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Sam stands at the metal railing and looks up at the people on the fair ride swinging rapidly by. The Kettenkarussell the German’s call it--the chain-carousel--and Sam takes a moment to puzzle over how and why he would know such a thing. Then he shrugs and tilts his head to keep his eyes out of the sun, blinking at an afterimage floating like an amoeba through his vision to watch the screaming people overhead rush by like they’re flying. Most of them scream so loudly, but they don’t sound afraid and that doesn’t seem quite right to him. But then they’re just people, civilians, not angels. They don’t know any better.
This morning the apartment was freezing cold again, so cold Sam could taste his breath chilling his own saliva on his tongue. The little silver dollar sized disk of melted blue glass that Castiel left on his nightstand the first time he fell asleep in Sam’s bed was missing from the watch pocket of Sam’s discarded jeans from the day before and he knows Dean took it. He knows it because of how cold the apartment is every day now. Because of the ectoplasm he finds leaving rings on his kitchen table under his coffee cup in the morning, and the way Sam can’t open a door without worrying that it’ll be ripped out of his hand and slammed. Because Dean’s finally stopped leaving his messages and answers on the paper stuffed in the locks.
Sam’s getting the silent treatment, except it’s not been very quiet for a long time. He could tell Dean that it’s nothing, that it’s just sleep and they’re just friends, but he doesn’t have to tell Dean anything. Dean knows. He knows that it may be just sleep, but they’re not just friends, so Sam doesn’t say a word. He cleans up Dean’s mess and goes about his day like always, searching for bones when it’s not Friday and Bobby might visit.
Except he brings home less and less bones every day and more and more chunks of melted bottle glass. He’s started keeping some of them and they fill up his pockets, then fill up vases, cups, and ashtrays all over the apartment. The sun through the sheets tacked over the windows catch light off of them each morning and prisms that make Sam think of angels, think of Castiel kneeling by him in the ashes, dance on the walls.
It’s the cold that drives him out of the house most mornings now, not the silence.
A familiar hand on Sam’s shoulder draws his attention from the people screaming by on the swing carousel to find Castiel’s bright, knowing eyes staring back at him. He frowns and rolls his shoulder to shrug his hand off.
“What do you want?” Sam asks, shifting his gaze back up to the ride.
“Always, you ask that,” Castiel says, a touch of amusement in his voice.
“Yeah, well you always think it’s funny that I ask that,” Sam says, lips quirking with his own amusement.
“That answer hasn’t changed,” Castiel says.
Sam nods. “Why are you here?” he asks. “That one changes sometimes,” he adds.
Castiel holds up his hand to show Sam the round chunk of light blue glass between his finger and thumb.
“I thought Dean took it,” Sam says, putting out his hand for it.
Castiel smiles and gives it to him. “He did,” he says. “I took it back. He was not… pleased.”
Sam sighs and returns the piece of glass to his pocket. “He’s never pleased,” he says. “I keep thinking… maybe I’ll ask Chuck about it. He might know why.”
Castiel smiles faintly and tilts his head back to look up at the people overhead. The ride is coming to a stop and they slowly descend as it does. “I think you know why,” Castiel says.
Sam’s eyes narrow as he looks at him, but he doesn’t respond. After a minute, he says, “Is it like that, really?” He points up at the swings. “Flying, I mean.”
Castiel chuffs out a soft laugh. “No,” he says. “It’s more like sitting still.”
“Sitting still,” Sam repeats. “Really?”
“Well, not exactly,” Castiel says. “It’s like sitting still in silence. It’s like… hmm. Like stars rushing through you and soft sugar in your mouth. Like the color of the sky without an ocean to reflect it.”
“What color is that?” Sam asks. He suddenly realizes that they’ve lowered their voices and drawn close together, like it’s a secret they’re sharing, an intimate one. He considers stepping back, then doesn’t. “What color is the sky without the ocean?”
“No color,” Castiel says.
“Is it like kissing?” Sam asks and there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes that lets Castiel know he’s teasing.
Castiel raises his brows and blinks at him. “I have no idea,” he says. “I don’t believe so.”
Sam stands away from the rail around the swing carousel and steps in close to Castiel as he turns. Castiel looks down, considering his nearness with a little frown of confusion.
“What?” Sam says.
“I remember being told this was called personal space,” he says. “Or rather, the invasion of it.”
Sam grins down at him and takes another step until he can feel the heat of Castiel’s body through their clothes. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asks.
“Not at all, I’m very comfortable,” Castiel says, calmly returning his gaze to Sam’s face.
“Okay then,” Sam says. He puts his hands on Castiel’s face, cupping his jaw and coaxing him to tip his head back. Slowly, he lowers his head and brushes his lips over Castiel’s.
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks. His voice is lowered and a little rough when he speaks, but the question is merely curious.
“I was going to kiss you,” Sam says, watching him for any indication that he shouldn’t.
“Didn’t you tell me that angel kisses don’t mean anything?” Castiel asks.
“Yeah,” Sam says.
A girl bumps his arm a little as she pushes past them to get in line for the swing carousel and Sam shifts against Castiel to move them away from the people more. When his hip bumps the railing, Castiel puts his hand on Sam’s chest and lightly pushes to stop him.
“Alright, look,” Sam says. He’s still holding Castiel’s face in his hands, fingers gently caressing along his jaw, and Castiel endures it with calm patience. “Look, can I kiss you?”
“I don’t see why not,” Castiel says.
Sam makes an amused sound in his throat at his answer. “Even if it doesn’t mean anything?”
“I told you that wasn’t true,” Castiel says. “Not of me.”
Sam frowns at that, not sure what to make of it or what Castiel’s really telling him, but whatever it is, it seems to mean yes, so he drops his head again and presses his mouth to Castiel’s. Castiel catches his breath at the contact, which parts his lips, and Sam presses his tongue inside, over his teeth, cautiously tasting and gauging his reaction. When Castiel mimics him and lightly presses the tip of his tongue to Sam’s, Sam takes it as encouragement and licks inside his mouth, deepening the kiss.
In the back of Sam’s mind, there is a place full of death where the ghost of his brother lingers and will not lay down. There’s a cold shore of bone dust and a sky with no ocean to make it blue. Everything tastes like stars breaking and glass shining and he knows how broken he is because he’s running his tongue over his own broken pieces as he kisses Castiel. It makes Sam wonder what Castiel tastes in his mouth, what he feels when he slips his hand around Sam’s neck and gets his fingers caught in his un-brushed hair. He would ask, but he’s afraid to know. Afraid to be the nothing color of the sky for him.
Sam finally breaks the kiss when a girl screaming shrilly over their heads startles him. He looks up at the swings, then back at Castiel, who is still right there, his expression curious and a little stunned as he breathes heavily, trying to catch his breath. Absurdly pleased with the angel’s reaction, Sam smiles at him.
“So?” Sam says.
Castiel frowns. “So?” he repeats.
“So is it?” Sam asks.
“Like flying?” Castiel asks. “No.”
Sam considers this, then steps back from him, catches his wrist in one hand, and starts tugging him through the people.
“Where are we going?” Castiel asks, following him anyway.
“We’re going to buy some cotton candy,” Sam says. “Then we’re going to try it again.”
XXX