fic: After the Storm
Title: After the Storm
Rating/warnings: PG-13/language and spoilers
Pairing: Castiel/Sam (mild)
Summary: 9.10 coda. Sam and Castiel deal with the fallout of Gadreel leaving.
Notes: also on AO3 if that's what you're into.
Once the Impala has disappeared down the road, Sam closes his eyes and tries to just feel. The January rain drips from his hair and onto his face in uncomfortably frigid rivulets. Other than the drizzle, the night is still and windless - it'd be tolerable, really, if not for the rain. The wetness chills Sam to the bones, making him feel as though he will never know warmth again. His hands shake as he rubs them together in a desperate attempt for heat.
He swallows. There is something missing inside of him, although he cannot pinpoint what.
A noise beside him brings him out of his reverie. He opens his eyes to see Castiel standing next to him, his hand hovering halfway to Sam's shoulder.
"We should go," Castiel says quietly. "The rain isn't beneficial to you."
Cas holds the uncomfortable gesture for a moment longer before his hand drops to his side. Sam can still see his concern, though, written in the tilt of his head and the corners of his eyes.
"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, we probably should." Sam turns to the car that Dean left, blinking. "Are there keys, or…?"
"I'll drive," Castiel replies, decisively striding to the car. Sam frowns and follows. He wonders when Cas picked up that particular skill.
The ride is somewhat bumpy (Cas has apparently never heard "right and tight" when it comes to taking right turns, nor has he mastered the skill of slowing down at a yellow light) but it's not too unpleasant. It's cold, given the apparent lack of heating system, but tolerable other than that. There's no attempt to make conversation, although Sam does catch Cas gazing repeatedly at him, still with that worried expression. He tries not to smile when it happens for the third time.
"Does this motel look suitable?"
Sam glances out the window and sees a generic-looking long building called the Norton Inn. There are only a few cars in the parking lot, but there's nothing that screams danger to Sam.
"If you think it's safe, then I'm sure we'll be fine."
Castiel nods and turns into the lot (frankly, a lot sharper than necessary). A bored-looking clerk hands them a key to a room with two singles. Sam finds the quarters to be indistinguishable from any other place he's ever spent the night in.
"Do you want food?" Castiel asks, hovering next to the bed that Sam isn't sitting on. "I'm sure I could find something…"
"No thanks. I just want to sleep. Unless you're hungry?"
Castiel shakes his head. "I don't feel hunger, at the moment. Once this grace starts fading, maybe… but there's no need to worry about that now."
Sam isn't sure if he knows what Castiel means by "this grace;" there are too many unsorted memories haphazardly strewn across his mind. He will deal with them in the morning, he decides as he ducks into the impossibly tiny bathroom. Right now, he needs to rest more than anything.
He's splashing hot water onto his face when the feeling that he is incomplete strikes again. It is so sudden and so dizzying that he stumbles, sitting hard on the toilet. He bangs his elbow on the counter's sharp corner in the process. An involuntary grunt of pain escapes him.
"Sam?" Castiel calls.
"I'm all right," he replies. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to figure out what's different - why he feels so chilled inside, why everything is at once duller and more real than it has been for months.
Unbidden an image of Kevin's burned-out eyes come to mind. Sam feels sick.
The sensation fades in a few minutes, and Sam finally forces himself to dry off. He has no pajamas to change into, nor any clothes for tomorrow, for that matter.
Screw modesty, he thinks, and strips down to his boxers. The motel is heated, and it is nothing Castiel hasn't seen a thousand times before.
Indeed, Castiel gives him only a cursory glance when he gets out of the bathroom; Sam gets the idea that he is being checked for injuries more than anything else. Castiel is apparently satisfied by what he sees (or doesn't see) because he returns to lying flat on his back, just staring at the motel ceiling. The position probably isn't conductive to sleep, Sam thinks as he shuts off the light and climbs between his own sheets, but then again, Cas probably doesn't need that if he doesn't need food.
"Let me know if you require anything," says Castiel from his prone position in the darkness.
Sam smiles, mildly surprised by the fondness in his voice as he replies, "I will."
Sleep comes quickly, and when it does, it's bad.
The dreams all blur together in bloody scene shifts -a slit throat there; a plea for life here; a sword in a gut, hands awash with bright grace; Metatron looking so damn pleased with himself-
Kevin is the worst. He is so trusting as Sam approaches him, and he dies confused, not knowing who it really was. There was no blood, but the smell of seared flesh permeates throughout every other scene.
"You're a monster," says one of his victims, and in his dream, Sam cannot figure out if he is being ridden by Gadreel or Lucifer, or if it is just him, him on his own; if he was always the one killing, if he could have stopped it at any time-
He wakes up without fanfare. No screaming, no shock, no confused flailing as he tries to figure out where he is. He's just shivering, so, so cold, the covers tangled around him entirely useless.
All of this is so unusual that he isn't surprised when Castiel sits down next to him.
This time, Castiel's hand actually does make it to his shoulder. "Sam. You were having a nightmare."
Sam almost rolls over to look at the angel, but that would require dislodging Castiel's hand, and it's too comforting at the moment for that. "I know. I-"
His voice cracks as it dawns on him how empty he feels without Gadreel. There is no longer any grace twisting in the spaces between his organs, threading through his bones and veins. His heart is pumping of his own accords, his diaphragm contracting as it normally would. His thoughts are raw and uncushioned by the haze of angelic grace. Sam can see and feel as he hasn't been able to for months, and everything feels bland and meaningless.
"I miss him, Cas," Sam says. Again, his voice cracks, and he has to squeeze his eyes closed. He hasn't cried from a nightmare for a long time; or at least, he hasn't cried in front of another person.
"It doesn't feel right. He isn't here anymore, and it's just me, like it should be, but… oh, god, it's like when I was coming down from demon blood. I feel so fucking weak, and so alone--"
He clenches his hands into fists, trying to ground himself with the pierce of his fingernails. "What the fuck is wrong with me? I kicked him out… he killed so many people and angels when he was here; why do I feel so wrong without him? Am I that screwed up?"
"I didn't recognize it before," Castiel murmurs. "I'm sorry."
He squeezes his shoulder and adjusts his position on the bed before elaborating. "Of course you aren't 'screwed up.' You touched upon it yourself, Sam. It's… withdrawal, for lack of a better term. Grace doesn't build a physical dependency - not really. It suppresses all of your bodily systems for a period of time, so you might find yourself getting sick more frequently while your immune system catches up, or having minor problems with food from disuse of your digestive system. It's unpleasant, but your body doesn't physically require Gadreel. But mentally, you've become used to having a presence inside your head. Angels are comforting to their vessels, however intense the experience might be for them. We were made as creatures of light, Sam. To a human, that's… soothing, I suppose. It's why vessels are sometimes rendered incapacitated once we leave them. Not everyone can deal with being left alone."
"The one time I met Jimmy, he seemed pretty happy you were gone." The words come out sounding more accusing than he had wanted them to, and he almost apologizes for that, but Castiel answers first.
"That's true, but even though my departure from him was involuntary, I still took the time to ensure that he remained put-together. I eased his emotional dependency for him. I doubt Gadreel did the same for you."
"Probably not," mumbles Sam.
The room is quiet for a moment, just Castiel rubbing Sam's shoulder softly with his thumb, and Sam trying to organize his thoughts. "How long will it last?"
Castiel makes a small noise in his throat. "He was vesseled in you for around four months. But the fact that he was keeping you suppressed the entire time means that your soul must have been completely surrounded by grace, almost impenetrably so."
He pauses, doing whatever sort of angel calculus one does to determine the length of withdrawal time from angel grace. "It will get worse before it gets better. But it should be over within two weeks."
Sam wonders if he can take two weeks of feeling like there's a void inside of him, like his soul is on an island separate from all other people. This will be the loneliest he has ever been while detoxing, he thinks. Dean is gone, and Sam is not willing to beg for his return. Not yet, anyway.
"You won't go through this alone," Castiel says quietly. His hand stills, just resting on Sam's shoulder. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."
Sam makes a small noise in his throat. "I think I'd like you around for awhile, Cas. If you don't mind."
"Of course not."
Without being asked to, Castiel shifts his position so that he is lying alongside Sam, close to the edge of the bed ill-suited for holding two grown men. Cas doesn't give any sign of discomfort, though. He just wraps his arms around Sam and holds him, resting a comforting hand over his heart.
"Being in close proximity to me might help," he informs Sam, sounding almost hesitant. "The grace within me is not even my own, let alone Gadreel's, but it should ease the sensations you're feeling a bit, at least."
Sam relaxes against Castiel, closing his eyes. Maybe it's the grace thrumming through the angel, or maybe it's how Castiel's forehead is lightly pressed against Sam's neck. It could be how Castiel's fingers are splayed over his heart, too, or else the way Sam is finally warm. But whatever the reason, having Castiel there is undeniably helping him.
"Thanks," Sam says quietly.
He could swear he feels Castiel smile against his neck as he replies, just as softly, "Rest, Sam. I will be here when you wake."
So Sam does, trusting fully that the promise will not be broken. And when he wakes up the next morning, he is unsurprised to find that it has been kept.