
"Bobby and Cas both 'found something.' That's interesting," Dean says, like it's not interesting so much as it is distasteful.
"Sounds like things could be gearing up again."
"Yeah," Dean says. Sam expects complaints, bitching. Maybe even a tired sigh. Every time they've talked about Dean coming back, or being anythingz more than peripherally involved in hunting, or the big project, he's deflected. But none of that happens.
"Anyway," Dean says. "Be there on Saturday. Bobby said something about steaks."
"Sounds like a plan."
"Gotta run, Sammy. There's a Civic that's waiting for my special touch."
"Yeah, sure man. I'll see you on Saturday." He ends the call.
Saturday rolls around, and Sam's pulling into Bobby's yard for the first time in months. The Impala is already parked in the driveway. Sam pulls to a stop beside it. The car Castiel picked out is no Impala, but it's not the damn Volvo. He'll still be hearing about it from Dean.
Jerry greets him at the door, slobbering all over his shoes, like the mutt he is. He follows closely on Sam's heels, herding him into the kitchen, where Dean and Bobby are waiting, and already sniping at each other. Jerry's bark announces him, but Sam stays in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the frame.
"Hey," he says, his voice loud because of the sudden quiet.
Dean looks like he's been frozen, utterly still in his seat, fingers curled around a sweating bottle of beer. He looks good though, his face unlined and tanned. He looks like he's been sleeping. Then in a burst of motion, he's out of his seat, and heading for Sam, his arms already spread. Sam pushes off the door frame, and makes up the last of the space between them, so they're crashing together in a tight, hard hug. This time it's Dean who holds on a little too long, and Sam's happy to let him.
"Seriously?" Dean asks, without context.
"What?"
"Did you actually get taller?"
...and then other stuff happens, most of it good. TBC? Only Gaga knows. (Seriously, it's unlikely but thanks for reading).
kijikun's journal as commentfic and got 6000 words in before I lost my way and canon moved forward. In Between
Sam/Castiel, ~6000 words.
Assume a happier end to last season. Dean wants a normal life, Sam wants to keep hunting, and Castiel wants to help.
When it's over, when Lucifer's beaten back, and the angels have retreated to heaven, it's Dean who decides he wants a normal life. He stays around long enough to pick up the pieces, to help the surviving vessels home to their families, and do post-Apocalyptic cleanup. But Sam catches him watching them, the happy families, with this look. Every day the looks last a little longer, are a little less guilty.
"I'm done man," he says to Sam. They've just buried a child. Thirteen year old girl who'd been ridden by an angel. She didn't have the same scruples as Cas, and the girl - they didn't even know her name - hadn't survived. "I just--"
Dean stays on, until they're done. They head to Bobby's, to regroup, and Dean stays another few weeks. But one day, Sam knows, he will wake up at Bobby's place, and Dean won't be there with him.
"Do you still want that?" Dean asks him.
They're watching last happy family, pulling together for a startlingly raw group hug. They clutch each other like they're afraid it'll all start up again. They lost a year to this war, but tonight they'll go home, maybe have dinner together. Soon enough they'll be driving the kids to soccer, arguing about bills. They brought her home, Jane Deshaun, beloved wife and mother.
Does he? A wife, two kids and a respectable career.
"No," he says. It's only afterwards that he realizes it isn't a lie.
Castiel is the last angel on earth. The others are locked up in prisons of their own making, in heaven and hell. He doesn't have the powers he once had, but he's still not human. He uses what he does have to help with the cleanup efforts: flies from one corner of the world to another, tracking down the families of vessels, and all the other bloodlines. Just in case. He's there, every time there's a fire that needs putting out. Every time there's a bunch of demons that need killing.
They're friends now, Sam and Cas, but Sam doesn't know what his plans are. He doesn't know how to ask Castiel where he's going, now that the apocalypse is over, and he's the only one of his kind still free. He'd escaped the recall - he wasn't angel enough for his brothers anymore - but none of them wanted to risk going after him.
Sam gets used to seeing Castiel's back during the cleanup effort. They always seem to be heading in different directions, on different missions.
But at Bobby's house, where it's just the four of them, drinking beer and tequila and trying (in vain) to get Cas drunk, he seems to be everywhere. Counting the cracks in the ceiling, when Sam comes down for breakfast. Watching the sunrise, like he hasn't seen millions of them, when Sam comes in from walking Bobby's dogs. And of course, talking and hanging out with Dean. He's never seen his brother do so much talking.
Dean and Castiel's last Manly Outing is a trip to the mall. They come back with a car full of bags. Bobby gripes, sneers, and gripes some more, but finally he concedes a mostly unused dresser to Castiel's new wardrobe.
"Gotta have somewhere to kick up your boots," Dean says.
Cas sighs. If sighs can be sarcastic, doubtful, and fondly annoyed, this one is. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement.
When Dean leaves, Castiel doesn't go with him. He hangs back with Bobby, while Dean mother hens Sam, and Sam hugs Dean just long enough, and tight enough to embarrass him. He's got it down to a science.
Then it's Castiel's turn. He smiles at Dean, this tiny awkward thing. Calling it a smile is being generous. Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, and looks him over. "Looking good."
"Your selections were wise."
"Yeah, I know. I'm awesome."
"Yes," Castiel says.
Dean laughs. He and Bobby say their goodbyes, then he and Sam all over again. And that's it; Sam is watching his brother drive away.
Sam wakes up. For a few seconds it's like every other day, since they saved the world. He burrows into the covers, hoping to enjoy a few minutes of quiet, before Dean shakes himself awake, curses and starts complaining about the lack of bacon in the house. Then he remembers: watching the Impala move off without him; hanging on to Dean just long enough to piss him off.
"Do you have--"
"Yes Dean."
"What about--"
"Yup."
"Yeah, but what if--"
"I'll be ok," he says. Dean stares at him, searching his face.
"Yeah," he says finally. "I guess you will."
Dean calls him every day. He texts Sam too, but the important thing is the call, just before bed. Dean asks Sam a few awkward questions. How's it going? Meet any hot demon girls lately? Until he gives up, and settles into his usual interrogation. Sam lets him ask all the questions he needs, and maybe-- maybe Sam needs this too.
When he calls Dean for advice, it's easier. Dean is at the garage, or out for a run, but he excuses himself immediately, and stays on, until they've worked through all the possibilities. Maybe one day Dean will come back to hunting, but for now, Sam's the one keeping the family business going. He finds that he's surprisingly ok with that.
Castiel still needs to call ahead. They'd agreed that the sigils should stay where they were. He doesn't call everyday like Dean does, and he doesn't ask how Sam is doing, or for all the details of his cases. They don't talk about the daily minutia of Sam's mostly solitary life. Instead, he's there to help when Sam needs it. Or to talk about-- so many things, most of them arcane.
Castiel visits Dean sometimes, but Bobby more often. Dean doesn't need an angel's help to fix cars and pick up women. So when Castiel visits they just, "Hang out."
"And you do...?"
"Many things. Dean is teaching me about sports." Or cars. Or pool. Sam doesn't want to think about it, Dean being Castiel's guide to humanity. The brothel story was horrifying enough. Castiel still has so many blindspots, and Dean is enough of a jerk to exploit all of them. Sam just-- doesn't want to know.
When he misses Dean, he calls him. They talk about Saturday morning cartoons, or hash out the details of Sam's latest case. Dean tells him about his latest girlfriend. There aren't a lot of them, and none last more than a week.
Castiel's calls are random. Sam starts calling him back, and finds himself emulating Cas. He tells Castiel about an interesting spell he'd broken in Florida. A strange rock formation in Kansas - there was nothing supernatural about it, just five ancient, jagged boulders dumped in the middle of a field of wheat. But Castiel finds geological phenomena fascinating, and he's always interested in new spells and enchantments that Sam comes across. He wants all the details, his attention as focused over the phone, as it is in person.
Over time, they settle into a pattern despite themselves.
Of course Dean offered him the Impala. Sam refused, knowing it would break his brother's heart to give up the car. He buys a sensible, ordinary looking sedan with lots of trunk room and a high safety rating. Bobby helps refit it for a hunter's lifestyle.
On his fourth solo hunt, he wrecks it. He's chasing an SUV full of upwardly mobile vampires, after clearing out their nest. So far as he knows, it's the last of them. He's wrong. A Volvo speeds up beside him. Sam catches sight of it just as it slams into the side of his own very safe, very tasteful Volvo, sending it into a electrical post. Instead of finishing him off, they leave him. Maybe they even think he'll die. There's blood everywhere - this much he registers before he blacks out.
He wakes up in a hospital bed with a concussion, cuts and bruises, some cracked ribs and nothing worse.
When they tell him the Volvo is beyond saving, he's happy. That part he doesn't tell Dean.
Castiel tags along when Sam shops around for his next car. He insists. "The backseat of the Impala was never comfortable."
"I wouldn't make you sit in the backseat, Cas."
"I know." Castiel still inspects every vehicle with his terrifying attention to detail. "I like the blue one."
Sam buys it.
In a lot of ways, Sam's life post-apocalypse is the same as it ever was. Except for those few years he spent at Stanford. He settles back into the routine of hunting - researching, driving, planning, killing and cleaning up - with more ease than he expected. It's become second nature, and even without his dad around, or Dean around (or Ruby, though that's a thought he tries to avoid), it's comfortable.
There's no real mission, which is something that's different. Sam starts out stalking the same side roads and towns that he grew up in, doing it much the same way his brother did, and their dad before him. But quickly, he branches out. He finds that he likes traveling when it means seeing something new. When it isn't going from motel, to motel, to motel, all of them vaguely alike.
Castiel takes him to Winnipeg, to investigate a series of disappearances, and once that case is through, he figures-- why not? He's smart about it. He flies under multiple passports, and from different airports. He takes care not to establish a pattern, and to dress differently, style his hair differently.
When he tells Dean that he's going to Cuba on a case, he whistles.
"Sure you don't want to come?"
"Nah. Knock back a couple of mojitos for me."
When he's done, nest of ghouls gone bad rooted out, and tired enough to sleep for a week, but too wired to even nap, he heads down to the pool, orders a string of mojitos and flirts with a pretty girl. In that order. He doesn't take her up to his room. Dean would have, but Sam isn't Dean. He can't say though, that he didn't like the attention. In the morning, once he's well slept and sober, he decides that the takeaway is that he's allowed to have some fun.
There's no mission, just the job, and Sam's allowed to take his time.
It's late. Sam's lying in bed, in another of an endless string of motel rooms. Castiel is in the desert. Dean had begged off early - just a quick call, before heading out on a date. It was the end of the week, and quiet on Sam's front. He'd expected to listen to Dean ramble about Godzilla vs. Mothra for at least an hour.
Instead he talks to Castiel.
"I was here during the last ice age. The desert was much larger then."
"What were you doing there?"
"My garrison was protecting a young boy."
"Who was he?"
"Not who, but what - what he represented. The cupids worked hard to ensure his birth."
"More angel eugenics." There's a pause, and Sam wonders if Castiel gets the reference.
"Yes. He was an ancestor of yours."
"Have you met a lot of my ancestors?"
"Yes," he says simply.
Sam could get angry again, over how thoroughly his family's lives have been manipulated. But it's late, and he's tired, and this is Cas. Instead he asks a question that he should have asked months ago. "So is it over?"
"Averting the apocalypse earned us all reprieve, but... that's unlikely. " Then there's just quiet from Castiel's end. The silence goes on long enough for Sam to wonder about cell phone coverage in the Sahara. He rolls over to his side, tucking his cell between his shoulder and his ear, and starts typing.
"It will never be over," Castiel says. "Not until-"
"What?"
"Not until every angel is dead."
"You're saying they could come back."
"They will. Perhaps not in your lifetime."
"But in yours. You're still- you don't age, do you?"
"No. I am diminished, but still an angel."
"Are you safe? Cas?"
"No, Sam." Sam hears what Castiel isn't saying - isn't bothering to say, because he doesn't need to. He's the last angel on earth, the only one to rebel and live. He's far from heaven's favourite, and with Lucifer gone, Castiel is the biggest thorn in their side. A wild card whose loyalties are solidly with earth and its inhabitants.
"So what are we going to do about?"
They're in Mexico, investigating an ancient temple that doubles as one of the new seals on hell. All that's left of it are lines in the ground, where walls once stood. Nubs of grown over stone, but Castiel leads him straight to where the altar was.
"Have you been here before?"
"Yes." Castiel stops in front of a low hill, raises his hands and looks into the sky. They've been chatting all the way up the hill - or rather, they've been doing what passes for chatting with Castiel, considering his small talk consists mostly of blank stares and tangential comments - but he goes silent, and so still that Sam isn't sure he's breathing. Strictly speaking, he doesn't need to, so it's a possibility.
He's wearing jeans and a shirt, instead of a suit and trench coat, but Sam is suddenly reminded of those early days, when it was impossible to forget that Castiel isn't human.
Everything about the scene is mundane. Ancient ruins so grown over and degraded that they've become a playground for children, and a rest stop for tourists. Insects buzz softly. A bird flies overhead. Sam can hear hikers talking and laughing in the distance. Still far off enough that he won't have to explain to them what Castiel is doing.
Sam settles in on nearby rock, and waits. Everything is mundane except Cas - the wind ruffling his hair is the only indication that he's not a statue.
Finally he lowers his arms.
"So?"
"It's solid," Castiel says. He walks over to where Sam is sitting. The sun is warm on Sam's back, and lighting up Castiel - his hair is a shade lighter, his eyes a bright and brilliant blue. He stops less than a foot away, and Sam halfway thinks he won't stop at all. "Are you ready?"
"What?"
"To go," Castiel says, tilting his head.
"Oh. Yeah, we can head out." Sam stands. Cas doesn't move back, and Sam comes close to brushing against him. He looks down into Castiel's eyes, shining and bright, and thinks oh. Cas just extends two fingers, taps them against Sam's forehead, and they're gone.
The Tokyo Stock Exchange is a seal. So is a nameless square of parking lot in Lisbon.
Castiel takes Sam to both of them. He spends two months flitting all over the world with Castiel, visiting all the seals that are accessible to humans. There are other seals, not connected to places, but to people or events. They make a list of them and work through it. Is this one secure? This one?
Sam is so used to the routine that he doesn't think of it.
He wakes up, makes coffee, gulps down an apple and a banana, goes for a run, showers. For two months most of his time is devoted to thinking about seals. When he forgets what it's like to live without eyestrain and a headache, Castiel frowns him into going outside.
"We should send this list to Bobby," Castiel says.
"Yeah, that's a good idea. Should have thought of that."
"Bobby would know others who could use this list."
"What do you mean 'use'?"
Castiel frowns. "Earth stands between heaven and hell. We need to ensure that heaven can't play the same game with humanity."
"You want people to be able to guard the seals. Really guard them."
"No one has a more vested interest in preventing the end of the world."
"That's... that's a really good idea," Sam says. He's already typing up an email to Bobby, and running through his contacts, figuring out which hunters they could tap for this kind of generational mission. How would they keep it from being lost?
Castiel stares searchingly at the ugly wallpaper. "In ancient times, such information was engraved in holy places and documents."
"I'm not starting a religion," Sam says.
"No. No... that would not be my choice either."
Sam sends off the email. Sighs. "We'll figure it out, Cas." Castiel frowns again, his mouth hard and his brow lined. Sam doesn't think about it, just reaches out and puts his hand over Castiel's.
Castiel looks up, his frown having given over to surprise. Not unhappy surprise, Sam notes. Then finds himself searching Castiel's face for-- he doesn't know what, but something. Hints of something more than what he already knows is there. Castiel's eyes drop, then flicker back up to Sam. He smiles softly, and doesn't say a word.
Only an angel can kill another angel, but there are weapons, spells and beings strong enough to hurt them. An old demon with an angel's spear, that was something to worry about.
Sam chops down with Ruby's knife, making a mess of a demon's throat. It bursts open, streaming blood and black smoke. Sam leaps backwards. The demon rockets forward, following him, until it hits the salt and marker line of the makeshift devil's trap. It circles the trap, looking for a break in the line, a way out. There isn't one.
"Sam!" Tamara yells. "I need you."
Sam leaves the trapped demon and heads toward Tamara's voice. There's a quickly growing cloud of smoke - the demons set fire to the warehouse's stock, as soon as things went south - so he pulls his t-shirt up over his mouth and stumbles forward blindly. His eyes are streaming tears, and his throat is on fire. They need to get out. At this rate, the smoke will get to them before the demons.
"Tamara, where are you?"
"Here, Sam! Goddammit." A crash that sounds like crates falling, or something being slammed into them. Screw it - he breaks into a run, no way to tell if his way is clear, except what little he can hear through the chaos. He breaks through to a clearing. The smoke is thinner here - ventilation nearby?
"Took you long enough," she says roughly. She's half pinned by a pile of burlap and other packing materials, trying to swim her way out.
"What the hell?"
"I hate demons," is her only explanation.
He gives her a quick once over, packing materials or no. "You ok?"
"Fine. Just embarrassed. Let's get out of here before it all goes up." He pulls, she pushes and wriggles, and then she's out, stumbling to her feet. "Where's the angel?"
"He was with you."
"He-" Tamara stops, searching his face. "Sam, we need to get out of here."
He turns away from her, blindly searching the warehouse. He can't see farther than a foot ahead of him. "Cas!"
Tamara grabs his arm. "Sam, do you hear that? They're all gone. We need to get out of here now."
"Cas!" There's no reply, just the roar of the growing fire.
"Sam!" Tamara yells, frustration obvious. She waits two beats, shakes her head. "He can take care of himself and if we don't leave now, we're going to die in here." Sam keeps on scanning the smoke around him. She's right of course, but he can't just leave.
Tamara turns, takes two steps away from Sam, when the smoke in front of her clears in a burst of clean-smelling air.
"We must leave," Castiel says. Sam gives him a quick once over - singed and covered in blood, but alive. The spear, roughly broken in half, is buried in his side, but Cas keeps his feet.
"Cas, are you-"
"Now."
"Cutting it close there, feathers," she says.
"Sam, Tamara," he says, holding out his hands. They crowd close, on either side of him, and he touches his fingers to their foreheads.
Sam and Tamara spend the night in the hospital. Smoke inhalation and exhaustion keep them from being able to resist the doctors' attentions, and Castiel is nowhere to be found. Tamara's a pro, and together they manage to spin out a credible cover story, and pull out fake IDs before they both go under.
When they're released, Tamara heads off to Georgia on a job.
Sam checks himself into a motel. He has a shower, sleeps for a few hours, goes out for lunch. He takes the long way back to the motel, through the park. When he hits the end of the bike path and arrives back at the town proper, he pulls out his cell phone and hits speed dial.
"Sam," Castiel answers.
"Are you all right?"
"I..."
"Answer me."
"I'm healed."
Sam rattles off the street address and hangs up. He slips his phone back into his pocket, and takes a deep breath. He only ever has enough time for one, before Castiel appears. As he's letting this one out, he hears the familiar soft rustle behind him.
"Sam," Castiel says simply, his voice empty of any emotion. Sam turns to look at him, and his face is just as blank. He closes the distance between them, two strides, then he's grabbing Castiel's shirt and pushing him back against the wall. Castiel is surprised enough to let him.
"Never do that again."
Castiel's eyes are wide and bright, and his lips are slightly parted. His eyes drop, flickering over Sam's face, to stop at his lips. Sam's gut twists at that, but he hangs onto the anger, the sharp fury that has his hands crushing Cas, his back surely scraping against the brick wall.
"No," Cas says. "No, I won't." He looks up then, hopeful. If Sam had ever thought that Dean and his dad were bad about bottling things up, it was because he hadn't met Castiel, who is the undisputed king of not talking things out, or talking about things period. While at the same time being king of the uncomfortable overshare. As Dean said, it's part of his freaky dork-angel charm. But now, it isn't so charming.
"I won't leave you like that, again."
"And you won't just disappear, leaving me and Tamara to work things out by ourselves, stuck in a hospital bed, while you're walking around with a spear in your side."
"I'm fine."
"You're fine now," he says, expecting Cas to duck his head again. Instead he sets his jaw.
"There was nothing you could have done," he says, which might as well be an admission.
"Ok first of all, you don't know that. Just because there's nothing in your vast experience to suggest a mere mortal could do something-"
"Sam."
"No," he says. He lets go of Castiel, who drops the half inch back down to the ground, and doesn't even put his clothes back into order. He looks-- untouchable. Like nothing Sam can do will ever affect him. "Let me finish. You don't know Cas. We could have found something." Castiel looks sorry, but unconvinced. "You don't get to just drop me off somewhere convenient, while you fly off to deal with shit alone."
Cas frowns. It's his usual 'crazy humans' confused frown, but for the first time there's nothing cute in it. It's just infuriating. "You needed-"
"We're supposed to be partners, Cas. You don't do that to your partner." Sam's supposed to be the smart one, the one for whom words come easily, but now he's tripping over them trying to get Castiel to see, to get out even a fraction of what he needs to see. His inner Dean is telling him to man up - not that Dean had ever manned up enough to talk about his feelings - but Sam's left staring at Castiel, running his hands through his own hair, and trying to will him to just-
"Oh," Castiel says, expression going strangely soft. "I'm sorry." He steps a little closer to Sam, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Sam's gut twists again, caught between his still burning anger and something else. It's an effort to convince himself that it isn't an invitation: Castiel's too-hot body close, and open to him. He's supposed to be the smart one.
"Do you want to get some breakfast?" Castiel asks. "And... talk?" It comes out more awkwardly than a thirteen year old asking out his crush could manage. Normally he'd be looking to Sam or Dean for approval, for how successfully he'd faked humanity. Normally too, he'd be on the knife edge of serious irritation or deep disappointment, because Castiel hates having to pretend. Hates doing things the slow, human way, small talk and everyday rituals especially. That Castiel is volunteering to share a meal with him is-- new, and possibly desperate.
"I already ate."
"Oh."
"But we could go for coffee?"
"Yes," Castiel says quickly, his expression somehow bright and tortured at the same time. His hand drops from Sam's shoulder, managing to land in the small of his back, a quick press of fingers, before falling to Castiel's side.
He follows Cas, a few steps behind, finding himself breathless and his limbs heavy. He's supposed to be the smart one, he reminds himself for the third time.
He spends the next three weeks jerking off before bed. He hasn't masturbated this much in-- ever. There's always been someone there. Dean or his dad, when he was a kid. When he went to Stanford there was Jim, the roommate from hell, for the first year, and then there was Jess. Sam has never had so much time to himself, and he's just taking advantage of it, like anyone would. He tries valiantly to ignore the voice that reminds him he's had almost a year to himself, without compulsive masturbation being an issue, and that he's never before masturbated to thoughts of Castiel.
Castiel goes twelve rounds with the most powerful pagan god that Sam's ever seen, outside of Kali. They win, finally, but Cas ends up shirtless and bloodied.
That night Sam pictures Castiel lying beside him in bed, gentle and so open, so easy. But he keeps going back to that afternoon, Castiel on his hands and knees, looking up at Sam, his lips bloody and parted enough for Sam to just--
The job in Coney Island goes too smoothly. Sam keeps expecting complications, but none turn up. After he's wrapped things up, washed his hands and brushed off his jeans, he calls Cas.
"Meet me at the bench in front of the Dragon Coaster in ten minutes."
"Why ten minutes?"
"The line for ice cream is pretty long."
"I could just-"
"Ten minutes."
"Ok."
Armed with vanilla-chocolate swirl for himself, and strawberry for Castiel, Sam pushes through the crowd lining up for the Dragon Coaster. He spots Castiel, staking out a bare three feet on the bench, the other side having been colonized by kids. He's wearing faded jeans, a plain cotton t-shirt and sunglasses.
"Dean gave them to me," he says before Sam can even ask. Castiel shifts toward the fence, making room for Sam on the bench. It's a tight fit, but Castiel's personal bubble is nonexistent and Sam... Sam does not mind being close to him.
"Strawberry," he tells Cas, and hands over his ice cream. "Why did Dean give you sunglasses?"
"I stare too much."
"No you don't," Sam says. And my god, he thinks, more than a little horrified, because Castiel does indeed stare too much, but Sam is apparently prepared to defend his honor on this or any charge. "Ok, you do, but it's not that bad."
Sam wants to reach out and pluck the glasses right off of Castiel's face, but that would be a) ridiculous; and b) possibly well received, and possibly not well received. Sam has no idea how it would be received, because it's Castiel, who is usually easy to read, but impossible the rest of the time.
He clutches his ice cream cone with one hand, clutches his thigh with the other, and watches Castiel slowly demolish his own cone, with tiny, deliberate, strategic licks. He starts at the top, first just tasting it, rolling the flavour around in his mouth. Whenever the ice cream threatens to spill over, he cleans the sides with a decisive swipe of his tongue. It's methodical, and shouldn't be sexy at all.
Somehow it is, enough for Sam to have forgotten about his own ice cream. He's watching Castiel crunch through the last of pieces of his cone, when the vanilla-chocolate swirl starts dripping onto his hand. It's cold and sticky, and startles Sam enough that he's jolted back to himself.
"Dammit."
"Oh," Castiel says, staring at Sam's sticky hand.
He forgot napkins, he realizes. He's halfway off the bench, when Castiel pushes Sam back down with one hand, and disappears into the crowd.
"Hey mister," says one of the kids. "Your ice cream is melting."
"Thanks."
"Aren't you gonna do something about it?"
"I'm waiting for my friend to- hey." Castiel is back, faster than any human could be, with wetnaps, napkins, a bottle of water and fresh ice cream, this time in a cup.
"I got you banana chip. They were out of vanilla-chocolate swirl."
"Oh," Sam says stupidly, and takes the cup of ice cream with his clean hand. Castiel takes the ruined cone and trashes it, then settles in beside Sam, watching him juggle wetnaps and ice cream.
"Do you want me to help you?" he asks, more intense than an ice cream disaster really warrants. But maybe Sam is reading more into it than is really there.
"Yeah, thanks." He holds out the ice cream for Castiel to take, but he ignores it. Instead Cas pushes the sunglasses up onto his head, squints at Sam's sticky hand and methodically, carefully, sets to cleaning it. Sam just stupidly holds onto his tiny cup of ice cream, while Castiel runs a wetnap across the palm of his hand, the inside of his wrist, each of his fingers.
He looks up, a little - not panicked because no, he is a grown man who doesn't panic over ice cream disasters and inadvertently erotic public displays of... feeling - concerned, and finds that yes, people are staring. Parents are staring.
"Cas, uh, you can't..." He half-heartedly tugs his hand away, but Castiel is holding on to it solidly, his fingers wrapped in a loose bracelet around Sam's wrist. "Has Dean had the PDA talk with you?"
Castiel looks up, his expression strangely hard. Not angry, but just set. "Yes," he says. Then he unfolds a napkin and quickly dries off Sam's now clean hand. He balls up the detritus, and tosses it the five feet to the garbage can, perfect swish. Done, he lets go of Sam's hand. It drops to Castiel's thigh and stays there, as though Sam himself has no control over it. Castiel leans back against the fence, letting his legs fall open comfortably. Such a human posture, Sam thinks absently, hysterically, as his hand slides a little closer to Castiel's inner thigh.
"Eat your ice cream," Castiel says.
"Yeah," Sam says, sounding far more breathless than he'd like.
Castiel goes radio silent for a few weeks, researching a lead. Sam fills the time with a case, and yet more compulsive masturbation. It's getting to be embarrassing. One night, when he's done, the sheets a tangled mess at the foot of his motel bed, his sweats and underwear pushed down his thighs, hand still wrapped around his soft dick, he's struck by something. A question he'll never ask anyone.
Is it worse, ethically speaking, to jerk off to:
a) Castiel on his knees because Sam put him there, roughed up, and lips bloodied, like they'd been that time. Rubbing his thumb over Castiel's bottom lip, worrying it until they part and Sam can see the pink of his tongue. "Unzip me," he says. Castiel blinks up at him, surprised but not scared, no, because he immediately moves to obey. His fingers popping the button of Sam's jeans, tugging down the zipper, parting the the fabric, and reaching inside. "Suck me."
or,
b) The bench near the Dragon Coaster. Castiel sitting between Sam's knees, ineffectually wiping the sticky ice cream off one of his hands. "Maybe you should use your mouth." Castiel frowns at the ice cream that just won't come off, that's slowly dripping it's way down Sam's forearm. "All right," he says, putting aside the wet naps and crumpled up paper napkins, to pull Sam's hand to his mouth. He starts with the palm, licking broad stripes across it, his tongue wet and slick. Sam jerks in his hold, an automatic reaction, but Castiel is too strong, holds him in place easily. He makes his way to Sam's thumb, circling it, laving each joint, each milimeter of skin until it's clean. When he gets to the top, to Sam's nail, he sucks it into his mouth, humming absently.
Sam can't even begin to answer that question.
"Rise and shine, peaches."
"Dean?"
"Who else but your brother would be calling you at," Dean pauses. "Four in the morning."
"Asshole," Sam mumbles, rolling over to turn on the light. He groans the whole way.
"You ok?"
"Yeah, I just took a few hits during the hunt."
"Are you-"
"Dean, I'm good. Just some bruises. This call have a point, or are you just taking advantage of the time difference?" Like a dick, is the unspoken and obvious addition.
"Yeah, Bobby's found something. Wants to round up the troops. Said I'd call you." Because this way I could torture you, like the jerk big brother I am, Sam silently adds.
"Did you call Cas?"
"About a million times. I finally gave up and left a voicemail. What's going on with him?"
"He thinks he found something important."
"Bobby and Cas both 'found something.' That's interesting," Dean says, like it's not interesting so much as it is distasteful.
"Sounds like things could be gearing up again."
"Yeah," Dean says. Sam expects complaints, bitching. Maybe even a tired sigh. Every time they've talked about Dean coming back, or being anythingz more than peripherally involved in hunting, or the big project, he's deflected. But none of that happens.
"Anyway," Dean says. "Be there on Saturday. Bobby said something about steaks."
"Sounds like a plan."
"Gotta run, Sammy. There's a Civic that's waiting for my special touch."
"Yeah, sure man. I'll see you on Saturday." He ends the call.
Saturday rolls around, and Sam's pulling into Bobby's yard for the first time in months. The Impala is already parked in the driveway. Sam pulls to a stop beside it. The car Castiel picked out is no Impala, but it's not the damn Volvo. He'll still be hearing about it from Dean.
Jerry greets him at the door, slobbering all over his shoes, like the mutt he is. He follows closely on Sam's heels, herding him into the kitchen, where Dean and Bobby are waiting, and already sniping at each other. Jerry's bark announces him, but Sam stays in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the frame.
"Hey," he says, his voice loud because of the sudden quiet.
Dean looks like he's been frozen, utterly still in his seat, fingers curled around a sweating bottle of beer. He looks good though, his face unlined and tanned. He looks like he's been sleeping. Then in a burst of motion, he's out of his seat, and heading for Sam, his arms already spread. Sam pushes off the door frame, and makes up the last of the space between them, so they're crashing together in a tight, hard hug. This time it's Dean who holds on a little too long, and Sam's happy to let him.
"Seriously?" Dean asks, without context.
"What?"
"Did you actually get taller?"
...and then other stuff happens, most of it good. TBC? Only Gaga knows. (Seriously, it's unlikely but thanks for reading).