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Poughkeepsie. Poughkeepsie. Poughkeepsiepoughkeepsiepoughkeepsie.
He knows it’s a word except maybe it’s not because it echoes strangely in his head, tastes like ash where it sits on his tongue, tastes like a lie, and he doesn’t remember why he’s thinking it but he knows that he should run, run, run. Drop everything and run, that’s what it means. He thinks that’s what it means, that he should get Dean and they should run. Or maybe Dean already ran. He doesn’t remember. He hopes Dean already ran. They’re in danger. Or is. Or is. Or is Dean the danger. No. No. Why would that—Poughkeepsie.
There’s a voice. It’s talking. Sam. Is he okay? What’s okay mean? Sam? His name, he’s pretty sure. Short for something. Names that are short for something. Someone’s in front of him. Castiel. Cas. Cas?
“Cas?” The angel. Different angel. Not the one in his head. Not anymore. Gone now. He left. Leaves? Left. Left like Cas is leaving. Don’t leave, Cas. But he has to. Noise outside. Dangerous noise. Their whole life is dangerous. That’s why he’s cuffed to a chair. Wait. Why is he cuffed?
Dean’s uncuffing him. Him? He. Wants to shift away. Can’t. Everything’s so hazy.
Dean. Angel. Possession. Angels need consent. Angels aren’t demons, even when they’re worse. Faith’s funny like that. Rules to be followed. Loopholes, though. Wearing Jess’ face. Coercion counts. That’s fucked up. Lucifer? Not real. This isn’t real. Cage. He’s in the Cage. New best torture yet. Lucifer is Dean and Dean is Lucifer. It’s not real. Or it is. Real. Might be worse. Worse if it’s real. Angels need consent. Didn’t say yes. Dean. The trials. Coma. Trick. What? Dean.
He’d say yes to Dean.
Nonononono.
More noise, more words, he doesn’t understand. His head throbs. Someone’s hands are on him. Poughkeepsie, he says but he doesn’t because his mouth can’t move. Still possessed? Head's empty. He's pretty sure. He’s pretty sure his mouth is slack-open. He should close it. Clench his jaw. Mess, he’s a mess, can’t afford to be a mess. Needs to pull himself together. He needs to reach down, needs to press his thumb into his scar, because it feels different, the pain feels different, stone number one. Where’s Dean? Dean wouldn’t do this. Dean does a lot and sometimes it hurts but Dean knows and so he wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t. Flash of dirty-blonde. Where’s Dean?
He needs to run but he can’t because he hurts he hurts he hurts. And there are hands. He doesn’t like the hands, but he thinks he needs them. Every touch is like a bruise. He thinks it’s Cas. It might be Cas. It’s probably Cas. Leading him out. Confusing. Why is? Why is it so?
Cold. Not like Lucifer-cold, this isn’t anything. Barely even cold. But cold enough. Wakes him up, just a little. He’s a researcher. Men of Letters. Man of Letters. Maybe. He wants. Wanted? Does he get to want? Point. There’s a point. Confusion. Research. Collecting data to fight off confusion. If it bleeds, you can kill it. If you know things, they can’t hurt you. So what does he know? Just go over what you know. Trials. Coma. Dying. Angel. Possession. Dean. Kevin. Oh, god, Kevin, no, no, no…
“Sam?” someone says and he looks up because that’s him. It’s Cas. He looks worried. “Are you alright?”
They’re on a bridge. He’s leaning against the rail. He doesn’t remember how they got here. Maybe they drove the Impala. There’s the smell of leather and Cas clicking the buckle of his seatbelt for him, but there’s a gap in his mind. A lot of those, lately. Knows why, now. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. Cas clicking his seatbelt. That’s funny. Very Cas. Maybe real?
Did they drive the Impala? Dean’s car. Everything is Dean’s. Everything.
Words are still hard. Less, now, but, still. “I, uh, I,” he tries but it takes him a minute. No one says anything. Dean’s hands are in his pockets. He’s not looking Sam in the eyes. Cas is. Cas is like that. He does things when they’re hard. Sometimes especially. Sometimes too much. Did he know? Sam wants to ask. Was he in on it? Is there anyone. Anyone that Sam can… is there anyone? “How did… did you both… how long has it…”
“‘Bout five months,” Dean says. Not whispering. Not yelling. Barely even says it.
“I was… dying. From the trials. And you… you tricked me? Both of you?” Not sure how he manages the words. They sound distant. Someone else. What was his name? Gadreel. Crowley said Gadreel. Crowley knows his mind now, too. Might know things that Sam doesn’t want other people to—that he doesn’t even… how could they how could they how could they—
Cas looks hurt. Sam wants to feel bad, say he’s sorry, knows he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything anymore, and if Dean could do it then anyone could do it. He doesn’t know. His head hurts. Pretty sure he had needles in his brain. Maybe that’s the reason. Maybe it’s a bunch of reasons. Maybe this isn’t real. He prays for it not to be real. Please, please, please let it not be real. Lucifer. Lightbringer. Too much light but he can handle it. If it was Lucifer he could handle it. But Dean. And Cas?
God’s never answered before.
“No, Sammy, it was just me. Let’s let Cas heal you up, okay? Then we can—” Dean starts to say what they can do but what they can do doesn’t matter because what they can do is really just what Dean can do and because his hand is on Sam’s arm and he wants it off, gone, go away, he can’t, please don’t, please. Jerks away. Doesn’t mean to.
His body isn’t his.
“No, tell me, you need to—I need to—tell me.”
Dean makes a sound like a sigh. Or someone does. It sounds like a Dean-sigh. Sam’s not looking anymore. He’s looking at a pebble near his feet. He wants to kick it with his shoe. Can’t move his foot. Can’t remember how.
“You were messed up after the trials, man. The doctor said… look, even if the machines kept you alive you’d’ve been dead. What was I supposed to do?”
He’s nauseous. It’s too much. He's nauseous. Doesn’t know what would come up. Doesn’t remember the last time he ate. If it was even him.
“I thought… you made me think... I.” I’m not even a person.
“Sammy, you were dying, okay? I know it sucks, but I did what needed to be done. I just… I didn’t expect this.”
"Five months…”
“Sam—”
“Dean,” gruff voice, somehow gentle. Cas again. “Why don’t you go check on the car?”
“The car? Cas, the car’s fi—” Sam doesn’t see what makes him stop. He imagines Cas giving him a look like the kind he would’ve when he was still following Heaven’s orders. A righteous warrior’s look. He knows Dean won’t do it. Dean’ll leave but he’ll do what he wants and if he doesn’t want to go to the car, he won’t go to the car. But Cas still gets him to go away. Sam’s grateful. A small and ridiculous thought like maybe Cas could protect him forms in the recesses of his mind, but he doesn’t want it. People protecting him doesn’t mean the same thing anymore. Maybe it never meant a good thing. He feels very small.
It feels like a long time before Cas says anything, but Sam can feel his eyes trying to decipher him, what he’s looking at it. The pebble’s right there. Sam doesn’t say anything. If he says something, that makes it real. He doesn’t say anything.
“Sam,” Cas says, slowly, with care, after someone-probably-knows-how-long. Cas always says his name like it’s a delicate thing that could break in the wrong mouth. Sam can’t decide if he likes it or not.
Sam doesn’t answer.
“May I heal you, Sam?” There’s a long pause. He knows he can trust Cas. He’s pretty sure. He kind of also never wants another angel near him again. That’s wrong. Cas is his friend. That’s wrong.
Vaguely, Sam thinks that this isn’t the kind of thing you come back from. Someone’s gonna leave. And Cas’ll pick Dean, Sam thinks, but he wishes that… he just. He could use someone. For awhile. Just for a little while. But Cas is an angel and that’s holy and damnable and he’ll pick Dean anyways. Everyone does.
“Sam?” Cas tries when he doesn’t answer, and Sam shakes his head, clearing it. Trying to clear it. Then he nods. He thinks he says ‘okay,’ but it sounds like he’s underwater. Cas makes a move with his hand that pours light over Sam’s face and he has to shut his eyes against the brightness of it, against the holiness. He thinks maybe he’s done with ‘holy.’ It hurts too much. Can he be done with it? He’d like to be done with it. He feels the warm trickles of blood on his face vanish. His face screws itself tight at the feeling. Pain isn’t new, but this is… well.
The fogginess isn’t gone, not totally, but Cas might’ve lifted some of it. Or maybe just the night air. Sam’s not really sure.
“You feel better?” Sam blinks and nods and doesn’t feel better. The pain is subsiding, at least a little, though, and he’s pretty sure that’s what Cas is asking. Cas says something. Something awkward and mechanical about stages of healing. Stages? That’s time. Stages means time. Sam nods. That’s time where Sam needs healing. More than now. Later. Cas is staying? That makes sense. He knows Cas rather wouldn’t. But Sam needs healing. And Cas will stay. Sam doesn’t think about that too long, though, because he sees Dean and Dean is watching them and coming back over and. Poughkeepsie. Part of him wants to run. He shifts on his feet a little. He’s not looking at the pebble.
“Alright, let me hear it,” Dean says and Cas walks away. Privacy. Human convention. Sam kind of misses when he didn’t get things like that. Maybe then he’d stay and Sam wouldn’t be alone with—with—
He doesn’t know what Dean is. To him. Not anymore. Maybe ever.
He shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I’m pissed?” Dean makes a face like for starters and so Sam says, “okay, I am. I’m pissed. You lied to me. Again.” And he means it but he doesn’t, that’s the problem but that’s not the only problem and he knows that there will be anger later but right now there’s really just anguish and this disconnect he doesn’t know what to make of and maybe it comes out like anger but that’s not what it feels like to him.
“I didn’t have a choice.” That’s… that’s… there are always choices… giving people choices is a choice… did Dean ever mean it? "Team Free Will." Did he ever? That was so long ago. And now the three of them are here.
“I was ready to die, Dean,” Sam says and he means it but he also means I wish I was dead and Can’t it just be over? Haven’t I done enough? There are things that… wouldn’t happen… people that… if he just…
“I know. But I wouldn’t let you. Because that’s not in me.”
“So what? You decide t-to trick me into being possessed by some... psycho angel?” He feels torment swell in his chest and his head shouldn’t hurt anymore but it still does and he can see his hand on Kevin’s forehead, burning out his eyes. He died thinking Sam betrayed him, failed him and maybe he did and that’ll haunt him forever.
“He saved your life.”
“So what?” So what so what so what so what. “I was willing to die,” he says again and Dean looks upset but he can’t care about that now because, because… “And now… Kevin, ” he says and he wishes this was the Cage. He wants to wake up now. For Lucifer to draw back the curtain and go back to the classics, where it hurts but he knows what’s real and what’s not. Please, Lucifer. Please.
“No, that is not on you,” Dean says and how can he, how can he, how can he say that, Sam remembers now, he watched it happen, and he’s not sure where the line where he ends and that angel begins is. “Kevin’s blood is on my hands. And that ain’t ever gettin’ clean. I’ll burn for that. I will.” And Sam smiles and tries not to think what about me, what about what you did to me? Because that’s selfish, but also, yeah. What about him? “But I will find Gadreel. And I will end that son of a bitch. But I’ll do it alone.”
Sam shakes his head, smiles, doesn’t understand. Does. He knew that someone was going to leave. He guessed it would be Dean. Hearing him say it, though, hearing him say that he’s going to leave Sam here to deal with this pain all by himself… for a second, despite himself, Sam just wants his big brother. Who wasn’t perfect but who was good. Who rode Sam to the hospital on the handlebars of a stolen red bicycle. He wants that big brother.
He wants, but he can’t have. He just… a very small, very quiet part of him wishes that Dean would just apologize and he could accept and then they'd forget this ever happened, but he knows that Dean won’t and that even if he did, it’s not that easy.
He plays along, but his mind is already going blank again. The clearness that the air provided for awhile is leaving him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks and only half-tries to listen. Dean says words like “poison” and “the right reasons” and “drag anybody through the mud” and Sam doesn’t understand, he has poison in him, the demon blood, but he’d still never—never. Nothing makes sense, none of Dean’s words, none of this world. He’s going to wake up tomorrow and this will have been a very bad dream. He’ll see Kevin in the kitchen and ask him how he’s doing and remind him to get some rest. Dean’ll make breakfast and Sam’ll make the coffee. It won’t be perfect but it will be simple and happy and that’s all he needs. That's enough.
He wishes he could make himself believe that.
“Go,” he says, because he can’t bear the thought of what Dean will do if he begs for Dean to stay like the child in him partly wants to. But he’s not a child. He has not been a child for a very long time. And if he asks Dean to stay and Dean leaves, he’ll break. If he asks Dean to stay and he stays, he’ll shatter. It’s better this way, but there's no winning. “I’m not gonna stop you,” he tells him, but when Dean turns away, for a moment, he needs for him to know, needs him to understand. “But don’t go thinking that’s the problem, ‘cause it’s not.” To his own ears, it sounds like he’s holding back tears. He won't. Can't. Won't cry. Not now. Not yet.
Dean doesn’t turn around but he does ask what it means and Sam can’t tell him, he realizes now, because if he can’t realize it for himself then nothing will ever get any better. It might not. It might not be going to. Get better.
He doesn’t want better. He wants silence. He wants nowhere. He wants peace. “Just go,” he says and Dean does. Cas ventures back over. Sam wonders how much he heard. If he was trying not to listen. Human convention. Has its appeal. Dean walks away, takes their car, his car, and drives off to somewhere Sam can’t follow. Cas watches after him. Sad. Stays with Sam, but sad about it. Or just sad. Sam would check, would look to see, but he’s looking down.
He can’t find the pebble.
Eventually, the Impala must fade and Cas looks away. Looks back at Sam. That deciphering gaze. Sam wishes he wouldn’t. Try to decipher. He would rather not be known.
“We should get back to the Bunker,” Cas says. “You need to rest." Cas makes a face like he’s sorry. Like Sam’s distressed. Is he that obvious? Too tired to pretend, so, yeah, probably. “Sam—”
“Cas, ‘s fine.” He tries to stand a little straighter, swaying in the process. Cas reaches to steady him but hesitates.
“Sam, are you alright?” So many times. He’s heard. So many times. Alright. Alright. He needs to be. Alright. Yes. He’s supposed to say yes. Like saying yes to Dean. He doesn’t like yes, but he doesn’t get a no. Instead, he tries for. Something. Funny? It’s not. But it is, a little.
"Yeah, I-I’ll live,” he tries and gets most of the way through but his voice breaks on the ‘v’ and the dam breaks and the word comes out on a sob, he's sobbing but it’s not him, it’s someone else, someone who does this sort of thing in front of other people, not him. He’s sobbing because he will live and he doesn’t want that. He’s sobbing because Cas does reach for him, and it’s not a hug, it’s more like he’s holding Sam up because he can’t do it himself, and Sam’s sobbing because it bruises but it’s a good bruise, a steady pressure, and he’s not sure if he wants Cas to stop or to not ever let go. Cas is saying things, things Sam doesn’t hear, but for a moment he lets himself imagine that he’s humming ‘Hey, Jude.’ But that’s Dean’s, too.
He isn’t sure how long they stand there like that. He isn’t sure that he’ll ever feel anything that isn’t this. He isn’t even sure that this is real. But one thing he knows, one thing that he’s finally beginning to understand after years and years and years, is that he wasn’t ever meant to come back, even if he did. He's pretty sure he did. He's positive he shouldn't have. His story should have ended. There. Should be in the Cage. Forgotten memory. Would’ve. Would’ve been better. Would’ve been better for everyone. He would have hurt and hurt and hurt for eternity, but eventually, he would have become the pain and it would have been mindless, and at least in the Cage there was no hope to be yanked away.
Poughkeepsie, he thinks. Poughkeepsie.
But where’s he supposed to run?