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spn_springflingTitle: All That is Gone
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Any warnings: Spoilers through season nine
you lock the door--
Before the demon blood, before Lucifer and before the Trials and before Gadreel, there was Sam.
*
Dean is out on a hunt halfway across the country with Crowley; Castiel is off, finding Gadreel on his own. The bunker should feel larger without Dean's constant motion, and without the humming aura that hovers around Castiel like a cloud, but it doesn't. Instead it feels like the walls have been moving in an inch an hour. It's happening slowly, but the effect is the same: Sam is trapped like a rat in a maze.
He paces through the kitchen, up and down the halls. He stops at the room that Cas slept in, the one night he stayed over. He doesn't go in. Instead, he goes to his bedroom and lies down, but his heart is still pounding, and there is still crimson creeping in at the edges of his sight.
It's inexplicable. It's not right. For years, Sam has been tainted, bloody, impure. He's been stained by demon blood, burnt by hell, blighted by Gadreel's Grace. All of that is supposed to be gone now. By all accounts, Castiel has made him right. He burned away the last of Gadreel's presence, the final wrongness left in Sam.
The walls in Sam's room warp and distort in the corners of his eyes, rippling in smooth, constant waves. There's blood in his ears; he can just barely hear it dripping over the persistent ringing in his brain. His skin is peeling off. He's pure.
*
He is lying on the cool grass; it's darkening without the sun setting, and-
*
It all comes down to Castiel, really, as much as it does Azazel or Lucifer.
Sam remembers. He remembers being freed from the panic room years and years ago, and knowing that the angel was there, silent and watching and not stopping him.
He remembers sitting in the chair as Castiel dug into his neck with the needle, how it had hurt. How Castiel had rested his free hand on Sam's forehead and said, "It will be over soon."
He remembers another earlier time Castiel had laid his hand on Sam's forehead, and how the wall had fallen down. He remembers the madness that had followed. He doesn't remember how Castiel's hands felt when he took it away.
That's right. He took it away.
Sam isn't mad anymore.
*
-and the birds have stopped singing. He was here once, maybe. It's possible that they vacationed here when he was four years old, when John had a hunt and the cabin in the woods seemed like a special treat to a kid who grew up in the cheapest apartments and motels, where rats chewed holes in the beds and the rooms smelled like piss and beer. It's definitely possible that he forgot about this cabin in the woods, the memory clouded over by years and years of more vivid experiences.
But then, it's equally as likely that-
*
A knocking from the door rouses Sam from… sleep? Maybe. It's not impossible that it was nightmares that blurred the lines between here and Hell, or wherever it is that his mind defaults to.
"Come in," he calls groggily. Probably Dean, back from cavorting with Crowley.
Instead, the door creaks open and Castiel steps in. His forehead is wrinkled, and he moves deliberately, hesitant. "Sam."
"Cas? When did you learn to knock?"
Sam winces at the crudeness of the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, but Castiel doesn't seem offended.
"I learned from my time being Graceless that it was appreciated," he says simply, and then adds, "I wanted to see how you were doing. I realized, in retrospect, perhaps it was unwise to leave you alone after removing Gadreel's Grace. I'm not sure if there are side effects from such a procedure."
Sam nods. He can't focus. The floor has frozen over; there's ice stretching from his bed to his door.
Castiel frowns, tilts his head. "You are doing well?"
Yes, Sam wants to say. He's fine. He's so clean. There's no more demon blood, no more Grace. There's nothing left inside of him. He's pure.
Instead, he watches as black veins creep up over Castiel's face, twisting along his veins. His ears are ringing.
Castiel steps closer, worry clear in his eyes. The world shatters.
*
--and throw away the key--
*
-that he is here in his own mind, and there is nothing left.
Sam looks up, and sees Castiel standing over him, looming tall like a tyrannical god. The sorrow on his face ruins the image.
"Where am I?"
"In your mind," Castiel replies. "Heaven's closed. This is for the better."
"Am I dead?"
"No."
"Am I mad?"
"You're pure."
It's the same thing. He hasn't been clean like this since he was six months old, not really. It's always tainted him, and when the Trials burned the blood from his veins, he nearly died. He should have died. Gadreel saved him; that was wrong.
Castiel sits down next to him, and then lies down. It's not a natural position for him. Sam appreciates the attempt.
They stare at the sunless sky in silence. Then Castiel says, "I could save you."
Sam glances at him. "How?"
"You need… something. Your heart isn't meant to beat alone; your mind no longer knows how to think when not aided by an outside source." Castiel hesitates. "I am an outside source."
"But you don't have your Grace."
"I know. I'm not sure what will happen if I leave my vessel. But I'm still me. I can still leave. If you let me in."
"You don't know what'll happen to you."
Castiel doesn't deny that. He half-lifts his shoulder, and says, "I'm not just my Grace. I'd be dead if I were. I think that I am far more than what Ezekiel stole from me."
It's a kind offer. It's what he's been running from. It's more than he deserves. "I wouldn't be me."
"Do you think I'd spend my time doing anything other than searching for a way to help you?" They lock eyes, and there is an intensity in Castiel's gaze, a thrumming power that would be unmatched by humanity. It makes up for the lost sun.
"Don't let this be the end," Castiel says – pleads. "Don't die when you're arguing with Dean. Don't die without seeing Gadreel brought to justice. Don't die without knowing that Heaven is reopen, that there's a place for you."
Don't die on me, Sam thinks he hears. He isn't sure. He's wrong often enough.
"Okay," Sam says.
The sky is very dark. Castiel lays a hand on his cheek. He kisses Sam's forehead, and--
*
--there's someone in my head, but it's not me.
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Any warnings: Spoilers through season nine
you lock the door--
Before the demon blood, before Lucifer and before the Trials and before Gadreel, there was Sam.
*
Dean is out on a hunt halfway across the country with Crowley; Castiel is off, finding Gadreel on his own. The bunker should feel larger without Dean's constant motion, and without the humming aura that hovers around Castiel like a cloud, but it doesn't. Instead it feels like the walls have been moving in an inch an hour. It's happening slowly, but the effect is the same: Sam is trapped like a rat in a maze.
He paces through the kitchen, up and down the halls. He stops at the room that Cas slept in, the one night he stayed over. He doesn't go in. Instead, he goes to his bedroom and lies down, but his heart is still pounding, and there is still crimson creeping in at the edges of his sight.
It's inexplicable. It's not right. For years, Sam has been tainted, bloody, impure. He's been stained by demon blood, burnt by hell, blighted by Gadreel's Grace. All of that is supposed to be gone now. By all accounts, Castiel has made him right. He burned away the last of Gadreel's presence, the final wrongness left in Sam.
The walls in Sam's room warp and distort in the corners of his eyes, rippling in smooth, constant waves. There's blood in his ears; he can just barely hear it dripping over the persistent ringing in his brain. His skin is peeling off. He's pure.
*
He is lying on the cool grass; it's darkening without the sun setting, and-
*
It all comes down to Castiel, really, as much as it does Azazel or Lucifer.
Sam remembers. He remembers being freed from the panic room years and years ago, and knowing that the angel was there, silent and watching and not stopping him.
He remembers sitting in the chair as Castiel dug into his neck with the needle, how it had hurt. How Castiel had rested his free hand on Sam's forehead and said, "It will be over soon."
He remembers another earlier time Castiel had laid his hand on Sam's forehead, and how the wall had fallen down. He remembers the madness that had followed. He doesn't remember how Castiel's hands felt when he took it away.
That's right. He took it away.
Sam isn't mad anymore.
*
-and the birds have stopped singing. He was here once, maybe. It's possible that they vacationed here when he was four years old, when John had a hunt and the cabin in the woods seemed like a special treat to a kid who grew up in the cheapest apartments and motels, where rats chewed holes in the beds and the rooms smelled like piss and beer. It's definitely possible that he forgot about this cabin in the woods, the memory clouded over by years and years of more vivid experiences.
But then, it's equally as likely that-
*
A knocking from the door rouses Sam from… sleep? Maybe. It's not impossible that it was nightmares that blurred the lines between here and Hell, or wherever it is that his mind defaults to.
"Come in," he calls groggily. Probably Dean, back from cavorting with Crowley.
Instead, the door creaks open and Castiel steps in. His forehead is wrinkled, and he moves deliberately, hesitant. "Sam."
"Cas? When did you learn to knock?"
Sam winces at the crudeness of the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, but Castiel doesn't seem offended.
"I learned from my time being Graceless that it was appreciated," he says simply, and then adds, "I wanted to see how you were doing. I realized, in retrospect, perhaps it was unwise to leave you alone after removing Gadreel's Grace. I'm not sure if there are side effects from such a procedure."
Sam nods. He can't focus. The floor has frozen over; there's ice stretching from his bed to his door.
Castiel frowns, tilts his head. "You are doing well?"
Yes, Sam wants to say. He's fine. He's so clean. There's no more demon blood, no more Grace. There's nothing left inside of him. He's pure.
Instead, he watches as black veins creep up over Castiel's face, twisting along his veins. His ears are ringing.
Castiel steps closer, worry clear in his eyes. The world shatters.
*
--and throw away the key--
*
-that he is here in his own mind, and there is nothing left.
Sam looks up, and sees Castiel standing over him, looming tall like a tyrannical god. The sorrow on his face ruins the image.
"Where am I?"
"In your mind," Castiel replies. "Heaven's closed. This is for the better."
"Am I dead?"
"No."
"Am I mad?"
"You're pure."
It's the same thing. He hasn't been clean like this since he was six months old, not really. It's always tainted him, and when the Trials burned the blood from his veins, he nearly died. He should have died. Gadreel saved him; that was wrong.
Castiel sits down next to him, and then lies down. It's not a natural position for him. Sam appreciates the attempt.
They stare at the sunless sky in silence. Then Castiel says, "I could save you."
Sam glances at him. "How?"
"You need… something. Your heart isn't meant to beat alone; your mind no longer knows how to think when not aided by an outside source." Castiel hesitates. "I am an outside source."
"But you don't have your Grace."
"I know. I'm not sure what will happen if I leave my vessel. But I'm still me. I can still leave. If you let me in."
"You don't know what'll happen to you."
Castiel doesn't deny that. He half-lifts his shoulder, and says, "I'm not just my Grace. I'd be dead if I were. I think that I am far more than what Ezekiel stole from me."
It's a kind offer. It's what he's been running from. It's more than he deserves. "I wouldn't be me."
"Do you think I'd spend my time doing anything other than searching for a way to help you?" They lock eyes, and there is an intensity in Castiel's gaze, a thrumming power that would be unmatched by humanity. It makes up for the lost sun.
"Don't let this be the end," Castiel says – pleads. "Don't die when you're arguing with Dean. Don't die without seeing Gadreel brought to justice. Don't die without knowing that Heaven is reopen, that there's a place for you."
Don't die on me, Sam thinks he hears. He isn't sure. He's wrong often enough.
"Okay," Sam says.
The sky is very dark. Castiel lays a hand on his cheek. He kisses Sam's forehead, and--
*
--there's someone in my head, but it's not me.
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