(no subject)

[elinorwise]

“Sam,” he says, though he’s not trying to get away.
“Look, I’m trying to prove a point,” Sam says, sighing. “You taste—”
“Don't say my blood tastes good, don’t you dare—”
“No, I was gonna say human.”
“What?”
“If you weren’t— If you weren’t one hundred percent cured, I’d be able to tell, okay?”
Cas looks at him for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then he does try to get away, but Sam holds the blade against his throat again.
He bites back a moan, managing to replace it by saying, “Sam, please.”
“Listen to me. If you weren’t one hundred percent cured, I’d know. And I wouldn’t let this blade anywhere near you. And I think… I get it, alright? And you need to listen to me when I say there’s nothing bad left in there,” Sam says, putting his palm on his chest.
Right then, Cas almost says something about how he tried but couldn’t leave his body because of the tattoo in his chest. It worked both ways, as it turned out: no evil gets in, no evil gets out. Sam likes to pretend Cas wasn’t himself, but deep down, they both know the truth. He wasn’t possessed; it was him, trapped inside his body, chained to his unholy mission. Him, alone. Him, a God.

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