Chapter Text
Research was something he couldn’t avoid, all his life, from 14 to 25 he’d been drinking triple red eyes in the library, looking through ancient books that smelt like home just as much as the Impala or Dean did. It was an important job, Bobby taught him that, while Dean was outside shooting for practice to get out of helping.
Sam diving into tomes and manuals, watching Bobby tell innumerable hunters on the other side of the phone things that saved their lives, saved other people, killed monsters. Falling asleep on Bobby’s couch with pages still open in his lap, waking up in the morning a blanket that hadn’t been there that night over his shoulders. “You did a good job yesterday Sam.” Bobby told him as he slid the leftover piece of bacon onto his plate, much to Deans annoyance.
Sam probably would have given it to Dean if they were alone, but Bobby sat with them, in his dusty warm kitchen. Worn table under hand, thinning curtains keeping out the early sun. Back before Sam’s feet met the floor from his seat.
It was the best bacon he’d ever had.
And even though he didn’t have to at Stanford, didn’t have to without a case, he did. What else could he possibly do with his time? His dad had trained him to be a hunter his whole life and hate it as he did, it was in him; his one hobby. That had been how he’d gotten into true crime, it was a pretty easy transition, just less monsters, more court cases. It fed into pre-law pretty easily.
And he researched prayer, every type he could, Angels, God, Gods, creation. It turned into just as much of an obsession, without his brother to poke-fun behind his shoulder.
He’d bookmarked and written in the margins of Milton’s Paradise so much he had barely been able to read it. That research had become a prayer in itself. Of course you can’t just have faith. You have to know everything about it first don’t you? Think Dean will be hunting an Angel sometime?
Hindsight, what a joke.
He’d left Milton in Stanford, in that burnt out apartment, just a few feet from Jess, he wondered where it had been donated – if it had survived at all. Who was reading his annotations, his note’s? How crazy did they think he was? Writing hunters notes out of habit in the margins.
It’d been three years. To the day. Since the fire, since he last saw Jess.
That was when he met an Angel of The Lord.
When he heard about Castiel it had hurt a little, Dean had been so adamantly against Sam’s faith, so unimpressed – it was a hard pill to swallow that Dean was chosen by Heaven, saved for a purpose. All while Sam was trying to defeat Lilith the only way he knew how. Praying for forgiveness on it every night. He loved Dean though. He was glad he was back. So grateful for that heavenly intervention.
He’d prayed to Castiel, two nights after he’d heard about him. Hello, uh Angel Castiel… this is Sam Winchester. Thank you, for saving Dean, thank you. Please keep looking over him – I know Dean said you were but… it doesn’t feel right to just expect that of you. So thank you. It’s uh- I- Thank you for bringing my brother back, and for looking over him. Amen.
So when Sam pulled out his gun, ready to shoot an Angel of the Lord in their motel room, and Dean had had to stop him, what else could he do but freeze up, get anxious. The weight of an Angels eyes meeting his at those words; “Sam! Sam, wait! It’s Castiel.”
It’s Castiel.
“The Angel.” He added, pushing down the gun.
Like he needed to say that. Of course it was the Angel, the Angel he’d prayed to for Deans protection, the Angel he was definitely grinning at like an idiot.
The Angel.
Dean said something else, but it was what Castiel said that Sam heard.
“Hello, Sam.”
In response to the most wonder and awe Sam had ever had towards anything, in response to faith manifest. Hello, Sam. And faith incarnate knew his name. With a gentle, hum of a throat; Hello Sam.
He immediately wanted to flinch inward at the thought that maybe Castiel had heard his prayers, of course he probably knew his name already – in whatever way it was that Heaven must know all – but it was somehow and suddenly the worst feeling to know that Castiel may have heard him. That someone was listening; someone who could look into his eyes and hear him.
Prayers felt private, felt like an escape. But Castiel caught him: staring right into his eyes with the fascination of someone looking at a painting that they had already seen and understood for a thousand years. As if he had toured this gallery for millennia.
What did that painting look like? The Knight of the Holy Grail. Waugh or something. So full of light and benevolent distance, man kneeling before Heaven, unreachable even within reach. But here was one of Gods’ Angels, here in Sam’s motel, who hadn’t smote him when he’d ignorantly pointed his useless gun at him. There were no wings. No white glow. No parting clouds. No looming height. Castiel was a little shorter than him, about the same height as Dean. A familiar height.
“Oh my God”
His response was so knee-jerk he could kick himself; how could that be the first thing he said to an Angel? That wasn’t the thing you first said to an Angel. Or maybe it was? Maybe when Jacob first saw the man at daybreak by the stream, he started that fight with those words. Who knows what Mary, or Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, or Daniel had said… but probably not ‘Oh my God’.
“er – uh – I didn’t mean to – sorry.” He tried to collect himself well enough to say anything that meant something, to keep the moment, to let an Angel know what it meant to even see him, to even know he was real. “It’s an honour, really, I – I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Maybe it was some form of sincere awkwardness, passed down from shaking so many hands with a fake badge at the ready that he stepped forward, and outstretched his hand to the Angel.
But the intention almost immediately turned as he did it, without even realising. Because what was so instinctual for Sam, was not – for whatever reason – the case for Castiel. His hand stayed alone between them for too long. It had suddenly become a test: was Sam worthy of touching an Angel?
Dean had been held, gripped tight and raised from perdition, but Sam?
Sam knew what that difference was. It was the reason Dean could say less than ten prayers in his life and Sam had said more than a hundred, the reason Sam was working with a demon and his brother had been rescued by Heaven.
When Sam lifted his eyes to meet the Angels, all these conclusions pushing in on him. He saw Castiel studying him, gently and curiously, head tilting like a bird. He wondered if the Angel saw all of that pass through Sam’s mind, or if he’d heard Sam’s prayer, or heard all of Sam’s prayers, directed to Castiel or not. How much of Sam had Castiel gathered in the centimeters between his hand and Castiel’s.
He felt his hand twitch, pleadingly silent.
The Angel’s mouth flickered, edging on saying something. He took his hand. Solid and calm.
Sam wasn’t burnt up from the inside for his impurity, he didn’t crumble under the hand’s strength.
“And I, you.” Castiel looked at him, right in the eyes. Like he was gauging the reaction, what he should do next. Such a human reflex Sam was almost taken aback. He was hesitating, just as he did before he took Sam’s hand; he was choosing the right words to say.
“Sam Winchester;” a deep graveling voice, the voice of Heaven. The hand of an Angel in his, soft and un-calloused against Sam’s worn palm, his second hand, coming up to cradle Sam’s altogether. As if to soften the blow of what he next said, “The boy with the demon blood.” It felt like ice creeping up in his lungs.
“Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities.” Even as Castiel’s other hand had closed around Sam’s, as comforting and as kind a gesture it was, as much as he could see a genuine gaze meet his as the Angel spoke, he enjoyed that moment of comfort for a brief second before the realization of what those words meant hit him.
He was unworthy of shaking an Angel’s hand, and Castiel had lowered himself to doing it. Even with all of the godly kindness he had mustered in his eyes, Castiel was right. Sam had been trying and trying and he was still tainted and damned.
“Let’s keep it that way.” The other added, colder than Castiel.
Sam tried his best to keep track, listen, focus throughout the following conversation.
He tried not to feel the residual hum in his hand from where the Angel had touched him, encasing his hand in that golden television static; maybe he could feel that, feel it still, for the same reason he could sense demons. But that had to be wrong. Demon blood in his cursed veins, sitting in his cursed stomach — that was damnation.
Maybe the hum was the small amount of Castiel’s angelic energy he could get from the Angel’s hand fighting and burning at the demon blood inside him. And that glimmering warmth was just the microcosm version of the forces of Heaven and earth fighting inside his body. The thought made him so uneasy, made his stomach sway, but it was not unflattering. It was just that.
But maybe that’s what everyone felt from Angel hands. Maybe that’s what Dean had felt, a-hundred-fold, on his shoulder, on that hand-print.
“And is the witch dead?” Castiel seemed to ask the same question for the fifth time before Sam was pulled out of his head long enough to respond.
“No, but-”
“We know who it is.” Dean interrupted him, letting Sam remain holding his hands together, clutching his right with the left. Feeling the hum in his palm and along his knuckles.
“Do you know where the witch is now?” Dean looked at Sam, it was hard to focus with his hand humming.
“We’re working on it.” Dean said turning back.
They were working on one of the seals, Sam had only been able to get that much before the conversation went in circles again.
“This witch is very powerful; she’s cloaked even our methods.”
“Okay,” Sam offered, trying to be focused and helpful, “well we already know who she is, so if we work together-,” it was useless. Uriel, the other Angel, and Dean were puffing at each other again in seconds.
“You – uh,” Castiel corrected himself, glancing at Sam again, “both of you – you need to leave this town immediately.”
But it was enough for Sam to feel the full weight of their handshake meeting again.
“Why?” Dean was still focused as ever. Not hit with the heavenly impact of everything the other two said.
“Because we’re about to destroy it.” Castiel’s warm rumbling tone pulled him back in again though.
“So this is your plan, you’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?” Dean was talking, jumping to conclusions. Because this had to be a mistake. They couldn’t be serious.
“We’re out of time. This witch has to die, the seal must be saved.” Castiel seemed so sure, desperate but sure.
“There are a thousand people here.” Sam tried, one of them would stop, turn to the other with shock, and start working with them. Try to save people.
They did not.
“One thousand two hundred fourteen.” Uriel confirmed.
“And you’re willing to kill them all?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve… purified a city.” Sam was struck, as Uriel spoke, with a reminder of Meg, grinning over the brothers, waiting for John to show. ‘I’ve killed a whole lot more for a whole lot less.’
“Look,” There was Castiel, choosing words carefully again, “I understand this is regrettable.”
“Regrettable?” Dean was at it again, Castiel was returning the favour this time. Staring at Dean with a withering gaze. Sam felt a modicum of gratitude pass over him – at least when the Angel had stared into Sam’s eyes and openly spoken of his demon blood damnation it had been with gentler eyes than that.
“We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die.” Sam was pleading, Castiel’s eyes still on his brother, then turned to Uriel as the other spoke.
“We're wasting time with these mud monkeys.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam wanted to believe Castiel’s voice, the genuine apology there, the attempt, “but we have our orders.”
“No, you can’t do this, you’re Angels, I mean aren’t you supposed to-” Sam was pleading again. “You’re supposed to show mercy.”
Castiel was still. Uriel scoffed.
“Says who?”
“We have no choice.” Castiel tried, against more of Deans confident anger, the same anger Sam had seen him use for any asshole, now directed to the Angel that raised him from Hell, “Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just.”
“How can you even say that?”
“Because it comes from Heaven, that makes it just.”
Jacob wrestled the Angel and was blessed. He’d fought and prevailed against Heaven’s hand. He was blessed for it. Re-named. Hip-pain, bruises, and all, at the end he was still blessed. He and Dean had just won, well, Dean had. He had, without much effort or change to his general approach, convinced them to give them a chance. A chance to save lives.
So why did Sam feel less blessed than he ever had in his life? He didn’t have to ask, really. He knew why. He pushed the back of his head into the seat and weakly slumped it down again.
“What?” Dean interrupted his thoughts.
“Nothing.” His hand still buzzed golden where Castiel had touched it, even rolling the hex bag in his palm he couldn’t distract from it. He knew Dean would stare at him till he said something, and if he didn’t then he’d roll his eyes and drive off, giving up on him. He sighed, “I thought they’d be different.”
“Who, the Angels?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t really want to have this conversation with Dean.
“Well, I tried to tell you.” His tone had Sam weighing up the benefits of actually bringing it up.
“I just…” he shrugged, curling inward. He was a kid again, talking to Dean about one of the many things he cared about that Dean ruled off as stupid, but he gave in, “I mean, I thought they’d be righteous.”
Dean tried, talking about righteousness as an all-around bad, an asshole thing to have. It would have made sense, a great amount of sense really. But…
“But, I mean, this is God? And Heaven? This is what I’ve been praying to?”
“Look man, I know you’re into the whole ‘God thing’,” an understatement so deeply characteristic of his brother, “Jesus on a tortilla, stuff like that.” Very Dean. “Just because there’s a couple of bad apples doesn’t mean the whole barrel’s rotten. I mean, for all we know, God hates these jerks. Don’t give up on this stuff, is all I’m saying. Babe Ruth was a dick but baseball’s still a beautiful game.” Sam knew as much as he was being a kid again, Dean was in full big brother mode, like he was trying to keep Sam’s chin up after some kid at school ripped one of his books up. This time he guessed Dean probably wasn’t going to give them a black eye the next day for good measure though.
Maybe it was the feeling-damned-already after talking to Castiel that pushed him to do it. If it could save people. If he was just ‘the boy with the demon blood’ to Heaven even after he tried so hard, even though they had just met, even though Sam had prayed to him and prayed to God. Maybe it didn’t really matter. Damned to Dean, damned to Heaven, there wasn’t really a difference.
Uriel still wanted him to know, personally, how deeply he had fucked up in the eyes of God.
“Tomorrow. November 2nd, it’s an anniversary for you, right?”
Sam hadn’t needed that reminder. He knew. He felt that date looming every year, he couldn’t help it. Uriel was picking at his strings, trying to get to him. Trying to get him to admit he was wrong.
He wondered if Milton was right, if Uriel really had unknowingly led Lucifer to the earth, if he was the “sharpest sighted spirit in all of Heaven”. If that was true, if after all that he had still gone on to smite as many cities as he claimed to? Did he feel like he had done enough already? Or maybe Milton was wrong.
“The only reason you’re still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you’ve been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true, the second you become more trouble than you’re worth, one word. One, and I will turn you to dust.” A flush of air and he was gone.
He knew that already.
It was still hard to hear.