until we hit the ground by sammyatstanford for cherrylived

[springflingmod.livejournal.com]

Title: until we hit the ground
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Castiel
Rating: general
Any warnings: alternate universe


The sky is burning.

Sam is on his way back from hunting (unsuccessful), twilight bleeding its final purple-reds over the horizon, and then there’s a thousand comets streaking across the sky, brilliant lines of fire consuming the atmosphere.

They all fall to Earth.

He turns, starts hightailing it back to town, feet quick over rocks and roots in the fading light.

He hears moaning, choking, and stumbles to a halt, holds his breath. There’s a dark, heaving shadow on the ground, leaking brilliant white light. He glances up; the trees are singed in an arch, smoking. The lump doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, and Sam steps closer, gingerly. When he gets close enough to see what it is, though, he scrambles backwards so fast he trips over a root and lands on his ass.

An angel. Fuck. He should have realized.

He stays there, fear-tense and frozen, until the pounding of his heart starts to slow. The angel takes no notice of him, struggling on the ground, increasingly weak. Cautiously, Sam gets to his knees, crawls forward.

It’s dying.

He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does. Sam’s only seen a few angels die in person, and it’s always been by bullet or blade, an eye-searing blaze of light and a hollowed-out husk left behind. This time it looks so...human.

He shudders at the thought, creeps closer. His knee lands on a twig, crack, and the angel’s eyes whip in his direction, lightning fast. Sam almost flinches back but—but its eyes. They’re hauntingly blue in the light leaking from its body and they’re so…agonized, terrified. Sam feels an echo of it clench in his chest.

“Ah—ah,” the angel chokes out. Sam leans in closer instinctively, but it only coughs, sputters weakly, and then those blue eyes roll back in its head. He reaches out a shaking hand, jostles it gently, then harder, but it seems dead to the world. Maybe actually dead. He’s not even sure.

Sam falls back on his haunches, takes a deep, unsteady breath. He looks up at the sky, stars peeking down through the tree canopy.

He thinks about Dean.

***

Whatever angels are made of, it can’t just be majestic, glowing light, because this angel weighs a fucking ton. Sam had dragged it as far as he could without raising suspicion, then swapped out its dressy slacks for a spare pair of cargo pants from his pack, threw his own coat over its shoulders to hide the light still leaking from the gaping wound in its side. It’s still mostly unconscious, but its feet manage to stumble along with his as he carries it into town.

Hodges passes by them in the street, but Sam fends him off with a comment about lousy drunks and a put-upon sigh. Sam works down at the canteen, so it’s believable. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to carry someone back to their room.

He finally manages to get the creature into his third-floor walk up, dumps it on the mattress, stands over its unconscious body, chest heaving with exertion.

Now what?

***

Sam jerks awake immediately from his doze at the table in his kitchenette when he hears the rattle of chains. The angel still looks weak and woozy, groaning as it tries to sit up, but its eyes go immediately wide and alert when it realizes that its wrists are locked in metal cuffs. It tries to speak, but the words are muffled behind the tape Sam put over its mouth. Its eyes glow, but fizzle out quickly, and it looks down, takes in the runes etched into the metal. Sam made them himself, an old enchanted pair of shackles that he stole a week after Dean’s death, when he first came up with this completely insane plan, then added the angel runes.

He hadn’t been completely sure they’d work, but something eases in his chest at the resignation that crosses the angel’s face before all expression disappears and it regards Sam flatly.

“You’re hurt,” Sam starts. “When I found you, you were dying. I brought you back here, patched you up.”

It raises an eyebrow at him. Should I be grateful?

Sam ignores it. “I saved you so that you can help me. Once you do, I’ll let you go.”

The angel tries to answer, but it’s muffled behind the gag.

“I’m a man of my word,” Sam goes on. “You help me, I let you go. You refuse, I kill you now and find an angel who will.”

The angel tries to speak again, and that blank look melts away into a glare when it can’t. Sam gets up, grabs the knife off the table, comes close. He holds it up directly in the angel’s line of vision, hand tight around the cylindrical grip.

“You know how I got this?” he asks, and the angel stares at him before nodding. “You yell, you try anything, it’s going in your neck.” The angel nods again. Sam holds the blade to the thing’s throat with one hand, uses the other to rip the duct tape off its mouth.

It doesn’t even flinch.

“What would you have me do?” the angel asks, and Sam’s surprised by the depth, the gravel of its voice. There’s something dark in it, heated. Too human.

“My brother, he’s...gone.” Sam swallows around the thickness of the words. They never get easier to say. “I want you to bring him back.”

The angel regards him for a long, tense moment, and Sam feels like he’s being inventoried, everything inside of him weighed even though his tattoos prevent that from happening.

“All right,” it says, finally, and Sam feels something loosen in his chest. It won’t be easy from here, he knows, but this is the first step. “But I cannot do it until I am fully healed.”

Sam huffs. “How long will that take?”

“I could be done with it now if you’d remove these,” the angel says, shaking the cuffs around its wrists, the chain that trails from them down to the pin secured deep in the floor.

“Yeah, like I’m falling for that,” Sam scoffs. They’re the only thing protecting him, and both he and the angel know it.

“Then I’m unsure how long,” it says dismissively.

Sam grinds his teeth.

He falls asleep that night with the angel on the floor beside his bed, those eerie blue eyes wide open and watchful.

***

Unfortunately, Sam can’t just disappear off the face of the planet to babysit his captive. It would raise suspicion, bring people to his door. If anyone finds out Sam’s harboring an angel, he’ll be court martialed, if he’s lucky. Killed outright, more likely. He can’t do anything to save Dean if he’s imprisoned, or dead. So he’s forced to leave the thing bound and gagged, under heavy threat that if it tries anything, it’ll be found by humans long before it will be able to signal any angels for help. And no other human is going to be as generous with its life as Sam has been.

He doesn’t mention the possibility of it flying away. He’d seen, that night he dragged it back to his room, as it writhed in pain on his mattress and he did his best to patch it up with only human medical training. He’d seen the tattered, smoldering evidence of its wings flash briefly into shadowed existence, then disappear. He assumes the angel is aware of it, too, and Sam has all kinds of questions about it, but none of that matters.

All he needs to focus on is the plan.

***

The first night he comes home, the angel is sitting on the chair in his living room, chain stretched taut across the floor. It’s reading one of the tattered books from Sam’s shelf. Roots.

It observes him silently as he sets about preparing dinner, then goes back to its reading.

***

It keeps happening. He comes in, the angel is reading or occasionally watching something on Sam’s small, fuzzy television. There’s no new programming anymore, but a few humans out there are still broadcasting the old stuff. It seems particularly fond of I Love Lucy. After a week or so, the whole thing feels almost routine.

Until one day the angel approaches him. Sam’s busy chopping up venison and onions and doesn’t notice until it’s already close. He takes a hasty step backwards and fumbles the angel blade out of his waistband. The angel merely looks at him, holds up the book in its hands, makes a series of noises behind its gag. When Sam doesn’t move, it repeats the gesture.

He takes a hesitant step closer, reaches out and pulls off the tape.

“I don’t understand the scene with the turtle,” the angel says, and Sam gapes. He looks down at the book in its hands. The Grapes of Wrath.

Sam clears his throat. “Um. Well.” He looks at the angel, at its curious eyes, no hint of malice behind them. “Would you...would you like me to explain it to you?”

The angel nods, retreating to the lone bar stool on the other side of the counter. Sam goes back to his cutting board. “So,” he starts, “the turtle is a symbol, for the Joad family and their struggles….”

***

Sam tears a new strip of duct tape off the roll, steps up to the angel where it’s sitting on his bed. It lets him in close, but then looks up at him. “No more tape. Please.”

Sam hesitates.

“I won’t draw attention to myself,” it promises.

He thinks of what would happen if it did, of how much trouble they’d both be in.

He crumples the tape in his fist.

***

They’re sitting together in the living room one night, discussing the Twilight Zone episode they just watched, when out of nowhere, the angel asks him, “What is your name?”

Sam only hesitates for a moment. “It’s Sam.”

The angel is quiet, contemplative, then nods. The episode on the TV changes over, and they both turn to watch it.

“What’s yours?” Sam asks, after several minutes of silence.

The angel looks at him again, that blue gaze piercing. “Castiel.”

Sam hesitates, then puts out his hand. The angel takes it. Sam feels the edge of the cuffs with his fingertips.

***

Castiel has been his prisoner for six weeks. Every day, Sam checks the progress on his healing. The skin has started to knit itself together, and Castiel says that soon, he’ll be strong enough to bring Dean back.

“How did your brother die?” he asks one rainy afternoon. Sam’s not working, has been in the room all day, feeling itchy as Castiel observed his workout routine.

Sam pulls himself through another sit up, but stays sitting, puts his hands on his knees. “Hellhounds,” he answers quietly. “He didn’t have a deal, but they just….”

Castiel nods. “That complicates things. If he were in Heaven, I could simply find him. I will have to raise him from the Pit.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we must go somewhere else,” Castiel answers, staring at the rain on the window. “It could be very dangerous, bringing your brother back. People could be hurt if they’re nearby. And I will need a lot of time where we are not at risk of discovery.” He turns back to Sam. “Can you think of somewhere we can go for this?”

Sam chews his lip, thinks. “What used to be Michigan, I guess. After the rapture around Detroit twenty years ago, it's been abandoned. Even the people who weren’t in the rapture zone got out fast, from what I’ve heard. It’s supposed to be a wasteland.”

***

Sam is filling his pack. Nothing too much, nothing too heavy, just the barest necessities of food, clothing, a little pup tent.

The last thing he pulls out is the photo of Dean tucked under his mattress for safekeeping. It’s the only one he has. He looks down at it for a long moment, at the smile on his brother’s face, the crinkles by his eyes.

Castiel comes up beside him. “Who is that?” he asks, and the sharp tone of his voice catches Sam off guard.

“That’s—that’s my brother, Dean.”

“Dean,” the angel echoes, and he takes the photo from Sam’s reluctant fingers with a rattle of his cuffs, examines it closely. “I know this man.”

Sam grabs it back, holds it protectively to his chest. “You know Dean?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Not like—I’ve never met him. I’ve never seen him. But I know him. Heaven knows him.” He stares at Sam, and Sam gets that feeling again, like his skin is being peeled back. “What is your name?” he asks again.

“It’s Sam,” he answers, and then, “Samuel Winchester.”

Castiel puts his hands over Sam’s, over the photograph. His touch is very warm. “I think, Samuel Winchester, that you and your brother might be very important people.”

Sam feels a little numb. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Castiel answers.

***

Their escape north is easy. They make it away from town and miles into the wilderness before anyone will realize Sam is missing. It’s simple enough to avoid towns; Sam had memorized the whole map of the country as it stood back in his on-duty days. He hunts for his food. They make steady progress. By his calculations, it’ll take them a little under a month to reach Detroit.

What Sam has failed to take into account, however, is the fallen angels, who seem to have set up camp in some of the stray remains of civilization scattered across the U.S. It’s only as they’re off the road, fleeing through the woods from some kind of patrol that Sam realizes he should probably have asked Castiel more questions.

“Sam,” Castiel growls harshly, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to a halt. “Sam, the cuffs, you have to take off the cuffs. I can’t help like this.”

Sam’s panting, sweating through his shirt. His heart pounds adrenaline through his veins. His hands shake. “I don’t—I don’t know,” he says.

“Sam.” Castiel pulls Sam close, pulls Sam’s hands into his. “Sam, I won’t hurt you. I won’t leave you.” He stares at Sam, eyes imploring, and when did he learn so many expressions? “I need you to trust me.”

It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. There are rocks at the bottom.

Sam fumbles the key out from under his shirt, where he’s tied it on the same string with Dean’s amulet. Castiel raises his hands. Sam unlocks the cuffs.

Castiel immediately shoves him down into the dirt, and Sam cries out, betrayed. He rolls, tries to get to his feet, but then takes in the scene before him. Castiel, fighting an angel who must have been sneaking up on them. The shine of an angel blade materializing, seemingly from nowhere, into Castiel’s hand. The shuddering, flickering death of their attacker.

Castiel is back before Sam can process any of it. “Come on,” he says gruffly, making the blade disappear and grabbing Sam’s arm, dragging him to his feet. Sam stumbles into a run.

They end up wedged together in a tiny crevice in a rock formation, two trees blocking the view inside. Sam pants, tries to catch his breath, tries to understand everything that just happened. He’s acutely aware of Castiel’s unmoving chest, pressed up against his.

“This is going to hurt. Stay quiet,” Castiel says, places a palm flat against Sam’s chest, and it feels like a thousand chisels scraping into his bones. He has to bite his lip against the flare of pain.

“What was that?” Sam gasps out once it’s over.

“Protection,” Castiel answers, doesn’t elaborate.

Sam licks at the sweat on his lips. “You could have given us up,” he whispers.

He can barely see Castiel, just the curve of his face and eyes that look blue-grey in the fading twilight. “Yes,” Castiel replies.

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“You killed that other angel to...to save me.”

Castiel looks very solemn. “Yes.”

“But why? You’re my prisoner, you could have….” he trails off, unsure.

Castiel looks away from him. “Because you are very special, Sam Winchester.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “That.” Of course. Castiel’s plan, the one he’d sketched out on their journey so far. The real Apocalypse, perfect vessels, Horsemen.

“To me,” Castiel adds, and he no longer sounds matter-of-fact, but a little awkward. He’s still not looking at Sam, and Sam realizes how used to that unerring gaze he’s become.

“What?”

“You are very important for the world,” Castiel clarifies, “but also to me, specifically.” He finally raises his eyes.

“Oh,” Sam says again, but this time because he’s dumbfounded. And maybe it’s the adrenaline high, maybe it’s the hours of conversation about Pearl Buck and John Steinbeck and Lucille Ball, maybe it’s pure insanity, but Sam leans down, presses his lips against Castiel’s, cool and dry compared to his. They both have their eyes open.

Sam pulls back, puts as much breathing room between them as he can in their hideout. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“What do we do now?”

Castiel regards him with something Sam thinks might just be warmth. “With those sigils on your ribs, the angels won’t be able to track us. They will give up eventually. Then, we will go to Michigan. I will bring back your brother, and together, we will end this war.” He says it with such conviction that Sam feels like it might actually be possible.

“And after?” Sam asks.

“Hm?” Castiel tilts his head at the question, like a puppy.

“After the war,” Sam presses. “What will we do then?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks up in an undeniably human attempt at a smile. “We will see.”