Chapter Text
Blood, blood, blood.
Sam was punching the cold, concrete floor, his knuckles growing raw and fleshy, a futile attempt to distract himself from the pounding in his head. Not to mention the desperation, a familiar feeling. The cravings were just getting worse. Pulling him to kill, fall back into the dark pit of addiction. That brutal existence he lived for months.
Flashes of red, dripping red, were pushed to the front of his mind; More desperation. There was an urge to bite into his arm, just to feel the warm liquid running down his chin again. He couldn’t even delude himself into believing it was just about getting stronger this time.
A little bit of bile swam up his throat and out of his mouth, crimson red vomit dripping down his lip. His throat was burning and he could taste the iron in between his teeth.
Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. He could hear what he presumed to be Dean and Castiel arguing, maybe Bobby too. Probably about him. A pang of guilt shot up his spine. Accompanied by some barely suppressed rage. As much as Sam understood why they were keeping him locked up here, that didn’t make him any less furious. He let out a shaky breath as the sound of the big iron door unlocking hit his ears.
Standing in the open doorway was Castiel, looking completely and utterly solemn. His trench coat, freshly laundered.
As he approached, a gleam of light bounced off of something silver and caught Sam’s eye.
It was the angel blade. Despite the fact it was built to kill seraphs, Sam presumed it's strange, triple edged design would probably be just as unforgiving when stabbing and mangling the guts of a human.
He guessed that was probably why Cas was here. Fate had finally come for him. There was an impulse to pray to some sort of higher being, but one of the highest was standing right in front of him, preparing to strike him down; Worst of all, it was exactly what he deserved.
They had all given him a second chance, against better judgement, and he still couldn’t resist when it mattered most. Whatever came next, was just the consequences of his actions.
Sam sat up on the bed. Hanging his head in shame. His hair, lightly brushed to one side, leaving the nape of his neck exposed, a wordless request for Cas to at least do it painlessly.
Once Castiel was standing above him, Sam winced, expecting the sharp sting of pain. Instead, he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder.
He hesitantly looked up to see Castiel stoic-faced and still brandishing the blade.
Despite his flat demeanour, he now looked completely unthreatening.
Castiel very deliberately positioned his arm in front of Sam’s eyes. And drew one of the blade’s sharp edges across his own skin, cleaving the two sides apart to reveal a tiny bit of the dermis lying beneath. The pink flesh was quickly covered up by beads of red as they slid down his arm.
Sam salivated at the sight.
“Drink.”
The request was terse and simple, but he was still taken aback.
“Now.” Cas wasn’t kidding.
Sam complied.
He closed his eyes, pretending he didn’t have his mouth locked around an angel’s arm. But, his mind quickly moved on as his tongue hit the bright crimson liquid, and the unquenchable thirst that broils in his soul momentarily lessened. He had almost forgotten where he was, who he was really with, until an unfamiliar flavour began to emerge; Something almost sweet, airy. It was like nothing he’d ever had before.
Just as his head had finally stopped pounding, Castiel pulled his arm away, much to Sam’s chagrin, and nonchalantly rolled his sleeves back down. Sam inadvertently leaned forward, slack-jawed, with his eyes half closed. He was still riding the high, and his brain didn’t want that feeling to fade.
Cas’ face was completely inscrutable. “I’ll come back to provide more tomorrow,” It was said completely matter-of-factly.
“Does that mean I have to stay down here overnight?” Sam said.
Castiel frowned. “You’ll be lucky if it’s just one night.”
Arguing seemed pointless, and tiring.
Sam looked around awkwardly, unsure of what to say next. Castiel took Sam’s silence as his cue to leave. One flap of his shadowy wings, and he was gone.
Sam touched his chin, and his hand came away wet, there was some leftover blood smeared across his mandible. Castiel’s blood. Castiel had to cut himself open just to try and fix another one of Sam’s stupid mistakes.
A growling noise erupted from his stomach as it twisted with guilt, and hunger. The quick fix had already worn off and his body had started fighting for more. He licked his face clean, but it still didn’t feel like enough.
Forcing himself to lie down and get some kind of rest seemed like the best course of action.
Eventually, through the nausea and aching, exhaustion took him. For most of his life, sleep had been a respite from anything painful. But those past few years, it was all bad dreams, frantic and unwavering. Whether it was the demon blood, or stress, or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that this night was no different.
He was running from something formless and unearthly, through endless corridors and identical doorways. He found himself yelling for Dean, tears running down his face. A muscle in his leg suddenly seized and he hit the floor with a resounding thud. Pain radiated out from every inch of his body, and whatever was chasing him finally caught up.
Sam awoke in a cold sweat. All his limbs were aching from the cheap bed Bobby had provided. He lazily stood up and cracked his back, almost forgetting for a moment what his life had become.
Reality snapped back into place as three knocks echoed through the panic room. He hoped it was Dean, ready to let him out, to look him in the eyes again.
Lo and behold, Dean sauntered through the doorway. His expression didn’t seem to convey what Sam was wishing for though.
“Good mornin’ Sammy.” He shot Sam a wary smile, it was laced with a little bit of fear.
“Good morning to you too,” Sam paused. “Is something going on?”
“Not exactly. I’m just wondering, Cas said he’d help you, heal you. Bobby and I didn’t really like what he described, but it wasn’t really a discussion,” Dean was rambling, dancing around whatever he was really trying to say.
“Yeah, he came by yesterday, right before I slept. What are you trying to ask?” It came out snappier than Sam had intended.
“I’m just wondering, did it work, or are you still feeling all ‘Near Dark’?”
“Not funny,” Sam crossed his arms. “And no I don’t think it did. I mean I guess I’m not really freaking out so much anymore, but-”
“Hey! That’s something.” He looked completely unconvinced by his own words. Dean’s faux smile broke into a sombre one as he continued. “And, y’know I promised Dad I’d take care of you and so that’s what I’m gonna do. You’ll be fine, you’ve gotta be.”
They both knew that wasn’t what John had meant, but Sam didn’t push.
One awkward wave later and Dean was out the door, back into the real world, leaving Sam in his own little personal prison.
He ran his hands through his hair, and for a second, he had the urge to yank one right out of his scalp. A terrible habit he had developed as an anxiety-riddled teen, a habit he thought he’d fully kicked.
Apparently, today was all about Sam’s incredibly weak sense of self-control.
Even Castiel, a creature of unimaginable power, had only turned to greasy food and burger meat under Famine’s influence. Sam was something inhuman; Broken and unclean, destined for anything and everything vile. It felt utterly hopeless.
So he prayed. He did it rather flippantly, not caring to put his heart and soul into whatever religious murmurs rolled past his lips. More of a habit than a genuine attempt to contact God. But, it started morphing into something deeper. A prayer to Cas. It was an apology, and a little bit of a call for help too.
As he unclasped his hands and whispered a final ‘Amen’, dust particles started dancing in the light and a familiar whoosh rang through the room. Castiel appeared right in front of him.
Sam felt the need to explain himself, come up with some kind of excuse for why he was reciting bible verses in Cas’s name, but he just sat and stared.
“Sorry for the delay,” Castiel couldn’t seem to look Sam in the eye, but was sporting a small smile. “Let’s get started, Sam.”
Sam nodded a little too enthusiastically. Standing up straight from the creaky old bed, his eyes grew wide and shiny. And, as Castiel rolled his sleeves up, the cotton folding and wrinkling at odd angles, he even licked his lips a little.
Then, with a deft hand, Cas conjured the blade from his trench coat pocket and laid it against his arm once again. His pale skin was completely unblemished by yesterday's session.
The blank slate was soon marred by a quick slice of the flesh.
His blade seemed to dig a little deeper this time, as a small beam of blue light spilled out before the blood began to pour.
Sam required no prompting, and quickly got on his knees. He latched himself onto Castiel’s arm, careful not to let his tongue bother the edges of the wound. An animalistic part of him wanted to bite down, draw more of the blood out and into his mouth. He shivered a little at the impulse.
Once again, those undertones of sugar found their way to Sam’s taste buds. He savoured the moment, and the flavour. There was always a background of bitterness with Ruby, the iron covering up something he didn’t want to taste, but with Cas, Sam revelled in whatever laid beneath. It didn’t make him feel any stronger, quite the opposite in fact; But it felt right; Righteous even.
After a few short minutes, Castiel put his palm to Sam’s forehead and slowly pushed him away. The whole thing seemed completely calculated on his end. Show up, feed Sam, leave, repeat.
Sam couldn’t help but see it differently, like a religious experience. He was getting cleansed from the inside out, at least he hoped he was. Hoped he could be.
As Sam relished in the quickly fading feeling of fullness, Castiel started wiping the last of his divine blood from Sam’s chin with a gentle swipe of the trench coat sleeve. Sam initially recoiled at the tender action, but relented at Castiel’s insistence.
“Your healing is going better than I could have hoped.” Castiel said.
Sam had no idea how Cas could have surmised that from a few minutes in a room together, but he wasn’t wrong. His brain had stopped screaming for blood so incessantly, and his legs weren’t even shaking until he keeled over. He wasn’t fixed or fully cured, like Dean wanted him to be, but he was better; At least marginally.
“I think, y’know, I feel I’m good enough to-”
“No.” Castiel’s reply was resolute.
“C’mon Cas, I can’t leave, even just to shower, or sleep in a real bed?”
He shook his head. “It’s non-negotiable, you’re still a risk.”
With that, Castiel turned around and left. There was no pageantry or flourish to the action, not even a goodbye. He was just there, and then he wasn’t. Sam winced, slightly embarrassed by the air of rejection to Cas’ last comment.
Just as he had started to trace the sigils and runes scattered around the room out of pure boredom, Castiel reappeared suddenly. His eyebrows were pointing downwards, mouth twisted into a scowl. If Sam didn’t know better he’d say that Cas looked guilty. Or at least whatever an angel’s approximation of human guilt is.
“Tomorrow,” Castiel said.
“Tomorrow?” Sam questioned.
“I’ll talk to Dean and Bobby about letting you out, in a supervised manner. You’ll need to eat soon anyways.”
Sam smiled, “Thanks, I mean it.”
Castiel’s face softened. “Well, it would be regrettable if you died of starvation after all the trouble I’ve gone through healing you.”
“Sentimental as ever, Cas.”
And just like that, the angel was gone, for good this time.
Now that food had been mentioned, Sam couldn’t stop thinking about how empty his stomach was. It was less of a concern when he was busy screaming for help and banging on the panic room’s floor in a fit of withdrawal, but now he was just bored; Bored, and hungry for something that wasn’t red and oozing.
There were a few magazines provided, but none of them seemed worth reading. It felt difficult to care about whatever new celebrity drama was brewing when they were on the precipice of the apocalypse.
As for the food issue, water was as good of a substitute as any for the moment. Unfortunately, Bobby hadn’t restocked since Sam’s last stay.
“Dean!”
After a few minutes of nothing, he heard hesitant footsteps behind the door, and the peephole slid open.
“You doin’ alright Sammy?”
“Mostly, I’m super thirsty though,” He put on his strongest puppy-dog eyes.
Dean looked down and sighed. “Fine, but if this is a trick, and you do some water voo-doo or something to get yourself out, I will be so friggin mad.”
Sam scoffed.
A few minutes later, Dean was back with a fresh jug of water.
Sam chugged it in just a few big gulps, accidentally spilling a little down his shirt. The water was about as refreshing as a drink in a jail cell could be. Which is to say, not very refreshing at all.
But it was better than nothing.
“Man, you were thirsty.”
“To say the least,” Sam wiped his lips dry with the collar of his shirt.
Dean opened his mouth, clearly intending to say something more, but he just pulled a face and stared into the dark, dirty room.
Without warning, the peep-hole closed, and Sam heard the unmistakable sound of Dean crying. It was a wheezy cry, the kind that only comes out when you’ve been holding it back for far too long. A tidal wave of emotion.
The sound moved further away until it was drowned out by the kind of creaks and screeches that reverberated through any relatively old and well-lived house. Just another ambient noise.
Sam wanted to apologize, get on his hands and knees and promise Dean that he’d be good from now on, but he just sat on the cold concrete floor, imagining better days. Pretending he’d never let any of this happen in the first place.
Pretending Dean had let him die, all the way back in South Dakota; Lying in the mud, stab wound in his back.
The rest of the day was spent pacing the room, half-heartedly working out, and obsessively ruminating over every mistake he’d ever made. The faces of all those who he’d managed to get killed, or screwed over wriggled their way into his memory, making sure he knew he wasn’t allowed to move on.
He fell asleep right on the ground that night. All of his joints and lanky limbs digging into each other as he curled into a fetal position. Tear tracks staining his face.
Once again, he dreamt that he was in those endless hallways. Running through the same myriad of doors and rooms he had the previous night. This time though, a figure appeared in front of him, something vile and abominable. A monster.
At the very least, Sam knew it was something he was supposed to hunt, allowed to kill. So he gave chase. It was fast, but tiring quickly. He found as the monster’s energy dwindled, his was inexplicably replenished. Regardless of real-life logic, it made perfect sense to Sam in the moment. He got closer, and closer, Until the creature suddenly hit the floor, and he was able to catch up.
That morning, his mind was stirred back awake by the sound of rain pouring down on the ceiling. The panic room didn't seem very well insulated, as each drop of water echoed through the entire structure.
There was no surprise about where he had woken up this time. Not only had the cold ground been a stark reminder, but adjusting quickly to absurd situations had always been ‘the Winchester way’. And, as much as Sam had trouble admitting it, he was a Winchester; He always would be.