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Do not search for my heart anymore / the wild beasts have eaten it
— Charles Baudelaire, from “Les Fleurs du Mal”
Sam can’t deny that he’s getting frustrated.
He’s perhaps slept three hours in as many days, stretched too thin and too exhausted. It’s been boots on the ground, flat out running for weeks, for days on end. He doesn’t know if he and Dean are running towards something or just running away all over again; maybe it’s both.
He’s getting sloppy, he knows. Almost got killed on a what should have been a basic ghost hunt only two days back. Dean hasn’t been able to look him in the eye since, not that that means a lot in the long run.
Sam can’t blame him, wouldn’t be able to look himself in the eye if he could gather the courage to look at his reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t been able to, just brushes his teeth and runs his fingers through his hair after showers, averts his gaze from the reflective windows of the Impala, turns his eyes away from shop windows.
He’s already a disappointment. He doesn't want to disappoint himself even more than he already does. He thinks it would be easier if he only had himself to disappoint, or maybe someone else to blame. But Sam has never been deliberately obtuse with himself. The blame to this is solely at his feet, and maybe acknowledging it means he can fix some tiny portion of it.
If it means Dean will just look at him, Sam will do it, will do anything. He just wants his brother back.
The motel room’s dark, barely illuminated by the weak light filtering in through the tweaked open blinds. Sam’s grateful for it, he’s still having trouble with the darkness, his nightmares creeping into his waking moments until it feels like he’s barely coping; unable to tell whether he’s truly awake or sleeping walking, feeling like Lucifer is both far away and yet sliding sideways into him, day by day.
“Sam, for the last friggin’ time, go to sleep!” Dean mutters, shoving his face into his pillow.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just ducks his head, chin to chest, pulls his arms closer to his chest. He aches, bone deep and burn sore. Michigan isn’t exactly cold at this time of year, but neither is it hot. It’s a chilly type of warmth that takes your breath away, and it sinks deep into Sam’s bones, leaves him almost breathless.
“Sorry,” Sam says into the midnight loom, watches the neon red numbers of the alarm clock slowly tick until it reads 0002, heartbeat loud in his ears. He shifts on the bed, feels the mattress creak beneath him. Pulls the duvet up so it covers his shoulders, sighs slowly.
It’s nothing new, this insomnia. Insomnia has been a spectre from Sam’s earliest childhood memories. From waking up with Dean curled around him as Sam awoke from dreams of screaming and fire that he shouldn’t be able to remember, to waiting up, slumped against the wall, nightmares playing across his open eyes as he waited for his brother and father to walk through a motel door, alive and unhurt, to Stanford and beyond, scared stiff and silent in the looming darkness.
Many a motel room had been privy to prayers and pleas, tumbling from a numb mouth into equally numb palms, wet eyed and dry cheeked. But that was before. Before Sam had crumbled like an ill-built house of cards, until he’d swallowed down disaster like he’d swallowed down blood, everything came tumbling down and he was left adrift in a loom he never wanted to come back into.
Sam’s never been the strong one of the three of them, he knows. But he never thought he’d be so weak.
“You aren’t weak,” A quiet voice says from the corner of the room, and Sam jumps.
“Cas,” He yelps, just a little too loud and it makes Dean grumble beneath his breath, sleep slow. He sits up, covers sliding down to pool in his lap and Sam watches as Dean’s face turns into his pillow and Castiel takes a few slow steps towards Dean, pressing two gentle fingers to his forehead.
Dean’s face relaxes in sleep, a little snore whistling through his nose. Moonlight falls across his shoulders, touching upon his brow, and Sam has never seen Dean look so peaceful for so long. It’s a punch to the gut, aching.
“He’ll wake in the morning,” Castiel says, and he stands, for just a moment, over Dean’s bed, watching him with eyes that Sam can’t quite read. He’s flooded the room with white-blue gracelight for only a moment, before everything falls back into darkness and barely there moon and street lights.
“You are still not sleeping,” Castiel says, and he turns his back towards Dean, silent even on the scratchy carpet. He seems ephemeral, and Sam, for all that he’s seen Castiel several times in numerous motel rooms, still can’t quite believe how ill fitting Castiel is in his and Dean’s usual environment. Maybe because of how otherworldly Castiel is, or maybe it’s because of how human he and Dean are.
“It’s nothing new, Cas,” Sam says, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, rests his arms on them, watches Castiel through exhaustion heavy eyes. He shrugs for a moment, keeps his eyes on Castiel as he treads closer to Sam’s bed. “I’m used to it,”
“I can put you to sleep, if needs be,” Castiel says, after a momentary pause. He’s standing right next to Sam’s bed, the very edges of his trench coat brushing against the mattress. Sam starts, can’t tear his eyes away from Castiel’s undying eyes.
“It’s fine, Castiel,” Sam says, brushes a hand through his hair. Castiel’s brow twitches, as if he wants to frown, and Sam can’t help the warmth that pools in his belly. Castiel has been getting more and more human the longer he’s been staying down on Earth, and though something deep inside Sam is mourning for the loss of it for Castiel, something inside his chest is singing.
Castiel doesn’t say anything, just simply gazes down at Sam, electric eyes unwavering and sheet lightning that isn’t skimming over Sam’s own psychic senses. It’s electrifying, daunting being the sole focus of Castiel’s gaze, something shivering down his spine.
Warm, tender fingers curl around Sam’s chin, turn his head further, tilt his head up so he’s looking Castiel full in the face. His mouth’s dry, something catching in his throat. It feels a lot like awe.
“You needn’t suffer,” Castiel says quietly, and Sam blinks, thrown.
“Castiel?” He asks, doesn’t know what he’s going to say after. He curls a hand around Castiel’s wrist, inhales sharply as Castiel smears a thumb under the skin of Sam’s eye. It’s as if since that night in the chapel, all sense of boundaries have simply dissipated between them.
“I,” Castiel pauses, staring down at Sam. His eyes flicker, and Sam doesn’t know what he’s concentrating on, but it sends a flush through his body, makes his heart pound. “I do not like seeing you suffer,”
It’s a quiet admittance, all shame stripped from such a vulnerable statement. Sam exhales slowly, feels something warm crawling across his cheeks, soaking into Castiel’s palm.
Sam doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything. It’s like Castiel’s reached down his throat, stole his voice for himself. Heart pounding, he leans into Castiel’s palm, feels the gracelight warmth of it against his flesh, the way it glows somewhat from his peripheral.
“Stay?” He asks, quiet, almost ashamed. He didn’t know he could be this brave, but something about Castiel makes him feel almost invincible. He curls his fingers around Castiel’s wrist tighter, lets his other hand creeps up Castiel’s other arm, lets those fingers fist loosely into the fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat, anchoring and anchored.
“As you ask,” Castiel tells him, prayer room quiet, bible paper thin. He seems shaken, almost, fragile in the glow of the moonlight. Sam can see every trembling eyelash of Castiel’s vessel, the way his mouth parts just so.
Sam doesn’t know where he finds the strength to tug Castiel towards him, intimate in such vulnerability that neither of them quite know how to show. He slips his trembling fingers from Castiel’s wrist to his hand, fingers tangling together, palm to palm, electrifying.
“Thank you,” Sam says.
Castiel doesn’t say anything for the longest time, simply settles himself by Sam’s side on the mattress. It’s hard, the mattress is only a twin, and it leads to them touching from shoulder to hips to knees to feet. It’s simultaneously the most terrifying and more safest Sam has felt for a while, for weeks, maybe for months.
“You should rest, if you can,” Castiel says, but his face is torn, as if he wanted to say something different. Sam watches him carefully, sees the way his eyes are bleached by the scattered moonlight, undying and glorious. He’s watching Sam, something lurking in the depths of them that Sam is scared to read just in case he’s read it wrong.
He swallows, watches as Castiel’s eyes flicker from his face to his throat and something wells up in his chest that smarts, like softened wax on bare skin. He somehow manages to find that quiet strength from before, curls two fingers around Castiel’s, giving him a way to escape.
Sam turns onto his side, face illuminated by the softening moonlight. Castiel follows him silently, somehow tender in his movements as he lets Sam press back against his chest, covers crumpled at the side of the bed. Castiel’s arm is a heavy weight that presses pleasantly against Sam’s ribs, a steady ache that he feels as he breathes. It makes him feel alive.
Castiel’s warm against his back, chest sturdy. It’s strange, Sam can’t deny. Castiel’s vessel doesn’t need to breathe, and the absence of the steady rise and fall of Castiel’s chest is a blaring sign that Castiel isn’t human, for all that he looks it.
“Samuel,” Castiel murmurs, mouth pressed almost intimately against the nape of Sam’s neck. It ruffles his hair, and Sam can smell ozone, peppermint. It makes him shiver, curl his hand around his left wrist, scratch at the healed skin there.
“No, Samuel,” Castiel says, and it should be awkward, Castiel reaching around to gently slot his fingers in between Sam’s, pulling them away from his wrist. “Don’t hurt yourself, Samuel, please,”
The entreaty is still awkward in Castiel’s mouth, Sam thinks. Ill fitting and almost lopsided, as if Castiel’s mouth still can’t quite shape the syllables correctly, as if he’s testing them out.
“Sorry,” Sam whispers, bows his head, chin to chest. The alarm clock blares scarlet numbers out from the loom, and Sam can’t tear his gaze away, as if it’s a distraction from something; maybe the burning in his chest, maybe the skin-bound celestial behemoth behind him, illuminated by moonlight and street lights, asking only to protect Sam.
“You don’t have to apologise, Samuel,” Castiel says, and he rests his forehead against the topmost ball of Sam’s spine, and it’s like sinking into an ocean, electric gracelight, sheet lighting that isn't seeping into his veins, livewire wild.
“Castiel,” Sam whispers, watches the play of streetlights through the motel window, shadows strewn across the walls and the floor from the tweaked open blinds. The NO VACANCIES sign just level with their window flickers with feeble green and red lights, barely able to pierce the slowly brightening morn.
His hand is still wrapped around Sam’s, calloused strangely, a warm heavy weight. It’s more than Sam knows he deserves. If he had to strength, he’d think he’d cry.
Maybe Castiel can tell what he’s thinking, he doesn’t know. All knows is this, between one moment and the next, between one heartbeat and another, a blink of an eye and a flutter of eyelashes, a tender hand grabs his shoulder, pulls him until he’s strewn against the bedspread, blinking up at the illuminated ceiling. Undying electric eyes gaze down at him, alight with grace and something Sam can’t quite name. Maybe there are no words for such a thing he catches only glimpses of in Castiel’s eyes.
“I have told you once, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel states, voice a low growl. Shadows play across the wall, the light that had been streaming in through the tweaked open blinds shifting strangely before a heavy weight settles on the bed besides them. “I will always be here for you, through the Wrath of God or the Wrath of my Divine Brothers and Sisters, you are mine and you belittle yourself needlessly and so carelessly,”
Sam can’t help the keen that escapes the back of his throat, high pitched, desperate. Castiel’s hovering above him, it makes Sam recall all those nights ago, in that depilated chapel, illuminated in grace and moonlight, pressed into that floor, angelic sweet breath against his own mouth.
An electrified hand cups his chin, presses his head up. He can’t help the way his gaze locks onto Castiel’s, hopeless and helpless like he always has been to Castiel’s mere presence.
“Let me help you,” Castiel says, as if it was that simple, as if Sam could still fit yes and please around the enamel of his teeth like the words weren’t bitter, like he still knows how to let someone help without thinking there’s something attached to it.
“I don’t-,” He chokes on his own words, can’t help the way his fingers crawl up Castiel’s arms, feels the effortless bunch of muscles, the way Castiel’s chest is broad beneath his touch as he fists his hands into the white button up, his trench coat bleached pale in the strangely shadowed moonlight.
He doesn’t know why Castiel bothers. Why he’s laid don with Sam on this cramped bed, back to chest, a safe and sheltering presence. Why Castiel bothers with him, as if Sam’s worth something more than dying and refusing Lucifer’s tender mercies. That is what he was made for, for letting a devil slip inside of him like a well worn glove, with no room for humanity. He clenches his eyes shut, feels the burning of tears behind the back of them.
Castiel presses closer, and Sam’s eyes open wide, he can’t see the ceiling, can only see Castiel, with his stricken face, his illuminating eyes. He can feel the press of Castiel’s chest, the thump of his beating heart against his knuckles.
“They have tried to burn all the mercy and compassion out of you,” Castiel says, and it’s like Sam can breathe for the first time in seconds and minutes and hours. Unneeded breath and smoky ozone, peppermint lingering beneath his tongue as he stares, unblinking, at Castiel.
“I won’t let them,”
Castiel surges forward, electric floral gracelight, ozone and peppermint. Between one moment and the next, it’s like Castiel’s grown, as if he’s ill fitting for his vessel, outgrowing human flesh and human dimensions. Muscles tense, barely moving beneath Sam’s tight grip and it’s as if Castiel is illuminated in gracelight, eyes bright with light and with holiness, wide shadows strewn across the floors and walls and ceilings, unbelievable and innumerable, folding close even as they spread til the wing tips are unseeable, too far a distance away and yet seemingly pressing against the ends of the earth.
Castiel bows his head, presses his forehead against Sam’s, noses touching.
Sam can’t breathe, pressed against the bed, duvet trapped against his legs, can’t look away, stunned. Castiel is both stunningly hot and overwhelmingly cold, and Sam can’t understand, mouth parted and staring, awestruck.
“Wrath may only be used in the Father’s name, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel says, but it sounds like a start to a vow and it sinks deep into Sam’s bones like the sheet lightning that isn’t grace that crackles just beneath Castiel’s skin makes his spine arch, pressing against Castiel’s chest, kept there by a warm hand at the slope of his back, just beneath his sleepshirt. “But know this, I would rage against the one whose made you think so little of yourself, and I would do so without mercy or regret,”
It’s a declaration that takes Sam’s breathe away, makes him think of Castiel’s words of I would gladly take that which hurts and haunts you , said in that chapel all those nights ago.
Castiel follows him down, follows how Sam’s back presses back against the bed, and it’s like they can’t bear to be parted, as if any space for air to get between them would break them apart, shatter them irretrievably.
Something inside of Sam that he can’t - or won’t - name wells up, like wax and then wells over, spreading through his arms, his chest. His mouth is dry and he can’t stop staring.
“Castiel,” Sam breathes, as if it’s the only thing he can say. Maybe it is the only thing he can say, something curling up in his chest he can’t put name to because it’s been that long since he’s felt something like that.
“You think so little of yourself, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel whispers, and their lips are almost touching, a phantom touch that makes him shudder, makes him bite at his bottom lip until blood.
A thumb reaches up, and he can’t help his eyes closing, Castiel gently pulling his lip from between his teeth.
“I’ll not even allow you to hurt yourself, Sam,” Castiel whispers, both too close and too far a distance away. It’s too much and not enough.
Something moves in his peripheral, a ghostly movement, transient, barely able to saw. Something he can’t even begin to describe skims across his cheek, something both electrifying and dampening, he can’t quantify it into words, leaves him breathless, speechless. Sam blinks, shudders, and something overlaps Castiel’s face for the briefest moment; in the distance, a great eagle caws, and a maned lion roars; immolation, celestial behemoth.
The same indescribable feeling flutters down his throat, and he gasps, tips his head back, feels Castiel’s hair tickle against his chin. The feeling strokes across his adam’s apple, pools into the dip at the base of his throat, leaves him floating, flying; free and alive.
“Cas,” It’s a strangled thing,and Sam can barely believe it came from his mouth.His mouth is dry, blood shivering in his veins.
The ceiling dissolves and rebuilds itself in his view, and it’s something that should worry him, but that same feeling, of floating and safety, of the sea roiling beneath him, of thunder barely there and lightning electrifying the skies; of feeling completely enveloped in something holy, wipes away his concerns. That feeling is wrapping around him, sprawling against his arms, pressing against his chest, his throat, the side of his face. His spine rolls, makes himself press further into Castiel’s heavy weight.
“Castiel,” Sam whispers, can barely believe it. Castiel doesn’t move, only tilts his head so he can look Sam in the eyes again, alight with white blue angel grace, the smell of ozone and peppermint rising like a distant storm.
Curls his fingers around the nape of Castiel’s neck, feels the softness of his hair, the way electricity shudders from Castiel to him, pyrite angelic glow. Drags his fingers from that soft nape to the slope of Castiel’s strong back. The world drips together, remade and rebuilt, something beneath his fingers he can’t begin to explain, angelic sweet helix rituals, fire made ice made molten.
Castiel is pressed against him, a solid presence that keeps him from floating for eternity.
“Breathe, Samuel,” Castiel whispers, and his unneeded breath is warm and damp against Sam’s throat, and it makes him shiver again. It’s like he’s a livewire, a conductor of Castiel’s sheet lightning grace, an extension of something he can’t wrap his mind around.
He’s overwhelmed, electrified. Like his skin has been slowly and tenderly stripped from his muscles, as if Castiel has pressed a fond mouth to his mouth and swallowed Sam whole, had let Sam curl up inside his chest, cradled like a child in a giant’s arms.
“Breathe,” Castiel orders, muted thunder and crackling lightning, a storm in a bottle, pressed against Sam’s temple.
Sam breathes.
“This is what you do to me, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel murmurs, and he’s pressed chest to hips to knees to ankles against the full length of Sam’s body. “Know that you make an Angel of God feel holy, and know there is no wrong that cannot be forgiven,”
Sam closes his eyes, feels the weight of Castiel against him, safe. The way his hands cradle Sam’s face; soft, tender.
“You think you do not deserve to be saved,” Castiel whispers, angelic truth, faith sweet. “Never have you been more wrong,”
And maybe wanting / is its own home
— George Abraham, from “Birthright” published in Hawai’i Review