Syncretic criminality (Sam/Dean, pg13, 3k, au)
Syncretic criminality
(Sam/Dean and mild Sam/Ruby, pg13, 3k, au)
On The Head Of A Pin - if the Winchester family business were organized crime rather than hunting the supernatural.
For artofempty who requested more crime-verse in aid of help_japan. Hope you like it! Many thanks to giandujakiss for the beta, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Ruby's a cop but she's dirty. Make that filthy. She's got her fingers in everything and just when Sam thinks he's got her trapped in a lie, she turns it around until she's back on his side and he's not even sure which side that is anyway.
Dean hates her. It's not surprising; Dean doesn't like anything that comes in a shade of gray, he doesn't believe in it. Gray means Dean has to think for himself, has to make his own decisions, trust his own judgment. Dean's a problem-solver, not a decision-maker, and most of his solutions come from the barrel of a gun.
"Are they gone?" says Ruby, peering over Sam's shoulder into the hotel room before she steps inside.
Sam closes the door behind her. "They're gone."
She sets her bag down on the desk and shrugs off her leather jacket. She's a tiny little woman, a single drop of neat alcohol and still enough kick to make your eyes water. "You figured out what agency they're with yet?"
Sam eyes Dean's black suit jacket, hooked over the back of the chair like a sleeping bat. Castiel and Uriel got Dean out the door so fast Dean didn't even have chance to grab it.
"Not even sure they're government," Sam says.
Ruby snorts, wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Sure they are. They stink of it." Her tongue curls in her cheek as she considers. "Just be nice to know what exactly their interest is."
She leans herself up against the desk, cocks her head at Sam, and Sam is reminded, despite her sharp edges, just how soft Ruby can be. Her eyes glitter, hard and cold as gemstones.
"So what do you want from me?" she says.
It's all invitation but Sam has other things on his mind. He shoves his hands in his pants pockets and paces the room.
"Castiel and Uriel, they've got this guy in custody, they think he knows who's been killing their field agents. And apparently, Dean knew him, they were on the same block in prison or something. They think Dean's got some leverage, like, he'll talk to Dean." Or Dean knows which buttons to press to get him talking.
Ruby's wide pink mouth - and Sam has always had a weakness for kissable mouths - opens up in surprise. Her eyebrows have been steadily rising the whole time Sam's been talking.
"Are you talking about Alistair?" she says. She laughs, shaking her head like this she's already halfway to telling Sam to fuck off. "Jesus, tell me you're not talking about Alistair."
Sam nods slowly. "We kinda ran into him before. Dean said…"
Dean didn't say anything. Dean cried. He cried hot, wet tears that ran like blood over Sam's skin when he cupped Dean's face in his hands.
He never used to cry so easily. It used to be other people who cried, while Dean stood by, black-suited and dry-eyed, Dean who shrugged and said "Business is business, what do you want me to say?"
The sight of Dean so wretched horrifies Sam. It makes him angry and sad and protective. It makes him want to hurt people and it makes him want to touch Dean. It does everything he would expect it to, and it does one other: it makes him faintly embarrassed.
"Alistair's a grade-A psychopath," says Ruby. "He used to be in the business, years back, except he enjoyed it just way too much. He likes cutting people up. That's what he does. He cuts them up. Any time he gets an appetite for it. You can't control a guy like that."
"Dean said he did a little work for him, while he was inside." Sam's tone leaves room for Ruby to correct him with an explanation of how that just can't be right. Because Dean's an animal, but he's one John trained.
But Ruby shrugs, glossy dark hair sliding over her bare shoulders. "It happens. You do what you have to to survive, whoever it means getting in bed with." She smiles at Sam, a smile designed to wind him up. "Just be grateful big brother didn't come back with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his chest."
Sam tries not to think about Dean in prison. It's a fixed point on their timeline, a measure for all other events. That happened before Dean went to prison, that happened after. It's a boundary that doesn't just split Dean in two, but Sam as well.
"Can you find out where they've taken him?" he says.
Ruby studies him for an unreadable moment. "Not impossible, I've got contacts," she says finally. "But, Sam, c'mon, do you really want to get involved in something like this? Why not just let them do their thing? They're professionals. If anyone can handle Alistair, they can."
If they're pinning their hopes on Dean, they can't handle Alistair. Dean's spine will snap like spun sugar under the weight of Alistair. And Sam has to get there before that can happen, before Castiel and the others can see what has been done to his big brother.
"Dean isn't…" He wets his lips. His mouth is dry because he knows how much Dean would hate him telling Ruby this. He's taking things outside of the family that belong only in a look shared between him and Dean. "He isn't what he used to be. He can't… He's not strong enough to do this."
Ruby leans forward, and as she does so, the neck of her charcoal-gray t-shirt slides down to reveal the soft fullness of her breasts.
"And you are?" she says. Her voice is a ribbon. It's wrapped around Sam in a neat bow, leading him to bad things.
He takes his eyes off the swell of her breasts, his gaze falling heavily on her bag. His breathing is already thicker than it was moments before.
"I will be," he says.
:::
The first time, and the last time, that Dean did drugs, John took one look at the stupid smile on his face, dragged him outside and beat him seven ways 'til Sunday. It was a lesson learned for both Dean and Sam. Dean stuck to cigarettes, and even they were quickly stubbed out as soon as John came in the room. And every time somebody offered Sam something at college parties, he remembered Dean's bloodied shock after John was done with him and turned them down.
If he'd known it could be like this, he'd have said yes. And yes, and yes again.
You have to stay in control, John had said, and Sam is, with Ruby's needle working its magic the moment it pierces his skin. Sam's blood crackles and roars. His fingers shear off to blunt fists. His jaw is wired shut. He's rage in motion.
The mist on the night road flies away like ghosts as the Impala sweeps through. Sam drives too fast, way too fast, but the ride is smooth as polished ice, because Sam is focused. Sam is intent.
The destination Ruby gave him is an old meat-packing factory. It's a block of corrugated metal and broken glass windows. From the trunk of the car, Sam takes a knife and a gun, and the weapons slot into place in his hands like the chambering of a bullet. He strides inside, knife tucked down the back of his pants and his gun lowered at his side. He doesn't have the time or the patience for defense.
He follows the single light down the dingy passages and finds the scene of interrogation, which looks to be over.
Dean is unmoving on the floor, on his side, beaten with a thoroughness that speaks of enjoyment. His white shirt is sodden with blood so the fabric clings perversely to the sculptured shape of his body. He should have his fucking jacket on, is all Sam can think at the sight of him. People wouldn't be able to see all that blood if he just had his fucking jacket on. People wouldn't be able to see the damage done if he'd just covered it up better.
Across the room, Alastair is steadily punching the life out of Castiel.
Alastair is a wiry man with a goatish face carved out of malice. It is hard for Sam to believe that he was ever a child, that he had a mother, that he comes from somewhere. It seems more likely that he sprang, fully-formed, from Dean's own prison-addled mind.
Sam raises his gun and shoots him. Just in the hip, debilitating but not fatal. As Alastair goes down, Castiel scrambles away and is back on his feet in an impressively short space of time. His dark hair is disheveled and there's blood and dirt down the front of his trenchcoat.
"We need him alive, Sam," he says.
Sam steps over Dean's body and moves in on Alastair, who squirms and laughs through the bloody foam bubbling at his mouth.
"Who's behind the killings?" Sam says.
Alastair laughs some more. He looks away from Sam, and though Sam doesn't follow the direction of his eyes, he knows he's looking at Dean, just a short distance away, bleeding and broken.
His laugh ebbs to a low, throaty chuckle. "Maybe I might have told Dean, maybe. But I'm not telling you. It's a secret."
Sam wants to punch him for ever having Dean's name in his mouth, for savoring it the way he does. Most of all, Sam wants to punch him for all the times he would have said it while Dean was locked up with him.
He puts the gun in Alastair's face.
"Tell me."
Alastair swallows thickly and shakes his head. "Nu-uh, not until you ask as nicely as Dean did. Big brother knew how to beg."
Alastair's eyes just have chance to go wide before Sam shoves the knife through his collarbone. It goes in so deep Sam could swear he can hear its point scraping the ground beneath him. Alastair groans and sweat dribbles faster down his sour milk skin.
"Tell. Me." Sam matches each word with a twist of the knife, one clockwise, one counter, working a gaping red hole in Alastair's flesh.
But it's not the knife in him that holds Alastair's attention, even as he grunts and shudders. It's the light in Sam's eyes. Sam likes the idea that, for the first time, Alastair is seeing something nastier than his own reflection.
"It's not us!" says Alastair, as though the words are bursting out of him. "You think we know where to find them? Or who they are? We only know when they're hunting us down. If we could find them, you'd have a lot more corpses to deal with, believe me. Whoever's doing it, it's someone who knows."
Sam flicks a look at Castiel, whose only response is a deepening frown. He avoids Sam's gaze, and Sam takes it as all the confirmation he needs.
"So what now?" says Alastair. He sucks the blood gathering at the corner of his lips back into his mouth, flickers his tongue at Sam. "Are you going to send me back to prison? Find another box to put me in until I break out of that one too?"
Sam strokes the trigger of his gun thoughtfully.
"We need him alive," Castiel says again, like it's all the contribution he can make to the conversation.
Alastair rolls his eyes. He has the nerve to look mildly disappointed. "Oh well, you let me know when you've decided. I'll just lie here and wait."
"Sam," says Castiel. He's taking a step towards him and Sam's surprised that he's sure enough of himself to risk it. If Castiel could hear how fast Sam's heart is drumming, he wouldn't be sure at all. "We need him ali-"
"I don't," says Sam, and puts a bullet in Alastair's face.
:::
Sam sits by Dean's bed in the hospital until the comedown hits. Then he can't sit down, can't stand, can't do anything. He burns up. His bones become snakes. So he paces backwards and forwards outside, face turned upwards, breathing huge lungfuls of frozen night air.
Ruby calls, and he doesn't answer. With the crisis relegated to past tense, Sam has the luxury of looking back and doubting himself. Perhaps there was a better way to have done it. Perhaps he could have coped without Ruby, and Ruby's needle.
Sam is struck by what a beautiful thought that is. It's been a long time since he's been able to have a conversation to Dean that hasn't necessitated him telling at least one little lie. And therein lies the problem: it's necessary. Everything Sam does is necessary. He does it because nobody else can.
He feels a kinship with John then, more in that moment than ever before. Dean is a player, a pawn, like the others. They don't see the board they're playing on, like John did, like Sam does. They don't know how a business like theirs truly runs, and what has to be done to keep it running. But it's two years now since John was murdered in prison, and all the regrettable things that were his due have fallen to Sam.
Grounding himself in the memory of a dead man, his heartbeat cools to a point that could almost be comfortable. An ambulance siren whines around the front of the hospital, and Sam feels that his time is up. It's time for him to go back. He sweeps his hair off his face, adjusts the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, slides his jacket on to hide the sweat patches beneath his arms.
When he returns to Dean's bedside, he's irritated to find his seat has been taken. Smooth little government-man, Castiel is sitting there, his steepled fingers resting against his cracked, white mouth. His eyes are on Dean's face, who continues to drift in fragile sleep.
Castiel looks up and studies Sam, one species meeting another. They are different species. Castiel is law and order, Sam is revenge and chaos. It's not business to Castiel, it's duty, bloodless and neat.
"I have informed my superiors what happened and we've dealt with the informant," he says.
Sam ignores him. Instead, he approaches Dean's bed and waits for Castiel to surrender his seat.
He's missed Dean sleeping. He would like to lie down next to him and close his eyes and pretend that he will wake to someone else taking charge, someone like Dean.
For a little while, they shared a bed, and Sam misses the easy connection of skin. Dean would sleep behind him, mouth pressed to the broader plane of Sam's shoulders like nobody had told him his little brother was taller, bigger. And in the early mornings, Dean's half-hard dick would be pressed to Sam's ass, and Sam would jerk off so gently he wouldn't wake him while he thought about Jess, and Megan Fox, and the sandy-haired girl in the library who sucked on the top of her pen while she read her book, and faceless bodies of hard muscle.
Since prison, Dean has kept his body from him. He sleeps fully dressed, under the blanket of his jacket.
Sam straightens the line of Dean's jacket, waiting over the back of a chair, ready for Dean to put back on as soon as he is out of the hospital bed, before the bruises have even begun to fade.
Something catches Sam's eye, and he leans in to study Dean's face. He feels a spike of panic, which quickly transforms itself into blinding anger.
Dean's cheeks shine with the tackiness of recent tears. Dean cried while Castiel has been in the room. Castiel has seen Sam's big brother break down into soft, trembling distress, and he will never forget it. Castiel will always know what Dean's little pink heart looks like, because Dean has let him see.
Sam struggles to keep his breath.
"Has he been awake at all?" he asks, very carefully, very neutrally.
"For a while," says Castiel.
Sam waits for it, and sure enough,
"We talked," says Castiel.
"And what exactly did you talk about?" Sam says.
When Sam turns to chase an answer, Castiel is looking back at him, blank as a mirror. Castiel says nothing. Sam gives him a curt nod.
"I'd like some time with my brother, if you don't mind."
Castiel turns to go but his easy compliance doesn't do anything to satisfy how Sam's feeling. He wants to poke and prod. He needs someone to take this out on. Just let Castiel say one word wrong to him, and Sam will take him to pieces.
"Next time you wanna drag my brother into one of your genius schemes, you make sure the madman you put him in a room with is locked down," Sam says.
Castiel stops. He lifts his head, just enough for his voice to carry over his shoulder. "None of this was my idea, and I'm sorry that Dean has been hurt as a result." He draws a breath. "But I believe it was necessary."
None of them understand 'necessary' like Sam does. The government's 'necessary' is not Sam's. The government has to follow rules that do not apply to Sam.
It's a simple, sudden thought that comes to Sam: John Winchester would not have stood for this bullshit. John Winchester would not have shared power with anyone, let alone some government suit who's trying to co-opt his lieutenant.
"Castiel," says Sam, and Castiel, already through the door, stops again and looks back at him. The neutral set of his features can't conceal the dusky bags beneath his eyes or his split lower lip.
Sam puts himself undeniably between Castiel and the bed.
"Next time you wanna drag my brother into something, don't," he says. "Dean is not on your payroll." He lifts his chin, squares his shoulders. "I'm only gonna tell you this once. Any business you have with my family, is my business."
~end
(Sam/Dean and mild Sam/Ruby, pg13, 3k, au)
On The Head Of A Pin - if the Winchester family business were organized crime rather than hunting the supernatural.
For artofempty who requested more crime-verse in aid of help_japan. Hope you like it! Many thanks to giandujakiss for the beta, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Ruby's a cop but she's dirty. Make that filthy. She's got her fingers in everything and just when Sam thinks he's got her trapped in a lie, she turns it around until she's back on his side and he's not even sure which side that is anyway.
Dean hates her. It's not surprising; Dean doesn't like anything that comes in a shade of gray, he doesn't believe in it. Gray means Dean has to think for himself, has to make his own decisions, trust his own judgment. Dean's a problem-solver, not a decision-maker, and most of his solutions come from the barrel of a gun.
"Are they gone?" says Ruby, peering over Sam's shoulder into the hotel room before she steps inside.
Sam closes the door behind her. "They're gone."
She sets her bag down on the desk and shrugs off her leather jacket. She's a tiny little woman, a single drop of neat alcohol and still enough kick to make your eyes water. "You figured out what agency they're with yet?"
Sam eyes Dean's black suit jacket, hooked over the back of the chair like a sleeping bat. Castiel and Uriel got Dean out the door so fast Dean didn't even have chance to grab it.
"Not even sure they're government," Sam says.
Ruby snorts, wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Sure they are. They stink of it." Her tongue curls in her cheek as she considers. "Just be nice to know what exactly their interest is."
She leans herself up against the desk, cocks her head at Sam, and Sam is reminded, despite her sharp edges, just how soft Ruby can be. Her eyes glitter, hard and cold as gemstones.
"So what do you want from me?" she says.
It's all invitation but Sam has other things on his mind. He shoves his hands in his pants pockets and paces the room.
"Castiel and Uriel, they've got this guy in custody, they think he knows who's been killing their field agents. And apparently, Dean knew him, they were on the same block in prison or something. They think Dean's got some leverage, like, he'll talk to Dean." Or Dean knows which buttons to press to get him talking.
Ruby's wide pink mouth - and Sam has always had a weakness for kissable mouths - opens up in surprise. Her eyebrows have been steadily rising the whole time Sam's been talking.
"Are you talking about Alistair?" she says. She laughs, shaking her head like this she's already halfway to telling Sam to fuck off. "Jesus, tell me you're not talking about Alistair."
Sam nods slowly. "We kinda ran into him before. Dean said…"
Dean didn't say anything. Dean cried. He cried hot, wet tears that ran like blood over Sam's skin when he cupped Dean's face in his hands.
He never used to cry so easily. It used to be other people who cried, while Dean stood by, black-suited and dry-eyed, Dean who shrugged and said "Business is business, what do you want me to say?"
The sight of Dean so wretched horrifies Sam. It makes him angry and sad and protective. It makes him want to hurt people and it makes him want to touch Dean. It does everything he would expect it to, and it does one other: it makes him faintly embarrassed.
"Alistair's a grade-A psychopath," says Ruby. "He used to be in the business, years back, except he enjoyed it just way too much. He likes cutting people up. That's what he does. He cuts them up. Any time he gets an appetite for it. You can't control a guy like that."
"Dean said he did a little work for him, while he was inside." Sam's tone leaves room for Ruby to correct him with an explanation of how that just can't be right. Because Dean's an animal, but he's one John trained.
But Ruby shrugs, glossy dark hair sliding over her bare shoulders. "It happens. You do what you have to to survive, whoever it means getting in bed with." She smiles at Sam, a smile designed to wind him up. "Just be grateful big brother didn't come back with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his chest."
Sam tries not to think about Dean in prison. It's a fixed point on their timeline, a measure for all other events. That happened before Dean went to prison, that happened after. It's a boundary that doesn't just split Dean in two, but Sam as well.
"Can you find out where they've taken him?" he says.
Ruby studies him for an unreadable moment. "Not impossible, I've got contacts," she says finally. "But, Sam, c'mon, do you really want to get involved in something like this? Why not just let them do their thing? They're professionals. If anyone can handle Alistair, they can."
If they're pinning their hopes on Dean, they can't handle Alistair. Dean's spine will snap like spun sugar under the weight of Alistair. And Sam has to get there before that can happen, before Castiel and the others can see what has been done to his big brother.
"Dean isn't…" He wets his lips. His mouth is dry because he knows how much Dean would hate him telling Ruby this. He's taking things outside of the family that belong only in a look shared between him and Dean. "He isn't what he used to be. He can't… He's not strong enough to do this."
Ruby leans forward, and as she does so, the neck of her charcoal-gray t-shirt slides down to reveal the soft fullness of her breasts.
"And you are?" she says. Her voice is a ribbon. It's wrapped around Sam in a neat bow, leading him to bad things.
He takes his eyes off the swell of her breasts, his gaze falling heavily on her bag. His breathing is already thicker than it was moments before.
"I will be," he says.
:::
The first time, and the last time, that Dean did drugs, John took one look at the stupid smile on his face, dragged him outside and beat him seven ways 'til Sunday. It was a lesson learned for both Dean and Sam. Dean stuck to cigarettes, and even they were quickly stubbed out as soon as John came in the room. And every time somebody offered Sam something at college parties, he remembered Dean's bloodied shock after John was done with him and turned them down.
If he'd known it could be like this, he'd have said yes. And yes, and yes again.
You have to stay in control, John had said, and Sam is, with Ruby's needle working its magic the moment it pierces his skin. Sam's blood crackles and roars. His fingers shear off to blunt fists. His jaw is wired shut. He's rage in motion.
The mist on the night road flies away like ghosts as the Impala sweeps through. Sam drives too fast, way too fast, but the ride is smooth as polished ice, because Sam is focused. Sam is intent.
The destination Ruby gave him is an old meat-packing factory. It's a block of corrugated metal and broken glass windows. From the trunk of the car, Sam takes a knife and a gun, and the weapons slot into place in his hands like the chambering of a bullet. He strides inside, knife tucked down the back of his pants and his gun lowered at his side. He doesn't have the time or the patience for defense.
He follows the single light down the dingy passages and finds the scene of interrogation, which looks to be over.
Dean is unmoving on the floor, on his side, beaten with a thoroughness that speaks of enjoyment. His white shirt is sodden with blood so the fabric clings perversely to the sculptured shape of his body. He should have his fucking jacket on, is all Sam can think at the sight of him. People wouldn't be able to see all that blood if he just had his fucking jacket on. People wouldn't be able to see the damage done if he'd just covered it up better.
Across the room, Alastair is steadily punching the life out of Castiel.
Alastair is a wiry man with a goatish face carved out of malice. It is hard for Sam to believe that he was ever a child, that he had a mother, that he comes from somewhere. It seems more likely that he sprang, fully-formed, from Dean's own prison-addled mind.
Sam raises his gun and shoots him. Just in the hip, debilitating but not fatal. As Alastair goes down, Castiel scrambles away and is back on his feet in an impressively short space of time. His dark hair is disheveled and there's blood and dirt down the front of his trenchcoat.
"We need him alive, Sam," he says.
Sam steps over Dean's body and moves in on Alastair, who squirms and laughs through the bloody foam bubbling at his mouth.
"Who's behind the killings?" Sam says.
Alastair laughs some more. He looks away from Sam, and though Sam doesn't follow the direction of his eyes, he knows he's looking at Dean, just a short distance away, bleeding and broken.
His laugh ebbs to a low, throaty chuckle. "Maybe I might have told Dean, maybe. But I'm not telling you. It's a secret."
Sam wants to punch him for ever having Dean's name in his mouth, for savoring it the way he does. Most of all, Sam wants to punch him for all the times he would have said it while Dean was locked up with him.
He puts the gun in Alastair's face.
"Tell me."
Alastair swallows thickly and shakes his head. "Nu-uh, not until you ask as nicely as Dean did. Big brother knew how to beg."
Alastair's eyes just have chance to go wide before Sam shoves the knife through his collarbone. It goes in so deep Sam could swear he can hear its point scraping the ground beneath him. Alastair groans and sweat dribbles faster down his sour milk skin.
"Tell. Me." Sam matches each word with a twist of the knife, one clockwise, one counter, working a gaping red hole in Alastair's flesh.
But it's not the knife in him that holds Alastair's attention, even as he grunts and shudders. It's the light in Sam's eyes. Sam likes the idea that, for the first time, Alastair is seeing something nastier than his own reflection.
"It's not us!" says Alastair, as though the words are bursting out of him. "You think we know where to find them? Or who they are? We only know when they're hunting us down. If we could find them, you'd have a lot more corpses to deal with, believe me. Whoever's doing it, it's someone who knows."
Sam flicks a look at Castiel, whose only response is a deepening frown. He avoids Sam's gaze, and Sam takes it as all the confirmation he needs.
"So what now?" says Alastair. He sucks the blood gathering at the corner of his lips back into his mouth, flickers his tongue at Sam. "Are you going to send me back to prison? Find another box to put me in until I break out of that one too?"
Sam strokes the trigger of his gun thoughtfully.
"We need him alive," Castiel says again, like it's all the contribution he can make to the conversation.
Alastair rolls his eyes. He has the nerve to look mildly disappointed. "Oh well, you let me know when you've decided. I'll just lie here and wait."
"Sam," says Castiel. He's taking a step towards him and Sam's surprised that he's sure enough of himself to risk it. If Castiel could hear how fast Sam's heart is drumming, he wouldn't be sure at all. "We need him ali-"
"I don't," says Sam, and puts a bullet in Alastair's face.
:::
Sam sits by Dean's bed in the hospital until the comedown hits. Then he can't sit down, can't stand, can't do anything. He burns up. His bones become snakes. So he paces backwards and forwards outside, face turned upwards, breathing huge lungfuls of frozen night air.
Ruby calls, and he doesn't answer. With the crisis relegated to past tense, Sam has the luxury of looking back and doubting himself. Perhaps there was a better way to have done it. Perhaps he could have coped without Ruby, and Ruby's needle.
Sam is struck by what a beautiful thought that is. It's been a long time since he's been able to have a conversation to Dean that hasn't necessitated him telling at least one little lie. And therein lies the problem: it's necessary. Everything Sam does is necessary. He does it because nobody else can.
He feels a kinship with John then, more in that moment than ever before. Dean is a player, a pawn, like the others. They don't see the board they're playing on, like John did, like Sam does. They don't know how a business like theirs truly runs, and what has to be done to keep it running. But it's two years now since John was murdered in prison, and all the regrettable things that were his due have fallen to Sam.
Grounding himself in the memory of a dead man, his heartbeat cools to a point that could almost be comfortable. An ambulance siren whines around the front of the hospital, and Sam feels that his time is up. It's time for him to go back. He sweeps his hair off his face, adjusts the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, slides his jacket on to hide the sweat patches beneath his arms.
When he returns to Dean's bedside, he's irritated to find his seat has been taken. Smooth little government-man, Castiel is sitting there, his steepled fingers resting against his cracked, white mouth. His eyes are on Dean's face, who continues to drift in fragile sleep.
Castiel looks up and studies Sam, one species meeting another. They are different species. Castiel is law and order, Sam is revenge and chaos. It's not business to Castiel, it's duty, bloodless and neat.
"I have informed my superiors what happened and we've dealt with the informant," he says.
Sam ignores him. Instead, he approaches Dean's bed and waits for Castiel to surrender his seat.
He's missed Dean sleeping. He would like to lie down next to him and close his eyes and pretend that he will wake to someone else taking charge, someone like Dean.
For a little while, they shared a bed, and Sam misses the easy connection of skin. Dean would sleep behind him, mouth pressed to the broader plane of Sam's shoulders like nobody had told him his little brother was taller, bigger. And in the early mornings, Dean's half-hard dick would be pressed to Sam's ass, and Sam would jerk off so gently he wouldn't wake him while he thought about Jess, and Megan Fox, and the sandy-haired girl in the library who sucked on the top of her pen while she read her book, and faceless bodies of hard muscle.
Since prison, Dean has kept his body from him. He sleeps fully dressed, under the blanket of his jacket.
Sam straightens the line of Dean's jacket, waiting over the back of a chair, ready for Dean to put back on as soon as he is out of the hospital bed, before the bruises have even begun to fade.
Something catches Sam's eye, and he leans in to study Dean's face. He feels a spike of panic, which quickly transforms itself into blinding anger.
Dean's cheeks shine with the tackiness of recent tears. Dean cried while Castiel has been in the room. Castiel has seen Sam's big brother break down into soft, trembling distress, and he will never forget it. Castiel will always know what Dean's little pink heart looks like, because Dean has let him see.
Sam struggles to keep his breath.
"Has he been awake at all?" he asks, very carefully, very neutrally.
"For a while," says Castiel.
Sam waits for it, and sure enough,
"We talked," says Castiel.
"And what exactly did you talk about?" Sam says.
When Sam turns to chase an answer, Castiel is looking back at him, blank as a mirror. Castiel says nothing. Sam gives him a curt nod.
"I'd like some time with my brother, if you don't mind."
Castiel turns to go but his easy compliance doesn't do anything to satisfy how Sam's feeling. He wants to poke and prod. He needs someone to take this out on. Just let Castiel say one word wrong to him, and Sam will take him to pieces.
"Next time you wanna drag my brother into one of your genius schemes, you make sure the madman you put him in a room with is locked down," Sam says.
Castiel stops. He lifts his head, just enough for his voice to carry over his shoulder. "None of this was my idea, and I'm sorry that Dean has been hurt as a result." He draws a breath. "But I believe it was necessary."
None of them understand 'necessary' like Sam does. The government's 'necessary' is not Sam's. The government has to follow rules that do not apply to Sam.
It's a simple, sudden thought that comes to Sam: John Winchester would not have stood for this bullshit. John Winchester would not have shared power with anyone, let alone some government suit who's trying to co-opt his lieutenant.
"Castiel," says Sam, and Castiel, already through the door, stops again and looks back at him. The neutral set of his features can't conceal the dusky bags beneath his eyes or his split lower lip.
Sam puts himself undeniably between Castiel and the bed.
"Next time you wanna drag my brother into something, don't," he says. "Dean is not on your payroll." He lifts his chin, squares his shoulders. "I'm only gonna tell you this once. Any business you have with my family, is my business."
~end