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Sam's foot taps absently against the wall to the beat of some song by Bloc Party, another band Castiel's been obsessing over in the previous weeks. It's playing loudly, the broken CD player thrifted earlier in the year skipping a little every half a minute, but it doesn't stop his boyfriend from humming along as they study.
They're laying side-by-side on Sam's twin-sized bed, both of them pouring over their Honors Anatomy textbooks in order to cram for the next test. Normally they wouldn't need to study last minute like this, but the class is difficult and almost every time they try to study together ends up with them making out languidly and then usually falling asleep wrapped around each other, only for Cas to wake to his phone's alarm telling him it's time for curfew and for him to go home for the night.
Sam hates that god damn alarm, with its shrilling sound that always breaks up the peaceful silence and their companionship. It reminds him that Castiel has to return to his house--somewhere he's not wanted, loved, or safe. It hurts him every time to watch Castiel put on his shoes and coat, kiss him goodbye on his dimly lit porch, and then show up the next day after school with more bruises, dark and new and purpling against skin that should be pure and smooth and untouched by tainted hands.
Every day, Sam has Castiel over, determined to keep his boyfriend as far away from his house and family for as long as possible. He's tried and tried to get Cas to seek help, to let him help, to let Dean help, to let someone--anyone to help him out of his situation.
But, the damn martyr, Cas just shakes his head, flashes Sam a half-hearted soft smile, and quickly tries to change the subject. 'Bruises heal,' he once told Sam, like it was nothing, like his pain and agony that he should not be enduring means nothing.
"The furthest finger bones are called the distal phalanges," Castiel's voice brings Sam back to the present, trying to stay on topic for their big chapter test first thing in the morning. Sam looks over to where Cas is pointing at a diagram of a human hand and then to where their own fingers are threaded together between them, laying limply on the bedspread.
A purple bruise--'brand new' Sam's mind supplies--is peeking out of the cuff of Castiel's white button down shirt that he always wears, where it looks like maybe he was held harshly, wrists pinned down somehow by someone. 'His father,' Sam's mind quips, and the mental commentary is definitely unwanted and unwarranted. Really he shouldn't be theorizing about this, he shouldn't even be thinking about it. Cas is very intuitive, not to mention sensitive and he can usually tell when Sam is distracted by his bruises and scars.
The extra attention to something that Castiel tries so hard to hide makes him upset, so as much as it kills Sam to ignore it, he tries his best for his boyfriend's sake. It's wrong, all of it. Hiding it, being passive and inactive, allowing for it all to happen and acting like nothing is wrong, like Castiel isn't being betrayed and hurt by his own family. It's all so unbelievably wrong.
Yet Sam still sits here with a smile on his face that does not match his heart, just to appease Cas. It's all for him, Sam would do anything for him. But Castiel asks for nothing, except for them to move on.
But sometimes, it's really difficult. Sam can remember a time when Cas rang his doorbell at half-past twelve, much later than his strict curfew. Dean answered the door and was the one to see Castiel standing on the porch in the freezing cold, jacketless, shoeless, shivering and bleeding out of his broken nose. Dean ushered him inside quickly and settled him on a chair in their small kitchen before rushing to Sam's room, mumbling something about "Cas," and "bleeding," and even quieter, "crying."
Sam cleaned him up in the kitchen that night, bandaging cuts and applying ice to his nose and bruises and trying to soothe his soul and ease his crying, but it turned out that Sam cried as well, silently weeping for the harm that has come to the boy he loves and for the helplessness they've been drowning in for the year they've been together. Castiel slept over for the night and Sam was torn between feeling deep sadness for the recent injuries but happiness that he finally has his boyfriend in his arms, safe for the time being--or at least until the next morning when Castiel returned home.
He hated feeling helpless like he did that night, in the midst of Cas who was hurt so badly, but the kicker is that Sam still feels helpless.
There's still nothing he can do--nothing he can do to help Castiel, nothing he can do to stop his father from hurting him, nothing he can do to convince Cas to escape, to ask for help, to fight back, to do something so he's not just someone's punching bag.
When Castiel clears his throat, Sam realizes he's been staring for the past few minutes, obviously focused on the bruising on his wrists. Sam tears his eyes away to look at his boyfriend, to really look at him.
Castiel casts his eyes down, unable to meet Sam's gaze and his eyes are wet at the corners as he tries to hold it in.
Sam can think of a million things to say in that moment: "promise me you won't let them hurt you anymore," "let me protect you," "please call the police," "come stay with me." Any of these would cover a small facet of what Sam is feeling at the moment, but the only thing that comes out is:
"I love you."
It's the first time he's said it out loud, but certainly not the first time it's come across in their conversations--unsaid, through their small touches and gentle kisses.
Castiel squeezes his hand.
"I love you, too."