Work Text:
They wait mostly in silence. Work words only. And few of them.
Sam can hear the click of Castiel's throat occasionally, as if he wants to say something different, but hasn't pulled the right words together. It'll go better if he doesn't.
A squirrel streaks across the dark playground. It bounces from the dirt to the plastic slide, to somewhere beyond Sam's sight. Sam checks the side mirror for neighborly citizens who might be concerned by two grown men camped out after hours in the trees by a school playground. The street behind them is empty except for the flickering yellow light of a dying streetlamp. Sam cracks the knuckles of his left hand and lights up his watch.
C'mon, Bobby, he thinks. One last favor. Go down swinging, right?
Sam watches his own eyes dim in the window reflection as he goes where his memories are. He's deep in his own head, thinking about cranky old men that smell a little bit like what fathers are supposed to smell like, to the home where his brother's smile lines originally formed, so that's why he doesn't immediately notice when cold, chapped fingers make contact with his knuckles. Only when the fingers begin a rythmic stroking does Sam come back to himself.
It's like being very gently electrocuted.
Sam blinks, and looks down, frowning. The sleeve of Castiel's brown coat is pushed back to show the white cuff. The thin bones in Castiel's hand shift under his skin as he traces impercetible shapes, and the hairs on his wrist are standing on end. Instantly, Sam's arm hairs perk up in sympathy. He shivers. Castiel's whole hand comes down over his, conforms to Sam's shape and tries to break through the barrier of Sam's fingers.
Sam lifts his gaze sharply.
Castiel looks right back at him, silent and waiting, ancient stone but not nearly as cold.
Not this again.
Sam shifts inelegantly, and the movement of his knee knocks their hands apart. Sam looks away, out to the playground where they wait for Bobby to open the door to heaven. He hears Castiel sigh, and when Sam looks at him again,
Castiel has his head pressed awkwardly against the seat, and his eyes are narrow, lids nearly closed.
"Cas, man," Sam starts, but cuts off when Castiel snatches his hand again, viper quick.
"I understand," Cas says flatly, without moving his head. "No distractions. You've already explained that particular brand of human wisdom to me." And yet, when Sam tries to pull his hand away, Cas clutches convulsively, nails digging in. "Your hand is very warm, Sam. Do you think you could bare the distraction for just a moment?"
Sam opens his mouth. Tugs his hand.
"Please," Cas says.
Sam pauses. Knows better.
I don't understand, Castiel had said, his mouth still red, hands still grasping.
But Sam, he'd said, struggling to stay close, struggling to stay gentle, struggling to get something he wanted.
Castiel, who wasn't supposed to want things.
Sam clears his throat and shifts again. Knows better, but he's done a lot worse. He brings their joined hands to the seat by his thigh, allows his thumb to settle over Castiel's. Silently, like it's nothing, because that's exactly what it is. Cas huffs and sinks into the seat like the strings holding his shoulders up had snapped. Sams looks away quickly, in part to give Cas the privacy he deserves, and in part to keep Cas from seeing his face.
Even holding someone's hand quietly in the dark makes Sam feel tired and hollow boned. Like his skin is held on by duck tape. Only, Castiel is warming by the second. And it's just for a moment. It's just for a moment, or maybe two. And Castiel understands. They've had this conversation before. When Sam looks at him again, Castiel is looking at their hands intently, his lips parted. Sam feels Castiel's thumb reach out, make contact with the meat of his thigh through a tear in his jeans.
Sam's toes curl and it hurts.
It's too bad, Sam thinks. It's just too damn distracting.
Sam's not in the ground yet, and there is work to do.