fakeplasticsnow | With Nothing (Left) Up My Sleeve

Title: With Nothing (Left) Up My Sleeve
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Castiel, Dean, Michael!Dean, Bobby, minor Chuck cameo
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9,040
Genre: slash, with chunks of humor and angst
Timeline: Post-5.17 ("99 Problems") -- deviations from canon: if Sam didn't find Dean, if Dean said yes to Michael, etc.
Summary: As far as coping mechanisms go, this is relatively non-psychotic.
Credit: To two good Samaritans in this fandom who stopped to help a newbie like me: my beta

riyku and my canon consultant

twivamp92, thank you both for your infinite patience, kindness and knowledge.
A/N: And so continues my propensity to turn everything I write into some cornball variation of Grey's Anatomy. Sorry, SPN. Meep!

When things get bad, Sam drives. Dean was always the car guy between them, but Sam finds the low rumble under his feet and worn-down buildings rushing past in a blur therapeutic.

Dean's phone doesn't even ring anymore when Sam tries to call him. Sam woke up alone this morning; Castiel had passed out on the bed the night before, but he vanished before the sun came up. Sam knows he can handle a lot of shit, but this in particular isn't something he wants to deal with.

It's bad, so he borrows some generic blue car from Bobby and drives around town.

When it's really bad, like now, Sam drives at night, half-hoping for an epiphany and half-hoping for an accident, enough to either wake him up or kill him. In the interest of the latter, he only keeps his eyes on the road part of the time, allowing himself to be distracted by flickering neon, the wind in his face or people in store windows.

Sam spots a loose tan trench coat as he drives past some pub. Its significance doesn't hit him until he's a few yards past it. He does a quick U-turn and pulls into the parking lot.

Castiel doesn't even look up when Sam approaches him at the bar. He's nowhere near broken or weepy, but he stares into his fifth shot glass like he's searching for God in it, which is almost worse.

The bartender glares at Sam through a thick shock of red hair. "D'you do this to him, kid?" she demands. "'Cause if so, then I gotta bone to pick with you."

Castiel holds up a hand. "He didn't do anything. This is Sam, not God. Or Dean. Sam is tolerable. His brother, on the other hand, is a dick."

Sam flinches at the mention of Dean's name. He sits down on the stool next to Cas, not noticing that his expression has begun to mirror Castiel's until the bartender does a double take.

"Jeez, this Dean guy," she whistles. "So, Droopy, what'll it be?"

"I'll have what he's having," Sam says. His eyes follow the bartender as she walks away. "She reminds me of Pamela."

Castiel nods. "Liquor reminds me of Ellen and Jo."

They're quiet for a moment. Castiel hasn't looked his way even once yet. His sigh is barely perceptible as he pushes an upturned shot glass around on the bar's surface.

"So this is what it feels like to lose everything," he finally says.

It's fucked up, sitting at a bar next to an angel of the Lord who's possibly developed a drinking problem to replace his lost sense of purpose. Both of them knew they weren't in Kansas anymore (metaphorically, but also literally), but this, Castiel, angels, a concept Sam used to pray to, and now he has to come up with shit on the fly to try to make Castiel feel better, whatever that means.

Angels, seriously. One's taking over the world, one's taking Sam's brother away from him, and this one's drowning his sorrows in tequila.

It's precisely the kind of shit Sam doesn't need right now, especially since Castiel is the last remaining proof Sam has that angels are still capable of good.

Sam cautiously pulls the empty shot glass away from Castiel.

"Maybe you just need to, uh, change your perspective?" Sam offers.

Castiel glares at him. He's not stupid.

Everything was so much easier in college. Sam wishes they had instruction manuals for this sort of thing, like How to Repair a Broken Angel in Six Easy Steps or Angel Psychoanalysis for Dummies. Instead, he stares at his hands helplessly.

The bartender returns with one shot for Sam and three for Castiel. She looks almost pained as she watches Cas down all of his in ten seconds flat. Sam winces.

"...What?" Castiel asks. "I rebelled. Iniquity is one of the perks."

Sam furrows his brow.

"Dean took me to a brothel once."

"Uh-huh." He gulps down his tequila, then grimaces, cursing the fact that first, he didn't know it was tequila, and second, Castiel doesn't know the proper customs of drinking tequila, so now Sam's left with a hideous afterburn and no salt or lemon.

Castiel hunches forward, focused on arranging all his shot glasses into a neat circle.

"Look, Cas...Dean can be a huge idiot, okay, and last night definitely earned a spot on side A of Dean's Greatest Hits, but he never gave up on me when I screwed up, you know?"

"You say that in the past tense, though."

Sam doesn't have anything to respond to that. He gestures to the bartender for another drink.

"How do you manage, Sam?" Castiel asks. "How do you still have faith? You're Lucifer's vessel, we're facing the apocalypse, the angels -- most angels -- look down upon you with disdain, and your brother..."

"It's all I have left," Sam says. "It's stupid, but I'm out of options. It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings. It's what Dean would do."

"What Dean would have done. Before."

"It's all I have left, Cas," he repeats quietly.

Castiel looks away, intent on flagging down the bartender's attention.

Castiel holds up his shot glass. "Your brother is a dick."

"So is yours," Sam says, clinking his own glass against it.

"Plural, actually."

"Right."

They drink.

"You think it's about time you stopped now?"

"Rebellion. Iniquity," Cas mumbles, gripping onto the counter for balance.

"Dude, you're --"

"Weak. I'm aware. I used to be able to handle much more without the slightest hint of inebriation."

Sam didn't drink anywhere near as much, but he's not sober, either. He can't even tell how long his gaze has been fixed on Castiel's sharp features under the crappy pub lights, particularly his five o'clock shadow, now twice as thick as it was before he started losing his powers. Lips glistening with tequila. Eyes that are all haze and no light.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"It's painful, yes. But it also feels good to...feel." He shoots Sam a glassy-eyed but hopeful stare. "Is it true that if you imbibe enough, you forget everything?"

An indeterminate number of shots later, Castiel has to keep both elbows on the bar to avoid falling off his seat. He has his fingers on Sam's wrist, idly tracing circles around the rise of his wrist bone.

"So what's it like being an abomination?"

"It's like fuck you very much, Cas, let's go before you turn into Lindsay Lohan."

"Who's Lindsay Lohan?"

Sam hates that he might be turning into Dean. He licks salt off his hand and takes another swig of tequila.

It's a long drive. Castiel needs no help staying upright as he walks behind Sam from the car to the motel room.

Sam slides the key card in. He's surprised when Castiel enters the room with him.

"You don't actually need sleep, do you?"

"Not usually," he says, eyes dimmed. Sam doesn't push the issue.

He yawns and tosses his car keys on the coffee table. When he turns around, Castiel is standing uncomfortably close, like the countless times Dean had complained about before. To make things worse, the tequila is totally fucking up Sam's depth perception, so right now, "uncomfortably close" is more like "breathing your air."

"Um."

Castiel stares openly at Sam's mouth. "You're..." Then his eyes meet Sam's.

Things go from fucked up to unreal the second their lips collide. They go from unreal to completely batshit when neither of them pull away. Castiel is maybe not the most experienced at this; his kiss is ungraceful and messy and he has no idea where to put his hands. But he kisses like he needs it, and damned if that doesn't make Sam's dick jump in his jeans. He threads his fingers through Cas's hair and pushes his tongue in deeper.

Castiel breaks away. He takes a step back. "I, this --" he says, clumsy drunken fingers fumbling with his necktie. He looks at Sam.

Sam wonders if anyone's ever used drunkenness as an excuse to help someone undo his tie.

They're awkwardly silent until the tie falls to the floor.

"Would you...fall, if we did this?" Sam blurts out.

"Would it make a difference at this point?"

He kisses Cas again to distract himself from the sudden pang in his chest.

Dean would call it trippy. Sam calls it terrifying.

In college, Sam learned of the specific levels of drunkenness, and right now he's at that awful point where he's drunk enough to do stupid shit like get naked and exchange handjobs with a fucking angel of the Lord, but not quite drunk enough to silence the thoughts of "augh shit shit shit this is the worst fucking idea ever oh jesus no" ringing like alarm bells in his head.

Then there's the id-driven "yes, right there, yes" part, too, and it all makes his brain implode, especially when Cas, straddling him, drags his teeth along Sam's collarbone and reaches down between his legs. Warm slick fingers wrap around Sam's dick and rip an almost inhuman noise from his throat.

The fact that Castiel is one sin shy of being a fallen angel does nothing to quell the guilt. Not that Sam has the capacity to focus on the guilt anymore, anyway, and at least they switched the lights off. It helps a little.

Cas writhes and licks and grinds without inhibition, moving like it all comes from some divine muscle memory. And he can't stop kissing, which is the part that really kills Sam. It's been so long since someone's touched him like this, needed him like this, and with the rest of the planet having given up on him, he likes that even for these few brief moments, he feels like a part of something.

His face is burning hot as he pushes his forehead against Castiel's. "Fuck, Cas, I'm gonna--"

"Shh," Cas says, and kisses him as he comes. Sam blacks out almost immediately afterwards.

It's still evening when Sam stirs, surrounded by the warmth of motel sheets and the wind cooling his moist skin. He turns over to see Cas sitting upright on the bed, staring at his upturned palms.

"My vessel has needs," he says quietly. "I used to be able to overpower them easily. His urges grow stronger as time passes."

"How do you feel?"

"Alive." His gaze roams over Sam's exposed body. "So far."

Sam buries his face in the pillows. "Go to sleep, Cas. ...I mean, if you need it, or something. And if you leave in the morning could you maybe not do that weird angel disappearing thing? It'd make me feel a little less crazy if you just got dressed and walked out the door like a normal human being."

"I'll do that."

"Thanks. G'night."

"Sleep well, Sam."

Sam senses a shifting of weight on the bed as Cas lies down. Without opening his eyes, he pulls the comforter over both of them, then turns away.

Stillness, and then: "Will you...respect me in the morning?"

"For future reference, Cas, you really need to stop saying things that remind me of Dean when we do this."

He wakes up to a nauseating migraine and the sound of his laptop's startup tune.

Castiel, fully dressed and buttoned up in that familiar not-quite-right way, frowns at the laptop. He doesn't type, only hovers his hand over the keyboard while staring at the screen.

Sam opens his mouth to tell him that that's not how you use a keyboard, but then he sees the screen: multiple tabs opening and closing, filing through various news reports at warp speed.

"No news on Dean's whereabouts," Cas announces, light from the screen flickering in his irises. He rests his hand beside the keyboard. Only one webpage remains open. "Significantly high death toll in Charlottesville. It might be another Horseman. Do you have a vehicle ready, or will I just take you there myself?"

"What are you doing?"

"The apocalypse is at hand." Cas closes the laptop. "You didn't give up. I won't either."

"Okay."

While paying for supplies at a convenience store, Sam's eyes fall on the rack of condoms at the counter. He briefly wonders if it's necessary to -- then he shakes the stupid, stupid idea out of his head and walks out the glass doors.

It wasn't a Horseman, only a small group of demons, but Cas happens to be useful to have around while hunting. Like Sam, he's not one for fistfights, but the leftover angel mojo makes hunting a lot easier than if Sam were to go it alone.

Between hunts, they stop by Bobby's, where Sam teaches him how to assemble and disassemble a rifle. Cas is a fast learner, watching and imitating each movement with undivided focus. He's not happy, but the shades of misery have faded somewhat over the past couple of days since he gets to distract himself with learning new skills. Sam thinks Cas simply likes having something to do. Angels aren't hard-wired to operate without directive; there was Heaven and then God and then Dean and now hunting has become his placeholder gig until they find Dean or Lucifer.

Sam, on the other hand, is just relieved to not be alone.

The sex thing remains the elephant in the room until day three when, after a fruitless attempt to locate Dean, Cas jumps Sam in the car and Sam just goes with it. Then it becomes the thing they do but refuse to talk about. Hunt during the day, sleep together at night, act like it never happened. Castiel takes to sex like he did to drinking, both things he'd never tasted in millennia of existence and now he can't get enough of them, although Sam likes to think he's doing a good job of weaning Cas off of bars and liquor stores. It's more sex in a few days than Sam's had in a year, though. Not that he's complaining.

Even though they still don't talk about their situation, they do talk, just about other things.

"Do you harbor bitterness for your father as well?" Cas asks one night. "Dean talked to me about him once."

He always leaves a space between them on the bed; his kisses are wild and desperate, and his hands roam everywhere, but outside of sex he doesn't so much as touch Sam.

"I don't think 'harbor' is the best word for it. Sure, some things linger." He looks up at Cas's silhouette, edges illuminated by the moonlight pouring in through the window. "But we learn as we grow up."

"If you're still capable of growing up. I've existed for several millennia. I believe it's too late for me."

"I don't know. I'm not a kid anymore, and I still learn new things. Like the time you zapped us into the past and I got to meet my dad before he turned into what I knew. I learned that some people are only dicks because they haven’t shown you their other side."

"What about mine? Should I seek to understand His motivations?"

Sam folds his arms behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. "Do you think it's worth it?"

"I believe we have more important things to take care of at the moment."

He reaches out to rest a hand on Cas's knee. "You're growing up," he says, and adds: "For what it's worth, we can probably all relate to feeling tired every once in a while."

"Dean obviously does." There's a bitter undercurrent in Cas's voice whenever he mentions Dean.

"Can't say I blame him," Sam sighs.

Things feel significantly more permanent when Bobby wheels over and hands Castiel his newly-minted fake ID and police badge.

"Maybe I should be more like you, Sam."

He nearly falls off his chair. "What?"

"Do what I want. Seek genuine independence. Identity. Solitude, even."

"Trust me, Cas, you don't ever want to end up like me."

Each ring makes Sam's heart ricochet against his ribcage, because every time, he thinks it'll finally be the ring where Dean picks up. But it never is.

The dial tone stills his heart. He's suffered through a dozen dial tones this afternoon, thousands over the past week, all because Dean couldn't hold on a little longer. Sam hurls his phone against the wall and slumps forward onto the desk.

When he doesn't hear the expected shatter of phone on wall, he slowly lifts his head. Castiel stands there, frowning at the phone in his hand. After a moment, he walks over to set it down on the desk. There's that ringing again, only this time it fills the room, not just Sam's ear.

"What did you do?" Sam asks.

"I put it on auto-dial."

"This music. It's different," Castiel notes after about ten minutes on the road. His fingers lightly brush over the edge of the iPod in the dock.

"It's Wilco. I'm driving, so I get to pick." Sam keeps his gaze fixed on the road. He waits for a minute before asking, "Why, did you miss Dean's old-school stuff?"

"I had grown used to it, but both genres have appreciable qualities. I prefer the lyrics of your choices."

Sam's attempt to hold back a smile is only half-successful.

Sam teaches Cas to shave, because the stubble burns when Cas kisses the way he does.

"So is it like a prison gay thing?" Bobby asks over a game of poker.

"What are you talking about," Sam tries, even though he already knows he won't like Bobby's answer.

"You and Castiel, numbnuts. Are you only fucking him because you feel trapped? I won't judge, I knew a couple of hunter buddies who were on the road for a long time and they used to, you know. I get it, men have needs."

"We're not --"

"Sam."

He hates that Bobby is prescient at the most inopportune times. "How could you even tell?"

"Simple Winchester logic. I ask myself, 'What's the stupidest fucking thing Sam could do at this point in time? Oh, I know! Boink an angel.'"

Sam rolls his eyes as he plunks down his hand on the table. He's got jack shit, Bobby's got pocket nines. Bobby cackles and sweeps in the pot.

"It's not a...'prison gay' thing," Sam says. "It's not even a gay thing. I don't know. It's a human thing. Reminds me I still have a pulse." He draws another card from the pile. "I wish there were a litmus test to tell me whether or not I'm dead yet."

"Hey, princess? If Dean were here, he'd kick your ass for saying that. None of that emo shit on my turf."

It's definitely not a prison gay thing.

The first few times they slept together, it was rushed and needy, but Castiel has since learned to savor every second of it. He takes his time dragging his rough, open mouth along Sam's hipbone as he rakes his nails down Sam's thighs. His dick is already achingly hard without Cas having touched it yet. A little longer, and Sam would lose his mind.

It's the first time they've left the light on. Sam can't decide if he should keep his eyes open to watch, or let them roll back in his head as -- there. "Ah, shit --"

"You didn't like that?"

"Don't stop," Sam chokes out, curling a hand on Cas's shoulder. "Wait. Actually, lie down."

"Why?" Cas asks, even though he already moves to do so.

"I wanna try something." He gets to see Cas like this, naked and stretched out on the bed, for the first time, and Sam wants to relish it too. Shit, with or without the angelic aura he's beautiful, slick pale skin and dark disheveled hair, and eyes that are almost iridescent under the bedroom light.

"You too," Cas says, as if Sam's thoughts are loud enough to hear.

Sam can't remember how long it's been since he last took the time to admire something. He traces his fingers down Cas's abdomen as it rises and falls in increasingly erratic rhythm.

He decides he wants to find out what Cas looks like when he comes.

His eyes never leave the milky expanse of flesh as he takes Cas's cock and strokes. He watches the way those pupils dilate, black over blue, observes Cas's fingers curl into the sheets, listens as their breaths grow shorter and faster.

"Are you objectifying me right now?" Cas asks with total earnest.

Sam usually doesn't laugh during sex.

"I'm appreciating you," is the non-answer he decides on. He bends down, lets his eyes graze over that body one last time before wrapping his lips around Cas's cock and going all the way down.

"Sam --"

It surprises Sam, how he just kind of goes for it every time they've done this, even though he'd never actually been with a man before. Not that he was ever against that, theoretically; he and Jess had a long discussion on the Kinsey scale once, and, yeah. But he'd never felt compelled to explore that side of himself. Not until now, anyway.

He wonders if it's an angel thing. Or maybe just a Castiel thing.

Either way, he's never been so hard while his mouth was on Castiel's cock. He reaches down to touch himself.

Cas is always quiet in bed, but they've done this often enough now that Sam can tell what works and what doesn't by the movements of Cas's body and the shortness of his breaths. This? Is definitely working.

Nails dig into his shoulder. "Sam. Sam --"

"It's okay, just go with it," he rasps. He tightens his grip on his own dick, working furiously, never taking his eyes off of the flush that spreads from Cas's face to his chest.

"Sam, kiss me."

That angelic strength pulls him up until their lips and tongues mash against each other. Cas wraps his legs around Sam's waist and thrusts his hips upward. And that's all it takes -- that long slide of their cocks together makes Sam come with a scream while Cas bites down hard on Sam's lip and rides out his own orgasm.

Then the contact threatens sensory overload, so Sam rolls onto his back, every inch of skin tingling.

"Shit," he says once he can breathe normally again.

"That was...new." Though it takes him longer to get around to it this time, Cas once again sits up on the bed and leaves that same amount of space between them.

It's the craziest Sam's felt in a while, which is really saying something considering recent events. But sex is the one domain in his life he usually has control over; even while giving in to Ruby he at least had some clue of what he'd signed up for, but with Castiel he has no idea what he's doing, only why he's doing it. Well, he knows that he can't stop now, anyway.

Or maybe he doesn't want to, which is a much more terrifying notion. Sam reaches forward and gingerly pulls up the comforter to his waist.

Guilt always ends up as the afterthought.

"So, uh. How does your vessel feel about this?" Sam waves his hand in the space between himself and Cas.

Cas does this thing, like a quarter-laugh, where he ducks his head and exhales sharply while his mouth curls up at one corner. "The same way he felt about all of those cheeseburgers."

And God help him, Sam can't stop laughing.

Angel thing aside, this isn't the first time Sam's started a casual set-up with someone, even though it's not his cup of tea. Awkwardness in non-bedroom interactions comes part for parcel with the arrangement, and Sam is awkward by nature, Castiel even more so. But while hunting, Cas acts exactly the same way around Sam as he did before, with maybe the occasional sideways glance. It's like nothing ever took place in between hunts. Business as usual.

Sam would posit that perhaps angels just don't feel embarrassed about anything, but it does get slightly awkward after the first time Cas shoots down a werewolf.

They stare at the body, a bullet hole in its chest.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Cas contemplates his revolver. "This may take some getting used to."

"Well, you're good at it." Almost as good as Dean, Sam thinks.

"...Thank you."

"Yeah." Sam forces an encouraging smile.

Up until this point, Dean had always been the Winchester more gung-ho about putting his dick in weird things.

So that was their one awkward moment.

Well, there's also this one time at Bobby's. Cas sits on the couch, studying the Winchester Gospels with great concentration. When Sam catches a glimpse of the book cover and realizes that Cas is reading "Heart," it sends him into red alert. He dives forward, yelling "NO!" as he snatches the paperback out of Cas's hands. He ungracefully lands elbow-first on the floor.

"It's personal," Sam mumbles by way of explanation. Because being naked with Cas is one thing, but having Cas read about his past romantic exploits in loving, cheesy, full-frontal Harlequin-esque Chuck Shurley detail is just too high up on the crazy scale for Sam to handle.

Cas stares down at him for a long minute before picking the next installment of Supernatural off the shelf.

"You're lucky Prophet Cheetos stopped writing about you boys," Bobby says, taking a sip of his coffee. "There'd be some pretty interesting...twists, in there."

Then there's the time he and Cas are in the car and his iPod plays that Joan Osborne song about "what if God was one of us," and Sam almost breaks a finger in his haste to press "skip."

But at least it isn't awkward at night. There's no room to be awkward, not when Cas throws Sam up against the wall, biting and sucking on his neck like he can't get enough of him.

"We're going to hell for this, aren't we?" Sam pants.

It takes Cas a while to respond. "It's a grain atop a mountain of things we've done."

"Might as well bang a few gongs before the lights go out, huh?"

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just an expression."

It's all good, Sam thinks. Problems only arise when he gets attached to someone, because life has a funny way of brutally killing everything and everyone Sam Winchester professes to love. (It at least had the courtesy of bringing Dean back a few times. Except now, when it matters the most.)

So maybe banging Castiel every once in a while isn't such a bad thing. They're just scratching an itch. Although it says something about how fucked up Sam's life is that getting it on with an angel of the Lord has become the most normal thing he has right now.

As they hover in a point of indecision over whether to fight to find Dean or wait for a sign from him, they spend a lot of time in the library, poring over mythology books. Besides Bobby, Cas is the only person Sam's ever met who cares about this stuff almost as much as he does. And for a brief second, Sam thinks he could get used to this.

Cas looks up from his book to meet Sam's gaze. He does that almost-smile thing with his eyes.

Sam's a goner.

"You're still immortal, right?" Sam feels compelled to ask.

"As far as I know, yes, but I'd rather not test that theory."

They get a fair amount of work done in their down time, researching mythology and the apocalypse and making phone calls that are never picked up, but on some days, Cas will show up with a certain look in his eyes that Sam's come to recognize over time. He'll say, "Sam, could we..." or "Sam, I'd like to..." and he wouldn't even need to finish the sentence.

And Sam never refuses him.

Sam can't decide what he likes more, watching Cas undress for him or getting to undress Cas himself. It's nice that he gets to savor it now, though, unlike the frantic, rushed trysts of a week or two ago, when they couldn't even be bothered with buttons, instead yanking their shirts over their heads and tossing them anywhere.

There's nothing on the agenda today, they're just entangled on the bed, content with looking at each other as Sam carefully unbuttons Cas's shirt. It's barely dusk and Sam is still in the sleep pants he wore all day, nothing else, and the way Cas's knee pushes up between his legs as Cas shifts underneath him causes the warmth inside Sam to spread upwards. Shaky fingers undo the last button and push the fabric open, exposing the smooth, pale chest that Sam never quite sees enough of. Sam rests a hand on the bed so he can get a good look.

Cas doesn't mind him, busy with observing the tattoo on Sam's chest, reaching to trace his fingers along it. His eyes travel up to Sam's lips, and then Sam's eyes. He parts his lips and tilts his head back for a kiss; Sam obliges him, a soft, tentative press of their lips together that gradually intensifies as Cas pushes his tongue forward to taste every inch of Sam's mouth. Cas's hands go from Sam's hair to his shoulders to the dip of his back. He writhes, his warm knee again brushing against where Sam is now fully hard, making Sam push down involuntarily. Sam groans into Cas's mouth when Cas's fingers slip under the waistband and find the curve of Sam's ass. They go deeper, and Sam bucks under the touch.

"Cas, I --"

"Yes?"

His mouth's gone dry all of a sudden.

Cas studies his face. "You want more."

Sam nods shakily. He rolls off of Cas. "There's lube in my backpack," he says.

"Yes, I saw it when you stopped at the gas station." Cas leans over. His fingers hook on the waistband of Sam's sleep pants, gently tugging it down. He stands at the foot of the bed and pulls them off the rest of the way.

"And you didn't say anything?"

"It intrigued me, but I didn't want to push you into anything that made you uncomfortable."

Sam's uncomfortable right now, but not in an unpleasant way. It bubbles under his skin, makes him crave as much of Castiel as his body can handle.

Cas pulls out the bottle and lays it on the bed.

"You sure you know how to use that, Cas?"

"You act as if I've had no access to the internet for the past week."

Whether intentionally or unintentionally, Cas always finds new ways to surprise him.

Cas slides his boxers down along with his pants. He steps out of them and rejoins Sam on the bed, reaching for the bottle.

Sam flinches at the first touch of cold, slick fingers against his entrance. He turns his head to the side, stares out the window. It reminds him of injections at the school clinic; Dean had advised him that staring at the nurse's boobs would make it easier, which of course meant that Sam would stare anywhere but at the nurse's boobs, or the syringe.

He takes a deep breath.

"You're nervous," Cas says, stilling his hand.

"No shit. I've never done this before."

"I won't hurt you."

"I know." Sam squirms around Cas's fingers. "Don't stop."

Cas bends down and takes Sam's nipple in his mouth, the damp heat distracting Sam from the cold pressure inside of him. Cas's fingers push in deeper. He moves up to suck on Sam's lower lip, while with his free hand he palms the head of Sam's dick, and all of that at the same time makes Sam's brain short-circuit.

He's sweating and writhing, legs wrapped around Cas's waist, when he's recovered enough control to talk. "Cas, I'm ready," he grits out.

He whines involuntarily at the sudden emptiness, but Cas shifts back to sit on his heels, lining himself up with Sam. He's hard; his cock pushes against Sam's balls. He lifts Sam's knees up over his shoulders with hardly any effort, then leans forward, steadying himself with his hands on the bed.

Sam chokes out a nervous laugh. "Christ, I don't even know what to do with you."

"Just hold on to me," Cas says seriously.

Sam nods and twines his fingers behind Cas's neck, although his heart just keeps beating faster and faster.

The first push makes him panic internally. It's almost too much and Sam worries that maybe it's not something he's ready for after all. But he arches his back anyway, to take Cas in.

Cas himself is falling apart, his forehead bunched up and his cheeks flushed. "Sam?"

"Keep going. It's okay."

He's agonizingly slow and careful in pushing deeper, to the point that Sam rocks against him, urging him on. Cas pulls out and thrusts in one smooth, quick movement, hits somewhere inside that makes Sam jerk and dig his nails into the back of Cas's neck. Cas does it again, and Sam cries out.

Sam has absolutely no control here. He's giving everything over, and he usually hates that but God it's never felt this good before.

"Harder, Cas," he finds himself saying. So Cas pushes harder, manages to go even further in, and Sam grunts, "Yeah." And Cas does it again, and again, and Sam can't form complete words anymore.

The thrusts quicken as Cas hungrily scrapes his teeth along Sam's jaw, darts his tongue on Sam's earlobe. And Sam needs. His thighs tremble with a searing ache from being held at this angle, while his toes curl in deep pleasure.

"Cas, I need more," Sam chokes out, voice completely wrecked.

"Sam..."

Sam curls his body in, freeing his thighs from Cas's shoulders, then in a swift motion he pulls Cas down to him for a burning kiss, rolling them both over on the bed until Sam is straddling him. He finds Cas's cock again and sinks down, desperate to go harder and faster. He grasps the wall with both hands and rocks up and down, while Cas holds on to Sam's hips to keep him steady.

"Fuck -- Cas, you gotta --"

Cas starts pushing upward, meeting every grind of Sam's, and that's. That's exactly it.

It sends Sam over the edge. He shuts his eyes, braces against the wall and lets the shocks rip through him, one after the other in rapid succession as he screams Cas's name.

He's still shivering, cool forehead pressed to the wall as he comes down from the high. He opens his eyes and finds Cas, still thrusting with every inch of his body, his face twisted in heat.

"Come on, Cas," Sam gasps. He bends down and takes Cas's mouth, fists his hands in the dark mess of hair, kisses hard until he feels Cas shudder beneath him, spilling hot where he's still buried deep in Sam.

"Yeah." His limbs relax as he rests his forehead against Cas's and just breathes. Cas's lips find his again, indulging in a series of short, soft kisses.

They both hiss as Sam pulls himself up and off of Cas, collapsing back on the bed beside him. Cas immediately edges closer, fingers splayed across Sam's chest. He trails kisses all over Sam, from his chin to his collarbone, his rib, his hip, the base of his softening cock.

"Don't you ever get tired?" Sam laughs, throwing his head back against the pillows.

"No." If Sam didn't know any better, he'd think Cas actually sounded proud of that declaration.

"C'mere." He pulls Cas in until Cas's back is pressed up against Sam's chest. He rests his arm over Cas's, letting their fingers intertwine. Sleep comes to Sam not too long after; his ear is pressed against Cas's back, and the very second before he drifts off he thinks he hears Cas's heartbeat slow down.

Castiel doesn't sleep most nights, and Sam has since gotten used to it, but tonight, the sudden emptiness in his arms is enough to wake him up. He's alone on the bed. "Cas?"

He sits up and sees Cas standing by the window, looking down at the cityscape. Sam can't see his face, but the chill in the room tells him it's not good news.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Michael. I heard him talking." Cas turns around to look at Sam, the moonlight from outside illuminating his face. There's sadness there, and a hint of fear, and it's all a ton of lead in Sam's stomach.

"No," Sam says. "No, he can't --"

"I'm sorry, Sam."

He nods quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I have to take a piss."

He can't rush into the bathroom and lock the door fast enough. He leans over the sink as tears cloud up his vision.

It takes him less than a minute, though he can't help punching a wall at one point. Then he washes his face and emerges from the bathroom, eyes perfectly dry.

Castiel is sitting at the edge of the bed. "Are you okay, Sam?"

"I'm fine," Sam says. "I just hate losing, sometimes. I should probably get used to it, but it's. It's not great."

Cas nods. "I understand. Believe me, I really do."

They find out through Chuck that Dean is somewhere in Idaho. It's the first time Chuck's replied to one of Sam's texts with more than "idk."

Huge church right @ the center of minidoka county, cant miss it. Also: SRSLY SAM SRSLY? Gayest visions ever thanks a lot u ginormous hobag

Idaho is a cross-country drive away from their last hunt in Tennessee, so they spend one more night at a motel in Utah.

"So, Cas," Sam whistles, glancing sideways at him on the couch. "Last night on earth. Again. Got anything in mind?"

They have a dozen cheeseburgers delivered to their motel room. Sam eats one.

Then they have a Dr. Sexy, M.D. marathon in honor of Dean, even though Sam hates that stupid show and Cas won't stop asking questions because he doesn't understand what's going on three-quarters of the time.

Sam falls asleep on the couch, his head on Cas's chest.

The room is especially quiet the next morning, as Sam towels off his hair and steps out of the bathroom in what's left of his clean laundry.

He finds Cas kneeling in front of the open window, head bowed and fingers laced together. Praying to a Father who's perfectly okay with watching the world burn.

Sam takes hesitant steps towards him, then crouches down until they're eye to eye.

"Cas?"

"It's all I have left, Sam," Cas whispers, not looking up.

"I know."

Sam leans forward. He takes Cas's clasped hands in his, closes his eyes and prays as hard as he fucking can.

For the occasion, Sam decides that Beatles songs would be appropriate, so that's what plays on loop as they drive the rest of the way to Minidoka County.

"You've displayed more forgiveness than some of us in Heaven, in the face of so much," Cas says when they're close to the church.

Sam shrugs. "Comes with the territory, I guess. My brother's a moron, but he's my brother, so sometimes you have to just rise above it. Even for hugely stupid things like this," he says. "I find that rolling my eyes helps a lot. It's therapeutic. Though it's more effective when Dean's actually around to see it."

Chuck wasn't lying about the "can't miss it" part. The church towers over any building near it, and white light emanates from every window.

Sam steps out of the car and leans against it, taking in the view. He opens and closes his hands a few times, trying to rid himself of the chill in his fingertips.

He's only taken a few steps towards the gate when Cas's hand grabs his shoulder and whirls him around until his lips are pressed against Cas's. Every millimeter and curve of that mouth has become so familiar to him over the past two weeks. Sam allows himself to melt into the kiss, holding onto Cas's hips while Cas tunnels his fingers through Sam's hair.

"Cas?" Sam says against his mouth.

"This might be the last time we see each other."

"Don't talk like that," he says. "We'll be fine, we'll save Dean from those dicks -- no offense -- and you can join us. It'll work out."

Castiel nods, even though the doubt hasn't left his eyes.

No matter how quietly Sam pushes open the door, all eyes turn to him and Castiel the very moment they step into the church.

The interior, with white walls and gold furnishings, is lit by thousands of candles. There are rows of people -- angels, probably, all dressed in white. They stand on either side of the long carpet running all the way up to the altar, where Dean stands with his back turned. He's still wearing the same outfit he had on when he drove away in the Impala two weeks ago.

Dean only turns around when Sam and Castiel are a short distance away from him. He flashes a broad grin at them, with a jarringly vacant look in his eyes.

That's not his brother.

Sam nearly has a breakdown right then and there. His eyes remain dry, but it's suddenly impossible to breathe.

"Hello, Sam. Hello, brother," not-Dean says in a voice that Sam doesn't know at all. He barely gives Sam a passing glance as he zeroes in on Cas. "Castiel. My, how far you have fallen. Once our most loyal warrior, now nothing more than a sinner. Reduced to slaying your own brethren, not to mention consorting with this...hell-spawn," he snarls. His face twists in disgust as he looks at Sam. And even though Sam knows those words aren't Dean's, it's a knife in the gut anyway, hearing them from that mouth.

His jaw hurts from clenching so hard.

The angels smirk or sneer at them. Castiel doesn't respond; he can't even look up from the floor. Sam wants desperately to reach out to him, to tell him he's worth more than any of these so-called angels put together, if he wasn't so certain that gesture would only make things worse. He keeps his hands balled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

"To your credit, at least you kept our darling Sammy" -- the glib use of his nickname makes Sam flinch -- "off of the demon blood this time around. I'm impressed. But I think you and I ought to have a very long discussion after all this is over."

Castiel stares him in the eye, doing an almost decent job of appearing unafraid. "I regret nothing, Michael."

"You were always the endearingly stupid one."

"What the fuck did you do to Dean?" Sam barks.

"Your brother agreed to this," Michael says, "because he knew it was the right thing to do."

"Dean isn't anybody's puppet --"

Michael laughs. "Free will. You romanticize that concept too much." He steps closer, until Sam is forced to look him in the eye. "Wake up, Sam. Look around. When there's so much at stake, sometimes it's not about you anymore." He turns his back on Sam, facing the altar again. "Now stop wasting my time, hell-spawn. Leave, and take that piece of trash with you. The rest of us have important things to do."

Sam briefly exchanges glances with Castiel before walking up to Michael. "I'll fight, too."

"You don't want to do that."

"I'm not leaving."

"Your brother specifically instructed me to evacuate you from this town before the battle commences. He doesn't want you in harm's way." Michael looks at him, a little exasperated, and it's the first thing he's done that reminds Sam of Dean.

"Well, tough shit. I can't sit this out and just pray that Dean will be okay at the end of this. We all know how far prayer's gotten us. I have to fight, Michael."

"Dean warned me of your idiocy," he sighs. "Very well." He digs through his pocket and, to Sam's shock, retrieves Dean's amulet. He tosses it at Sam unceremoniously. "Hold on to this. Dean's a sentimental man. It's his biggest flaw."

The amulet is cold in Sam's hand, but he feels significantly warmer inside.

"I'll come with you, Sam," Castiel says, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"You sure?"

"Regardless of any animosity my brothers and sisters might have for me, I have to do all I can. And I have to protect you. Dean may have sacrificed his own free will, but I believe keeping your free will intact is what's most important in this battle."

Michael raises a hand, and all of the angels form a circle surrounding the three of them. The concrete beneath them starts to shake, while the small embers from the candles become beams of fire shooting heavenward.

"Are you ready?" Michael asks.

Sam looks at Castiel and nods. Cas nods as well.

Michael touches a hand to each of their foreheads, and everything goes white.

Dean is fine.

Other than the fact that he's been comatose for the past five days, he's fine. Wakes up without a scratch, without a drop of blood lost. The doctors can't explain it, and they all look at Sam funny, but "really weird bar fight" is the only explanation Sam can come up with.

Dean's doing better than Sam, in fact. He's up in bed stuffing his face with doughnuts, amulet tucked behind his hospital gown so it won't get any crumbs; meanwhile, Sam has no appetite, a head bandage and burn marks on his ankles, and he was wheelchair-bound until yesterday when he switched to crutches because "it's easier to get to Dean's room this way."

Yes, despite the nurses' annoyance, Sam had insisted on wheeling and then limping himself over to Dean's room first thing in the morning, so he could be there to promptly rip Dean a new asshole the very moment he woke up. It didn't matter how long he had to wait, Sam was so ready to bitch Dean out for giving up on him. He'd sit off to one side, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair until his forearms were frozen in pain.

Sometimes he would take a minute to call Bobby and see if Cas had shown up yet, but he got the same response every time. Then he would wheel himself back to Dean's room, prepared to unleash a well-rehearsed tirade that began with "This is your fault."

But the very moment Dean opened his eyes, turned to Sam and looked absurdly, infuriatingly, painfully happy to see his brother alive, Sam forgot everything he was supposed to say.

And now he's in a chair staring at his near-mummified leg, while Dean holds a doughnut under Sam's nose.

Sam blinks at it and shakes his head. Dean doesn't pull away. "Come on, Sammy, here comes the choo-choo! Open wide!"

He glares at Dean and grudgingly snatches the doughnut.

Dean's brow furrows as he watches Sam barely nibble the icing. "Do I even want to ask about the body count?"

"It's...not pretty," Sam says, glancing out the window. "The town experienced a lot of casualties. The survivors don't know what caused it. Most of them have decided that it was probably a tornado."

"Michael mind-wiped them?"

He nods. "Everybody but us. Said he wanted us to 'learn from this.'"

"Douche," Dean snorts.

"What was it like?"

"With ol' Mikey? Jackass didn't even buy me dinner first." He looks around. "Where's Cas?"

Sam falls silent. The last thing he'd seen in the aftermath was Michael approaching a bloodied, limping Castiel with a serious look on his face, while Sam lay immobile on a pile of debris, unable to feel his legs.

"Follow me," Michael said.

"Yes."

Michael turned his face heavenward. Divine light poured out from his eyes and mouth, while Castiel's entire body disappeared in a flash. Sam would have screamed for Cas not to do it, if he could still use his voice.

The two angels left nothing in their wake except for Dean's unconscious body.

"...Sammy?"

Sam blinks. "I don't know where Cas went."

"You don't think he's --"

"No," he answers without thinking twice.

He'd pray if he had to.

They can't do any hunting while Sam still has a bum leg, so they kill time at Bobby's. It's a well-earned vacation.

"So basically, you had a dude all up in ya for a week," Bobby says, not looking up from his newspaper.

"Shut up, Bobby."

Sam snorts. He's only miffed he didn't think of it first. It's understandable that he wouldn't, though, what with post-apocalypse reflections and Cas's unknown whereabouts running on loop in his mind.

"And anyway, Michael's not a dude," Dean adds.

"Because Michael is such a girly name. Angel-bitch." Bobby's expression softens when he turns to Sam. "Big Daddy was a no-show, huh?"

To his own surprise, Sam doesn't feel any hint of anger. "Things could have been worse, you know. No damage outside of town," he says. "God might not have been on the battlefield, but maybe it's because He was busy guarding the fort."

Sam dreams of empty roads and the Heaven he once saw.

In this dream, he's in his dorm room. His roommate has just left for psych class when Sam spies a flash of trench coat beyond the doorway. He leaps off his bunk bed and out the room.

Outside, it's a deserted park in midday instead of his dorm hallway, and Castiel stands in the middle of a path.

"Cas. Holy shit." Sam's not sure Cas even knows what a hug means, but he can't help himself. He wraps his arms tight and buries his face into the rough material of Cas's coat.

"It's good to see you, Sam."

Sam steps back to look at him. He's every bit as beautiful as Sam remembers. "This isn't the last time I get to see you, is it?"

"I don't know." Then there's a light in Cas's eyes as he adds, "It's in your hands."

"Really?"

"Heaven doesn't appear to be an option, not after all that I've done. I don't think any of them want to see me," he admits. "However, Michael decided to grant me a favor in exchange for having kept Dean alive this whole time. He's kept me hidden from the others and...reassigned me here."

"An ambassador angel," Sam laughs.

"The earth's bodyguard would be a more apt description. But yes. I'd like to keep company with you and Dean, but I won't stay where I'm not welcome."

"Are you insane? You're always welcome. Dean won't stop asking about you. Bobby too. ...Regrettably."

"I still have no idea what he means by 'prison gay.' It's a metaphor of some sort, right?"

Sam shakes his head, grinning. "Don't mind him. Just Bobby being Bobby," he says. Then he fidgets. "By the way, um. The...thing. The us thing?"

One month, and it's still the elephant in the room.

"You mean our frequent sexual relations?"

He raises his eyebrows. "That's one way of putting it. So, about that..."

Cas tilts his head. "You don't need me anymore." He doesn't say it with any trace of hurt or suspicion, just states it like any other fact.

"You're right. I don't," Sam finally says, after a moment's pause. "But that's a good thing. Because the war is over and done and I'm okay and Dean's okay, and I still want you around."

Cas nods. "Good."

"Good."

"It's settled then."

"Yep."

"Right. So..."

"So, um."

Sam's eyes dart around. Cas stands perfectly still, as always. Their gazes meet.

They both go for the kiss at the same time, Sam thinks, although he can't be too sure because he can't look at Cas these days without wanting to kiss him. And he can, and it's awesome, and he doesn't know what the future holds but Cas is in it and Dean's in it and Bobby's in it, so he's not complaining.

Maybe he'll be ruining more of Chuck's dreams, but Chuck made money off of broadcasting his life story, so they're perfectly even as far as Sam is concerned.

It's almost noon when Sam wakes up to Winger blasting right outside his bedroom door, and Bobby's voice booming "Cut that shit out, Dean!"

In the kitchen, he finds everyone at the dining table, where Dean eagerly shoves a plate piled with waffles towards a bemused Cas.

Sam's Heaven would definitely include this.

For their first day back on the road, Dean insists on playing "Don't Stop Believing" on loop ("It was this or 'The Power of Love,' so count your blessings, Sammy"). He ignores all protests in favor of headbanging and lip-synching in that overly enthusiastic way that Sam admittedly kind of missed.

"So, you and Cas, huh?"

"Nope."

"Don't lie, asswipe, Bobby told me."

Sam shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. In the back seat, Castiel stares blankly out the window.

"I thought I was pretty bad, but boy, Sammy, doing demons and angels? You really do get around," Dean says, impressed. "Hey Sammy, did you give him your class ring? Did you read poetry to him over a picnic in the park? Did you deflower him on silk sheets with scented candles and Bif Naked's 'Lucky' on the stereo?"

Cas quite visibly rolls his eyes.

Dean blinks at the rearview mirror. "Cas? Did you just --"

"I'm rising above it." Cas glances at Sam with a half-smile.

Sam covers his mouth with his hand so Dean won't see him laugh.

FIN.

Current Mood: scared
Current Music: "Everybody's Got to Learn Sometime" - Beck