elinorwise

Что сделал отец, Сэм в свои тринадцать не представлял. Зато отлично понимал, как ему повезло, что нашел его в конечном итоге не Джон, а Дин. Брат даже разрешил оттащить Боунса в ближайший приют, а не бросать на произвол судьбы. Вытирая сопли и слезы о мохнатую собачью макушку, Сэм сорвал с ошейника круглый жетон и сунул в карман. Просто так.


Сначала глаза жгло обидой. Потом стыдом. Потом — и тем, и другим сразу. Когда Дин привез его к отцу, тот ни слова не сказал. Сэм стоял в дверном проеме и все держал бляшку зажатой между указательным и средним пальцами.

Волосы для него всегда были больной темой. А в пятнадцать, когда очередная их с Дином войнушка перешла все мыслимые и немыслимые границы, тем более. Слишком много приходилось тогда грызться с отцом за право не стричься регулярно под пресловутый полубокс.


Странное дело. Ведь если Сэму было тогда пятнадцать, то Дину — девятнадцать. Подсчитать — так выходит почти двадцать лет. Верится с большим трудом.

Сэм, как водится, проморгал. В последнее время все чаще вспоминаются такие моменты, кажется теперь: копни Сэм чуть глубже, и правда всплыла наружу бы куда раньше. Сэм глубже копнуть никогда не пытался: Дин всегда очень пекся о семье — все его выходки и слова очень удобно было списывать именно на эту зацикленность.

It may be minutes or hours before Sam is spent. There’s no economy to his breathing now; he sucks in air like a foundered horse. His hair is plastered to his face. His teeth are still bared, but his eyes have gone unfocused. Castiel hauls him close and Sam doesn’t resist. Castiel tastes salt and bitter wax, human things, as his tongue touches Sam’s ear.
“You’re right,” he says. “You could defeat me. You might have an angel blade. I’ve given you one in the past. You might draw on witchcraft, or on your own power. You could trap me in holy oil. You have. You’re a dangerous adversary. But strength against strength, when I am myself, you will lose. Every time. And I’m claiming my prize.”
A long shudder goes through Sam’s body against Castiel’s. Then, effortfully, he raises his head. He’s grinning.
“My prize,” he says. “You think I’d wrestle an angel for who tops if I’d wanted to win?”

“Sam,” Castiel starts slowly, and Sam doesn’t jump this time, for which Cas is grateful. Sam looks at him, questioning when Castiel doesn’t continue for a few moments, and he steels himself. “Have you been seeing Lucifer lately?”
Sam’s body goes rigid and his eyes shutter, the mug settling on the table with a muted clatter as coffee spills from the edges; he doesn’t let go of it even as the scalding liquid splashes on his hands.
“No,” he grits out after a second.
And Castiel believes him, he does. But-- he reaches out and peels Sam’s fingers from around the hot mug, and holds him in his hands. His hands are pink, and the fingers are a deep red. The new scratches are already scabbed over, covering older scratches and scars.
“Does this help?” Castiel asks quietly. Sam doesn’t answer.
For the first time since healing the damage from the Trials, Cas heals Sam again. Letting the stolen grace burn through him and wash over Sam, not only healing his hands, but also easing some of the tension in his shoulders.
Sam still flinches hard before snatching his hands away. He starts rubbing at his palm furiously, biting at his lip.
Castiel’s heart aches.
“I’m sorry,” Sam starts, “I just--”
“It’s alright,” Castiel says. He can understand how an angel's grace could be disorienting and frightening after being possessed by one. He also understands the appeal of pain, the distraction it provides. The faux relief.
There is something indecipherable in Sam’s eyes as he stares at Cas, something small and uncertain. Cas wishes he had his own graces, that he was at full power.
He’d never felt helpless before he met the Winchesters. After that, helpless seems to be the only thing he feels.
A crack splits Sam’s voice through as he speaks, “Are you- are you real?”

“Favorite button right here, isn’t it, Sammy?” Sam groans again. “Yeah, that’s what you need. You think he could give it to you like this? That anyone could? Only me, baby. You know you missed me… It’s okay, I know you’re not big on words…”
Lucifer doesn’t wrap his hand back around Sam’s dick. He doesn’t need to.
He simply steadies his stance, corrects the angle just a tad. “Come on,” he growls, and he sounds almost like—Cas. Without meaning to. “Come the fuck on, bitch.”
Sam spasms; gulps. Attempts to eat his hand further but Lucifer yanks that away, makes him be loud—fucks him through it, just as unwavering as before. Buries Cas’ teeth in Sam’s shoulder and roars as he locks his hips—unloads, buried deep, and Sam cringes head to toe. Sobs.
“Hey, no, nuh-uh—” Lucifer snaps his finger next to Sam’s face and Sam startles despite himself, full-body “—no, honey, you’re not getting out of this. Feel him.”
Sam does. He does.
Those fingers feed themselves into his mouth. Stir behind his teeth, around his tongue. Sam splutters. Moans.
“Turning those tables now. You think of him when I fuck you? Fine—now you will always think of me when he fucks you. Or, me, fucking you. ‘It’s me, after all.’”
“No…”
“‘Yes.’”

Castiel looks up at Sam, excited like a child. Sam gives him a warm, fatherly smile. Castiel is filled to the brim with joy but he doesn’t leap and dance like his soul wants to. Sam squeezes his hand. Castiel squeezes back.
Sam whispers, “Watch, Father,” and Castiel wants to ask what he should watch, and then his head turns to his right, away from Sam, where one person after the other tips themselves over the cliff, smiling, their eyes fixed on Castiel—no, on Sam, right behind Castiel.
The wind whips everyone’s hair and clothes around like in play and they don’t laugh as they fall but Castiel does; one excited sound he can’t quite suppress, and something tells him he should be screaming instead (and maybe he did). His free hand comes up to cover his mouth, to stifle his giggles.
The ocean is too loud on its own to hear the bodies splashing, submerging. Within seconds, Castiel and Sam are the only people left on the cliff. The waves keep moving countless miles below them.
The salt is light in the air; Castiel can finally remove his hand, can stand and wait for instructions. Eyes on Sam, who turns to smile at the water; back at Cas. A giddy boy, awaiting a treat.
Castiel’s face feels split with his wide smile. “Sam, are you God?”
Sam says, “Something like that.”

They climb into the front from opposite sides, while Jack stays outside to make sure Dean doesn’t miss the car that he’d parked just a few hours ago. He furtively presses his thigh against Castiel’s for a second and gives him a small smile, one returned with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re drunk,” Cas says, a little bemused, and Sam shrugs.
“A little. I’d be happy to see you even if I wasn’t.” The sound of a bell ringing as Dean walks out of the bar pulls Sam’s attention away from Castiel, and he shifts back a few inches.
He expects Jack to open the other door and slide into the back, but the nephilim follows Sam into the front seat, taking up most of the remaining seat just as Dean walks up to the car and frowns at all of them. Dean would have probably tolerated Sam and Cas up there with him, but there’s barely a foot of seat left with Jack on the end. 
“Taking the front seat of a man’s own car,” Dean grumbles, and doesn’t make any moves to open the back door. Sam sighs. 
“Move, Jack, I’ll switch to the back,” Sam says, knowing this really is the kind of thing Dean, even drunk, probably won’t compromise on and really not caring enough to let it hold it up.
“No, there’s room,” Jack insists, and pushes himself over, right into Sam. Sam, without really thinking about it, moves over too, and finds his thigh pressed against Cas’s again – and the rest of his body too, not altogether comfortably. Dean curses and climbs in, and slams the door shut behind him. Sam can feel his elbow digging into Castiel’s side as everyone is squashed a few inches further and the angel starts the car.
Dean glowers at the rest of them, and even though Sam had been on the brink of a half-laugh at how ridiculous all four of them being in the front seat is, he holds it back and shoots his brother a look instead.
“It’s a ten-minute drive, you’ll live,” Sam says, and flips on the radio, which is playing commercials when he turns it on. The last ad fades out, and In the Air Tonight starts playing, and Sam cranks up the volume to block out any complaints.

"You are allowed to simply sleep, Sam."
“No, that’s – I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam says with a half-laugh. And then he goes quiet, and sighs, though not sadly; it’s a noise that’s maybe the closest to contentment he’s felt in a while. “I almost don’t even want to sleep, you know? Not because of nightmares, for once. Things are just... good.”
Cas tilts his head, considering. “That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to sleep for a few hours.”
“But… I’m not, right? Not without accepting that I could wake up and it could all be gone." He shifts, folds his arms behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. Sam doesn't feel crushed or defeated when he replies to Cas with that, because, well, it's just true. The worst happens when he least expects it. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a downer.”
Cas smooths Sam’s hair back, shrugs off his coat and folds it at the foot of the bed, and settles back down next to Sam, pressing his cheek against Sam’s shoulder. “You’re fine. We can stay like this.”
And they do.