fic: fire on babylon
So, this is for twirlycurl's prompt at ohsam's fic meme challenge: Sam is conviced that as soon as he dies, he's headed straight back to hell. Cas convinces him otherwise.
I took that, and this is what developed. I was unsure if you wanted slash or gen, so this is gen and hopefully is good, hurty comfort for ya! Thanks for being so very patient, and I hope you like this! <3
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; gen; post s5 h/c of the Sam and Cas variety (and since this is post s5 and not any more specific than that, I took liberties. They are apparent ;P ).
fire on babylon
Cas is the one that sees it. Dean's gone, past two days spent repenting at Lisa's feet, making up for sins even Sam knows Lisa could care less about. Sam doesn't begrudge him, not really (what would he do, if there was a way, to get Jess back and Stanford and laughing til he was sick with it). But his heart's beating a painful march in his chest, and there's an angel lingering at the edge of his bed.
"You were screaming," Cas informs him, as if Sam had no idea, couldn't feel the raw scrape of breath sliding up his throat. Sam still flinches away, some stupid reflex kicking in, making his muscles tighten and relax, over and over, because Cas is too calm, too hidden and here.
"Right," Sam says, and he starts to throw the sheet off of him, but Cas's hand on his shoulder stops him.
"God is not chaos, Sam. You better than anyone should know neither is Lucifer." Cas stops, and Sam thinks maybe he's realizing how little sense that made, but Cas continues, "these things you think you see - "
"I'm not crazy, okay, but thanks anyway." Sam shrugs the hand off (and he thinks about the mark on Dean, how it burned and redeemed, but when he looks down, it's only his own even, unbroken skin).
"Still. They are not true." Then, when he's apparently done trying to infer Sam's level of crazy, he says, "the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much."
"I'm not righteous and God isn't here, Cas."
"But I am, and do you think I would ever let you suffer hell again?" Cas stops, dark eyes liquid and too close. "You saved us all. You suffered so that we could live. You are a righteous, deserving man."
It's strange to be poked and prodded by an angel, but Cas shifts at him, gets Sam lying flat on the bed, and when Sam's still, Cas bends low, light pressure of lips at Sam's forehead, hands at Sam's heart. "Just call me, Sam. Call me, wherever you think you are, and I will pull you back."
**
Everything's easy, when Dean's back. He's quick smiles and conversation, and Sam sinks into the Impala's seats like they could swallow him.
He can't explain why, though, when he asks about Lisa, and Dean grins so wide and helplessly, his heart breaks a little at the sight.
**
If there's one thing Sam's learned it's that there are supernatural things everywhere.
Only Sam, though (and Sam knows this because Dean had ranted endlessly about it for the half hour car ride back to the motel, and then for the time it took to bandage up Sam's wounds) only he would trip over a loose board on a dock above infested waters (and it's Florida, Sam would think alligators or some shit, not - fuckin swamp sprites). Because god hates him, or demons love him or he's just that much of a fuckin pain in the ass, Sam, fuckin hold still, for fuck's sake.
Another twenty minutes and his ripped, raw skin is bandaged as much as it can be, and Sam closes his eyes to bubbling water and glimpses of green slime faces and piranha teeth.
Bright points of pain fade into dullness, with a shot of Jack and some pain killers. He's propped up on one of the beds, dozing, when he hears the clink of keys and that peculiar dry whooshing that lets him know an angel's near by.
"Dean."
"Cas."
Sam cracks an eye open, sees leather jackets and trenchcoats over stiff shoulders, faces turned away from him and sizing each other up in ways that Sam would consider eyefucking if it didn't look so close to potential homicide.
"You're leaving?" Sam's voice is a joke, cracked and leaking everywhere. "When'd you call him?"
"I've only just got here," Cas says, finally facing him, but Sam bats his words away, stares at his brother, until Dean's jaw tightens, shoulders slumping.
"Just - going out for a bit, Sammy. I need." Light-hearted and useless, all mangled words and Dean's so much better at acting, when he wants to be. Sam still scoffs, though, throat tight and body flushing with pain as he struggles up.
"What - " he starts just as Dean snaps out, "fuckin quit, bitch," but his brother doesn't move. He leaves Sam to it and that's enough. That says it all.
"Look, Sam," and each word gets Dean closer to the door, puts an angel between them. "Cas is here in case you need anything, all right? You'll be fine."
Sam's hands shake, and he can feel the heavy sandy weight of fever and painkillers rippling through his muscles. "I'm not a kid, Dean," he manages to grit out, feeling just like one. "I was just curious."
Sam watches his brother's hand curl over the knob, the twist and flick of a wrist before the door squeaks open, lets in a gust of stale, warm air that sets Sam shivering. "And now you know."
When he's gone, Cas (stiff, uncomfortable, earnest) says, "Sam, what has happened to you?"
It's seems double-edged, a vague hurt, and Sam thinks, Dean didn't tell you? but he only mutters, "stupidity."
Cas nods like it was a foregone conclusion.
Sam's drifting. Not sleeping, not quite awake. He can hear the rustle and peck of Cas at the laptop, and he'd say something, like be careful, god be careful. Cas makes little humming noises, and Sam hopes the angel managed to pull up the article on basilisks and not Dean's ... whatever.
Sam doesn't know how long Cas keeps it up, but the noises eventually fade. The side of his face turned toward the room burns. Cas is staring. "Stop trying to force your brother to be what you need. He isn't. He can't." Cas stops, and Sam knows the shape of wrong words, the way they clutter your mouth, fill in the spaces around your regret, so he waits, too, head pressed back into pillows, sweat gathering in the crook of his elbows, in the dip of his collarbones. Cas says, "it's hurting him. You are."
Sam's thinking infection. The slow burn of his skin under sloppy bandages (Dean's shaking hands, like getting hurt is new, something to fear), the jolts of pain with the slight weight of a sheet over him. He can't move. He literally cannot move, and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. This is it, he thinks, this is what Dean doesn't want to see - Sam burning up, burning away (and he's going to, no other choice, not now).
"Sam," Cas is leaning over him, and the move's achingly familiar, Cas's worn face blurred and close. There are twins dots of cool pressure between his brows, swirling up and around him, and pulling him under.
He hears, "you are forgiven, Samuel, just rest, now."
There are gallons of blood bursting inside him. He can feel the beat of it fast in his veins, swimming behind his eyes. It's a dream, it is - the feel of Cas's fingers are still ghosting along his skin - but the taste in his mouth is real, the mess on his shirt is, and he wants to wake up, nownownow, but he can't. He won't.
Words tumble from his mouth, "you need to save heaven from itself," and the murky shape in front of him sharpens, like that was the allowance Cas needed to break away, walk toward him. Sam smiles, automatic, and he tries for warm, tries for alright. You can go, and I don't want you here.
I have to suffer.
Cas says, "I need my friends to be okay," and it's such a childish thing to say, a genuine wish, that Sam opens his mouth to say I am, I am, you don't have to be here.
What he says is, "I'm sorry."
Cas inclines his head, but it's not surrender, and Sam's only aware of the heat and darkness around him, slinking up behind him, when it starts closing in, gripping and squeezing at his ankles, his wrists.
"I will kill them all, and we'll. There will be only you and me here. I will see to it." Cas's voice is dark and gravel. Warm. Everything Sam wants to hear, and he doesn't mistake the meaning, the intent, in the way the darkness recoils (dry whispered screams, and Sam thinks I know you, I know you, blonde and young and I murdered you).
"Kill all of them," Sam says slowly, "all these demons," when what he wants to say is thank you thank you thank you, when all that's left is them. Because Cas would, Sam thinks. He really would.
I took that, and this is what developed. I was unsure if you wanted slash or gen, so this is gen and hopefully is good, hurty comfort for ya! Thanks for being so very patient, and I hope you like this! <3
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; gen; post s5 h/c of the Sam and Cas variety (and since this is post s5 and not any more specific than that, I took liberties. They are apparent ;P ).
fire on babylon
Cas is the one that sees it. Dean's gone, past two days spent repenting at Lisa's feet, making up for sins even Sam knows Lisa could care less about. Sam doesn't begrudge him, not really (what would he do, if there was a way, to get Jess back and Stanford and laughing til he was sick with it). But his heart's beating a painful march in his chest, and there's an angel lingering at the edge of his bed.
"You were screaming," Cas informs him, as if Sam had no idea, couldn't feel the raw scrape of breath sliding up his throat. Sam still flinches away, some stupid reflex kicking in, making his muscles tighten and relax, over and over, because Cas is too calm, too hidden and here.
"Right," Sam says, and he starts to throw the sheet off of him, but Cas's hand on his shoulder stops him.
"God is not chaos, Sam. You better than anyone should know neither is Lucifer." Cas stops, and Sam thinks maybe he's realizing how little sense that made, but Cas continues, "these things you think you see - "
"I'm not crazy, okay, but thanks anyway." Sam shrugs the hand off (and he thinks about the mark on Dean, how it burned and redeemed, but when he looks down, it's only his own even, unbroken skin).
"Still. They are not true." Then, when he's apparently done trying to infer Sam's level of crazy, he says, "the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much."
"I'm not righteous and God isn't here, Cas."
"But I am, and do you think I would ever let you suffer hell again?" Cas stops, dark eyes liquid and too close. "You saved us all. You suffered so that we could live. You are a righteous, deserving man."
It's strange to be poked and prodded by an angel, but Cas shifts at him, gets Sam lying flat on the bed, and when Sam's still, Cas bends low, light pressure of lips at Sam's forehead, hands at Sam's heart. "Just call me, Sam. Call me, wherever you think you are, and I will pull you back."
**
Everything's easy, when Dean's back. He's quick smiles and conversation, and Sam sinks into the Impala's seats like they could swallow him.
He can't explain why, though, when he asks about Lisa, and Dean grins so wide and helplessly, his heart breaks a little at the sight.
**
If there's one thing Sam's learned it's that there are supernatural things everywhere.
Only Sam, though (and Sam knows this because Dean had ranted endlessly about it for the half hour car ride back to the motel, and then for the time it took to bandage up Sam's wounds) only he would trip over a loose board on a dock above infested waters (and it's Florida, Sam would think alligators or some shit, not - fuckin swamp sprites). Because god hates him, or demons love him or he's just that much of a fuckin pain in the ass, Sam, fuckin hold still, for fuck's sake.
Another twenty minutes and his ripped, raw skin is bandaged as much as it can be, and Sam closes his eyes to bubbling water and glimpses of green slime faces and piranha teeth.
Bright points of pain fade into dullness, with a shot of Jack and some pain killers. He's propped up on one of the beds, dozing, when he hears the clink of keys and that peculiar dry whooshing that lets him know an angel's near by.
"Dean."
"Cas."
Sam cracks an eye open, sees leather jackets and trenchcoats over stiff shoulders, faces turned away from him and sizing each other up in ways that Sam would consider eyefucking if it didn't look so close to potential homicide.
"You're leaving?" Sam's voice is a joke, cracked and leaking everywhere. "When'd you call him?"
"I've only just got here," Cas says, finally facing him, but Sam bats his words away, stares at his brother, until Dean's jaw tightens, shoulders slumping.
"Just - going out for a bit, Sammy. I need." Light-hearted and useless, all mangled words and Dean's so much better at acting, when he wants to be. Sam still scoffs, though, throat tight and body flushing with pain as he struggles up.
"What - " he starts just as Dean snaps out, "fuckin quit, bitch," but his brother doesn't move. He leaves Sam to it and that's enough. That says it all.
"Look, Sam," and each word gets Dean closer to the door, puts an angel between them. "Cas is here in case you need anything, all right? You'll be fine."
Sam's hands shake, and he can feel the heavy sandy weight of fever and painkillers rippling through his muscles. "I'm not a kid, Dean," he manages to grit out, feeling just like one. "I was just curious."
Sam watches his brother's hand curl over the knob, the twist and flick of a wrist before the door squeaks open, lets in a gust of stale, warm air that sets Sam shivering. "And now you know."
When he's gone, Cas (stiff, uncomfortable, earnest) says, "Sam, what has happened to you?"
It's seems double-edged, a vague hurt, and Sam thinks, Dean didn't tell you? but he only mutters, "stupidity."
Cas nods like it was a foregone conclusion.
Sam's drifting. Not sleeping, not quite awake. He can hear the rustle and peck of Cas at the laptop, and he'd say something, like be careful, god be careful. Cas makes little humming noises, and Sam hopes the angel managed to pull up the article on basilisks and not Dean's ... whatever.
Sam doesn't know how long Cas keeps it up, but the noises eventually fade. The side of his face turned toward the room burns. Cas is staring. "Stop trying to force your brother to be what you need. He isn't. He can't." Cas stops, and Sam knows the shape of wrong words, the way they clutter your mouth, fill in the spaces around your regret, so he waits, too, head pressed back into pillows, sweat gathering in the crook of his elbows, in the dip of his collarbones. Cas says, "it's hurting him. You are."
Sam's thinking infection. The slow burn of his skin under sloppy bandages (Dean's shaking hands, like getting hurt is new, something to fear), the jolts of pain with the slight weight of a sheet over him. He can't move. He literally cannot move, and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. This is it, he thinks, this is what Dean doesn't want to see - Sam burning up, burning away (and he's going to, no other choice, not now).
"Sam," Cas is leaning over him, and the move's achingly familiar, Cas's worn face blurred and close. There are twins dots of cool pressure between his brows, swirling up and around him, and pulling him under.
He hears, "you are forgiven, Samuel, just rest, now."
There are gallons of blood bursting inside him. He can feel the beat of it fast in his veins, swimming behind his eyes. It's a dream, it is - the feel of Cas's fingers are still ghosting along his skin - but the taste in his mouth is real, the mess on his shirt is, and he wants to wake up, nownownow, but he can't. He won't.
Words tumble from his mouth, "you need to save heaven from itself," and the murky shape in front of him sharpens, like that was the allowance Cas needed to break away, walk toward him. Sam smiles, automatic, and he tries for warm, tries for alright. You can go, and I don't want you here.
I have to suffer.
Cas says, "I need my friends to be okay," and it's such a childish thing to say, a genuine wish, that Sam opens his mouth to say I am, I am, you don't have to be here.
What he says is, "I'm sorry."
Cas inclines his head, but it's not surrender, and Sam's only aware of the heat and darkness around him, slinking up behind him, when it starts closing in, gripping and squeezing at his ankles, his wrists.
"I will kill them all, and we'll. There will be only you and me here. I will see to it." Cas's voice is dark and gravel. Warm. Everything Sam wants to hear, and he doesn't mistake the meaning, the intent, in the way the darkness recoils (dry whispered screams, and Sam thinks I know you, I know you, blonde and young and I murdered you).
"Kill all of them," Sam says slowly, "all these demons," when what he wants to say is thank you thank you thank you, when all that's left is them. Because Cas would, Sam thinks. He really would.