Western Rising, 16/? [NC-17]
NB: More character death (not principals)
Apparently Castiel retained some inkling of social norms - as Dean was getting Sam settled in their room, he picked up his stuff and made to go.
“Oh -you don’t have to-…” Sam said awkwardly. “I mean we can move - you were here first.”
“It is no trouble,” Castiel said gravely, and Dean felt like a grade-A asshole. He’d have to spend some time with Castiel. Soon, he told himself. But now his eyes met Sam’s, and they carefully removed Sam’s shirt together. Dean hissed at the half-healed cuts, and bruises across Sam’s ribs. He touched them gently -
- “They’re not broken,” Sam said.
Dean frowned: “How do you know?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I think I’d know.”
“Bitch.” Dean leaned in and Sam tipped his face upwards. Their mouths met and Dean tasted dried blood, and familiarity. Sam reached up and pulled him down, running one hand through Dean’s hair and the other down his back -
- “Woah, hand on a second,” Dean exclaimed. “Let’s clean you up first.”
“Then hurry up.” Dean got a wet cloth and some alcohol, disinfected Sam’s cuts and ran his fingers over his ribs, checking for breaks. He was barely finished when Sam was pulling him down again, seeking entrance to his mouth with his tongue -
“Are you sure?” Dean said. “you’re pretty banged up.”
“Fuck yes,” said Sam, “Please.”
“You’re a dark horse, you know that? Everyone thinks you’re so innocent….”
“I lost God, I get this,” Sam said determinedly, and Dean nodded. Carefully he straddled Sam’s lap. Taking most of his own weight on his thighs, and pushed Sam backwards until he had access to all of his body. He traced the marks with his mouth, one by one, Sam responsive and moving beneath him, and Dean forced himself not to think of anything but what he had here. What he’d almost lost.
“Uh. Fuck me,” said Sam, using one hand to stimulate Dean’s dick:
“Then you’d better stop that,” Dean panted: “It’s been a while.”
Sam withdrew his hand and Dean fumbled for his backpack. Lube was a scarce commodity in the badlands, but they’d long since discovered a common oil that worked well enough. Dean unscrewed the little jar, but Sam grabbed it off him, prepared them both, teasing at the same time:
“Sammy, I’m serious, if you want to do anything else right now-“
W
ith a final twist of his wrist Sam let go.
“I missed you so bad,” Dean said, taking his dick in one hand whilst he positioned Sam with the other.
“Show me.” Sam was ready, muscles opening to accept Dean with little provocation, and he found himself saying,
“Yes. Love you,” and other embarrassing things, for which he would blame sex hormones. He came in Sam, both their hands around Sam’s dick, who followed an instant afterward. Dean collapsed, just catching himself on his arms and panting, and lay down next to Sam. They both breathed hard for a few minutes.
“Thank you,” Sam said finally.
Dean snorted laughter.
“I mean for the rescue and all.”
“Still.” They kissed.
After a moment, Sam said:
“So Castiel.”
Dean felt himself stiffen.
“What’s up with him?” Sam propped himself up on one elbow.
“He’s…damaged,” Dean said vaguely. “Ex-state, you know how it is.”
“Hmm.”
Pause.
“It’s pretty crazy - I mean, I’m not complaining, but still it’s pretty crazy - that he’d come on this rescue mission for a guy he’s never even met.”
“He did it for me.”
“Yeah, I gathered.” There was nothing accusatory in Sam’s tone, nothing suspicious. But he was picking at the threads on the mattress and seemed to require something more from Dean, so Dean said,
“He thinks I saved him and all. I don’t know. He’s as capable as I am, could’ve been a Guard. He’s just….messed up.”
“I wonder what they did to him,” Sam had that noble, sad look on his face, the one with the deep eyes. Dean sighed:
“I’m sure you can use your imagination.”
“I should talk to him. Thank him properly.”
Dean had several distinct ideas about how that could go wrong. Instead of bringing any of them up, he kissed Sam again. “Go to sleep,” he said.
Pause.
“I wish we could know that Lilith was dead.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t always get what you want.”
* * *
The next day they held a small service, for Chuck and Hamid and Rosemary. Becky had glimpsed her shortly before the explosion, and by piecing together their last sights of her, they realized she had very probably died in it. Everyone seemed to be looking to Dean to lead the proceedings. He managed a few inadequate words, and they buried Chuck’s flask, Hamid’s razor and Rosemary’s hairbrush behind the base.
Then they all got drunk.
“Chuck would have wanted this,” Becky said, opening a bottle and downing several gulps.
“I’m sure this is the way he’d like to be remembered,” Sam offered.
“No I mean he literally would have wanted this,” Becky gestured the booze in her hand. She drank again, then winced and wiped her mouth. “God, that’s bad.” In her lap was Chuck’s battered journal.
“You’re keeping that?” Sam asked.
“I’m going to carry it on,” Becky said. “I mean, I may not have visions, but I can still write down what’s happening. I could be like a chronicler of the revolution.”
Sam put his hand on hers. “I’m sure Chuck would be proud.”
“No he wouldn’t.” She smiled, a little wobbly. “He’d tell me I was wasting my time, that there wasn’t going to be a revolution, and try not to make it obvious he was looking at my boobs.” She
sighed. “I miss him.”
“To our friends and comrades,” said Charlie seriously, raising the can she was drinking out of.
“Friends and comrades,” said everyone, even Castiel, and raised what passed for their glasses.
* * *
Someone needed to make the trip to the Ghost town, to gather the other survivors. Tia and Charlie volunteered. That left just Dean, Castiel , Sam, the unfortunate truck driver and Becky, plus the last two Ghosts of Dean’s contingent: a thirty-something guy named Dylan who walked with a limp, and a brunette called Nora who’d spent most of her time at the base buried in Bobby’s books. She knew something about herbal medicine, and on the trip had advised them regarding what vegetation was safe to eat, and what poisonous.
“Funny how our numbers seem to be going down,” said Dean, apparently tempting fate, because the next day Ghosts started to trickle in. apparently word had gone out from the crossroads where they’d been bartering. They came in pairs or alone. Then in small groups. They wanted to see Sam and Dean, to touch them, and hear how they would form an army to overthrow the State.
“Becky,” Sam grabbed her arm, none too gently: “Are you giving these people ideas?”
“I didn’t start it!” Becky objected. “Maybe there are other prophets! Maybe Chuck or someone talked at the crossroads! You know how rumour is…”
“But you’re not discouraging them,” Sam sighed.
“My job is to spread hope,” Becky raised her chin. God, she was difficult to argue with.
The new Ghosts brought food. Some brought guns, and asked Sam, Dean and Castiel to train them. Castiel was good at that. Most people were scared or confused by him, but respected that he knew what he was doing when it came to training. Sam didn’t know what to make of Castiel. The State had damaged them all. But Castiel was profoundly, weirdly broken, and he kept staring at Dean, his intense eyes full of adoration, and if Sam were the jealous type…but no. that was stupid. Dean loved Sam, always and only. ‘He saved me. He abandoned the State for me’. Sam forced himself to be extra solicitous and nice to Castiel, just to stop his mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.
He also engaged in enthusiastic and regular sex with Dean.
Dean wasn’t complaining.
But something was changing, nonetheless. Dean never came out and said that he accepted their mission, that he believed Becky and Chuck, but he wasn’t objecting to it either. He was training the Ghosts. He was accepting newcomers, assigning tasks, talking tactics with Castiel. It was what Sam had wanted. For Dean to be on board. For Dean to see the big picture.
And yet, for the first time since Sam had met him, he wasn’t Dean’s whole focus.
Charlie and Tia returned, bringing more Ghosts. They also brought news:
“Bobby’s dead,” Charlie said somberly.
“Wh - how?” Sam sat, hard.
She shrugged. “He went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Guess he liver finally packed it in.” ‘Or he dosed himself up with something to seal the deal’, they all thought, but nobody said it. Sam didn’t really believe it, either. That was a coward’s act, and Bobby had not been a coward.
Dean took the news hard. He retreated into himself, doubling his efforts with the Ghosts, and would only talk shop, the logistics of running the base. One night he’d holed himself up with Tia and one of the newcomers named Brian, a former Resistance engineer, to talk about work on the new vehicles. Sam found himself at a loose end, and wandered outside to look at the dusk, which was creeping in earlier now.
He found Castiel sitting under a tree, drinking.
“Hi,” Sam said, surprised. It wasn’t that he’d never seen Castiel drink before, but this was hard stuff, and by the amount in the bottle and glazed expression on Castiel’s face, he’d been working on it for a while.
“Hello Sam,” Castiel intoned.
“Um, did you want to - am I interrupting?”
“Interrupting what?”
“Well - you….do you want to be alone?”
Castiel paused as though considering the question. Then: “It doesn’t matter.” He said. Then he tucked his legs up and asked properly, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Okay, thanks,” Sam sat, relieved that the damage to his ribs was no longer hampering him. Castiel offered him the bottle. Sam considered, then sipped tentatively. “That’s disgusting.”
“But effective,” Castiel said.
“So….you’re getting drunk.”
“That is my general intention.”
“Can I ask why?”
Castiel stared at him mournfully.
“Is there…anything I can do?”
Sam was suddenly infuriated. “Are you in love with Dean?”
Castiel blinked. “I am not sure what you mean by that.” Alcohol had neither worsened nor improved his ability to carry on a conversation.
“Do you want him? Do you want to have sex with him?”
“Dean….is the reason for my continued existence. Had he not arrived, I would soon have died of dehydration or perhaps dispatched myself. I…attempted to render him services in the best manner I am able. He - refused.”
Ugh. O-kay, now Sam felt like an asshole. He took a long drink from the bottle and then passed it back. Maybe questioning Castiel about sex wasn’t the best idea.
“You know Dean and I are together, right?” he tried instead.
“His devotion to you is evident,” said Castiel.
“I love him too,” Sam said sharply.
“Yes,” said Castiel.
“And you…?”
“Have a new purpose t my existence,” Castiel shrugged. The gesture was a little looser, more expansive, than it would have been if he were sober. “It is not…I am not….once, I was very sure. Of the world. Of my place in it.”
“Me too,” Sam said quickly, wanting to connect with him: “I was raised in the State. Went to Central College. I believed in God, in the State….I was going to be a lawyer.”
“And I….” Castiel smiled. “Was content to live or die as a warrior of God.”
Sam snorted. Drank.
Castiel looked at him sharply. “God is just,” he said. “It is the State’s actions on Earth, in His name, of which I am no longer convinced.”
“Yeah I don’t know,” Sam said uncomfortably. “It seems to me if God existed, outside of the State’s rhetoric, He’s missed several excellent opportunities to correct His wayward children.”
“Or perhaps He has given up.” Castiel was definitely drunk now. His tone was conspiratorial. “I would understand that.”
“Yeah I think you’ve had enough,” Sam reached to take the bottle from him. Castiel scowled and moved it, but Sam had longer arms and managed to grab it anyway. Castiel’s face fell. After a moment he said,
“Sam, I wish - wish you to know something.”
“Yeah?”
“I am no threat to you and Dean. I would not attempt to intrude on your bond. But I hope - hope I can be - useful to you.”
“Aw - Castiel,” Sam sighed. “Look, I’m glad you’re here okay? I’m glad Dean had a friend whilst I was - has a friend. And I think we could be friends too.”
“I would like that,” said Castiel, then passed out. It was so abrupt Sam jumped in alarm - Castiel hadn’t seemed all that drunk - but evidently he was the type of guy it just snuck up on. Castiel simply closed his eyes and slumped backwards against the tree trunk. Tentatively, Sam checked his pulse. He seemed to be fine - just profoundly asleep. Sam tried shaking him a little, but nothing happened. Well, crap. He couldn’t exactly leave Castiel here - it was rapidly getting dark, and the nights weren’t as warm as they had been, not to mention the fact they just happened to be in the middle of the Badlands. After a moment’s deliberation, he bent down, and lifted Castiel in a fireman’s carry. His residual bruises protested a bit, but Castiel was pretty light, and Sam had put on muscle since his days as a Novice. He carried Castiel inside, attracting a couple of raised eyebrows (and a barely-stifled squeak of delight from Becky). Sam started to turn for the room Castiel had claimed as his own, then stopped. He rationalized that his and Dean’s was closer, and though Castiel was skinny, carrying another fully-grown adult wasn’t exactly effortless. Remembering a story Dean once told about a cadet on leave, Sam decided should probably keep an eye on Castiel, in case he choked on his own vomit or something, so he deposited him on Dean’s bunk and stood up with a sigh of relief. In the dim light Castiel looked sad. Small. Older, but vulnerable. Sam ran a hand over his face.
“What are we gonna do with him, huh?”
Sam jumped. He hadn’t heard Dean come up behind him.
“Fix him?” said Sam hopefully.
“Doubt it,” Dean said dryly. “You wanna sleep in his bed?”
“Nah. He’s off his face. We should stay here, get the bedroll out.”
“You’ll make a fine mother someday Sammy.”
“That’s kind of gross.”
For the first time since the news about Bobby, Dean laughed.
Part Seventeen
Apparently Castiel retained some inkling of social norms - as Dean was getting Sam settled in their room, he picked up his stuff and made to go.
“Oh -you don’t have to-…” Sam said awkwardly. “I mean we can move - you were here first.”
“It is no trouble,” Castiel said gravely, and Dean felt like a grade-A asshole. He’d have to spend some time with Castiel. Soon, he told himself. But now his eyes met Sam’s, and they carefully removed Sam’s shirt together. Dean hissed at the half-healed cuts, and bruises across Sam’s ribs. He touched them gently -
- “They’re not broken,” Sam said.
Dean frowned: “How do you know?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I think I’d know.”
“Bitch.” Dean leaned in and Sam tipped his face upwards. Their mouths met and Dean tasted dried blood, and familiarity. Sam reached up and pulled him down, running one hand through Dean’s hair and the other down his back -
- “Woah, hand on a second,” Dean exclaimed. “Let’s clean you up first.”
“Then hurry up.” Dean got a wet cloth and some alcohol, disinfected Sam’s cuts and ran his fingers over his ribs, checking for breaks. He was barely finished when Sam was pulling him down again, seeking entrance to his mouth with his tongue -
“Are you sure?” Dean said. “you’re pretty banged up.”
“Fuck yes,” said Sam, “Please.”
“You’re a dark horse, you know that? Everyone thinks you’re so innocent….”
“I lost God, I get this,” Sam said determinedly, and Dean nodded. Carefully he straddled Sam’s lap. Taking most of his own weight on his thighs, and pushed Sam backwards until he had access to all of his body. He traced the marks with his mouth, one by one, Sam responsive and moving beneath him, and Dean forced himself not to think of anything but what he had here. What he’d almost lost.
“Uh. Fuck me,” said Sam, using one hand to stimulate Dean’s dick:
“Then you’d better stop that,” Dean panted: “It’s been a while.”
Sam withdrew his hand and Dean fumbled for his backpack. Lube was a scarce commodity in the badlands, but they’d long since discovered a common oil that worked well enough. Dean unscrewed the little jar, but Sam grabbed it off him, prepared them both, teasing at the same time:
“Sammy, I’m serious, if you want to do anything else right now-“
W
ith a final twist of his wrist Sam let go.
“I missed you so bad,” Dean said, taking his dick in one hand whilst he positioned Sam with the other.
“Show me.” Sam was ready, muscles opening to accept Dean with little provocation, and he found himself saying,
“Yes. Love you,” and other embarrassing things, for which he would blame sex hormones. He came in Sam, both their hands around Sam’s dick, who followed an instant afterward. Dean collapsed, just catching himself on his arms and panting, and lay down next to Sam. They both breathed hard for a few minutes.
“Thank you,” Sam said finally.
Dean snorted laughter.
“I mean for the rescue and all.”
“Still.” They kissed.
After a moment, Sam said:
“So Castiel.”
Dean felt himself stiffen.
“What’s up with him?” Sam propped himself up on one elbow.
“He’s…damaged,” Dean said vaguely. “Ex-state, you know how it is.”
“Hmm.”
Pause.
“It’s pretty crazy - I mean, I’m not complaining, but still it’s pretty crazy - that he’d come on this rescue mission for a guy he’s never even met.”
“He did it for me.”
“Yeah, I gathered.” There was nothing accusatory in Sam’s tone, nothing suspicious. But he was picking at the threads on the mattress and seemed to require something more from Dean, so Dean said,
“He thinks I saved him and all. I don’t know. He’s as capable as I am, could’ve been a Guard. He’s just….messed up.”
“I wonder what they did to him,” Sam had that noble, sad look on his face, the one with the deep eyes. Dean sighed:
“I’m sure you can use your imagination.”
“I should talk to him. Thank him properly.”
Dean had several distinct ideas about how that could go wrong. Instead of bringing any of them up, he kissed Sam again. “Go to sleep,” he said.
Pause.
“I wish we could know that Lilith was dead.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t always get what you want.”
* * *
The next day they held a small service, for Chuck and Hamid and Rosemary. Becky had glimpsed her shortly before the explosion, and by piecing together their last sights of her, they realized she had very probably died in it. Everyone seemed to be looking to Dean to lead the proceedings. He managed a few inadequate words, and they buried Chuck’s flask, Hamid’s razor and Rosemary’s hairbrush behind the base.
Then they all got drunk.
“Chuck would have wanted this,” Becky said, opening a bottle and downing several gulps.
“I’m sure this is the way he’d like to be remembered,” Sam offered.
“No I mean he literally would have wanted this,” Becky gestured the booze in her hand. She drank again, then winced and wiped her mouth. “God, that’s bad.” In her lap was Chuck’s battered journal.
“You’re keeping that?” Sam asked.
“I’m going to carry it on,” Becky said. “I mean, I may not have visions, but I can still write down what’s happening. I could be like a chronicler of the revolution.”
Sam put his hand on hers. “I’m sure Chuck would be proud.”
“No he wouldn’t.” She smiled, a little wobbly. “He’d tell me I was wasting my time, that there wasn’t going to be a revolution, and try not to make it obvious he was looking at my boobs.” She
sighed. “I miss him.”
“To our friends and comrades,” said Charlie seriously, raising the can she was drinking out of.
“Friends and comrades,” said everyone, even Castiel, and raised what passed for their glasses.
* * *
Someone needed to make the trip to the Ghost town, to gather the other survivors. Tia and Charlie volunteered. That left just Dean, Castiel , Sam, the unfortunate truck driver and Becky, plus the last two Ghosts of Dean’s contingent: a thirty-something guy named Dylan who walked with a limp, and a brunette called Nora who’d spent most of her time at the base buried in Bobby’s books. She knew something about herbal medicine, and on the trip had advised them regarding what vegetation was safe to eat, and what poisonous.
“Funny how our numbers seem to be going down,” said Dean, apparently tempting fate, because the next day Ghosts started to trickle in. apparently word had gone out from the crossroads where they’d been bartering. They came in pairs or alone. Then in small groups. They wanted to see Sam and Dean, to touch them, and hear how they would form an army to overthrow the State.
“Becky,” Sam grabbed her arm, none too gently: “Are you giving these people ideas?”
“I didn’t start it!” Becky objected. “Maybe there are other prophets! Maybe Chuck or someone talked at the crossroads! You know how rumour is…”
“But you’re not discouraging them,” Sam sighed.
“My job is to spread hope,” Becky raised her chin. God, she was difficult to argue with.
The new Ghosts brought food. Some brought guns, and asked Sam, Dean and Castiel to train them. Castiel was good at that. Most people were scared or confused by him, but respected that he knew what he was doing when it came to training. Sam didn’t know what to make of Castiel. The State had damaged them all. But Castiel was profoundly, weirdly broken, and he kept staring at Dean, his intense eyes full of adoration, and if Sam were the jealous type…but no. that was stupid. Dean loved Sam, always and only. ‘He saved me. He abandoned the State for me’. Sam forced himself to be extra solicitous and nice to Castiel, just to stop his mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.
He also engaged in enthusiastic and regular sex with Dean.
Dean wasn’t complaining.
But something was changing, nonetheless. Dean never came out and said that he accepted their mission, that he believed Becky and Chuck, but he wasn’t objecting to it either. He was training the Ghosts. He was accepting newcomers, assigning tasks, talking tactics with Castiel. It was what Sam had wanted. For Dean to be on board. For Dean to see the big picture.
And yet, for the first time since Sam had met him, he wasn’t Dean’s whole focus.
Charlie and Tia returned, bringing more Ghosts. They also brought news:
“Bobby’s dead,” Charlie said somberly.
“Wh - how?” Sam sat, hard.
She shrugged. “He went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Guess he liver finally packed it in.” ‘Or he dosed himself up with something to seal the deal’, they all thought, but nobody said it. Sam didn’t really believe it, either. That was a coward’s act, and Bobby had not been a coward.
Dean took the news hard. He retreated into himself, doubling his efforts with the Ghosts, and would only talk shop, the logistics of running the base. One night he’d holed himself up with Tia and one of the newcomers named Brian, a former Resistance engineer, to talk about work on the new vehicles. Sam found himself at a loose end, and wandered outside to look at the dusk, which was creeping in earlier now.
He found Castiel sitting under a tree, drinking.
“Hi,” Sam said, surprised. It wasn’t that he’d never seen Castiel drink before, but this was hard stuff, and by the amount in the bottle and glazed expression on Castiel’s face, he’d been working on it for a while.
“Hello Sam,” Castiel intoned.
“Um, did you want to - am I interrupting?”
“Interrupting what?”
“Well - you….do you want to be alone?”
Castiel paused as though considering the question. Then: “It doesn’t matter.” He said. Then he tucked his legs up and asked properly, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Okay, thanks,” Sam sat, relieved that the damage to his ribs was no longer hampering him. Castiel offered him the bottle. Sam considered, then sipped tentatively. “That’s disgusting.”
“But effective,” Castiel said.
“So….you’re getting drunk.”
“That is my general intention.”
“Can I ask why?”
Castiel stared at him mournfully.
“Is there…anything I can do?”
Sam was suddenly infuriated. “Are you in love with Dean?”
Castiel blinked. “I am not sure what you mean by that.” Alcohol had neither worsened nor improved his ability to carry on a conversation.
“Do you want him? Do you want to have sex with him?”
“Dean….is the reason for my continued existence. Had he not arrived, I would soon have died of dehydration or perhaps dispatched myself. I…attempted to render him services in the best manner I am able. He - refused.”
Ugh. O-kay, now Sam felt like an asshole. He took a long drink from the bottle and then passed it back. Maybe questioning Castiel about sex wasn’t the best idea.
“You know Dean and I are together, right?” he tried instead.
“His devotion to you is evident,” said Castiel.
“I love him too,” Sam said sharply.
“Yes,” said Castiel.
“And you…?”
“Have a new purpose t my existence,” Castiel shrugged. The gesture was a little looser, more expansive, than it would have been if he were sober. “It is not…I am not….once, I was very sure. Of the world. Of my place in it.”
“Me too,” Sam said quickly, wanting to connect with him: “I was raised in the State. Went to Central College. I believed in God, in the State….I was going to be a lawyer.”
“And I….” Castiel smiled. “Was content to live or die as a warrior of God.”
Sam snorted. Drank.
Castiel looked at him sharply. “God is just,” he said. “It is the State’s actions on Earth, in His name, of which I am no longer convinced.”
“Yeah I don’t know,” Sam said uncomfortably. “It seems to me if God existed, outside of the State’s rhetoric, He’s missed several excellent opportunities to correct His wayward children.”
“Or perhaps He has given up.” Castiel was definitely drunk now. His tone was conspiratorial. “I would understand that.”
“Yeah I think you’ve had enough,” Sam reached to take the bottle from him. Castiel scowled and moved it, but Sam had longer arms and managed to grab it anyway. Castiel’s face fell. After a moment he said,
“Sam, I wish - wish you to know something.”
“Yeah?”
“I am no threat to you and Dean. I would not attempt to intrude on your bond. But I hope - hope I can be - useful to you.”
“Aw - Castiel,” Sam sighed. “Look, I’m glad you’re here okay? I’m glad Dean had a friend whilst I was - has a friend. And I think we could be friends too.”
“I would like that,” said Castiel, then passed out. It was so abrupt Sam jumped in alarm - Castiel hadn’t seemed all that drunk - but evidently he was the type of guy it just snuck up on. Castiel simply closed his eyes and slumped backwards against the tree trunk. Tentatively, Sam checked his pulse. He seemed to be fine - just profoundly asleep. Sam tried shaking him a little, but nothing happened. Well, crap. He couldn’t exactly leave Castiel here - it was rapidly getting dark, and the nights weren’t as warm as they had been, not to mention the fact they just happened to be in the middle of the Badlands. After a moment’s deliberation, he bent down, and lifted Castiel in a fireman’s carry. His residual bruises protested a bit, but Castiel was pretty light, and Sam had put on muscle since his days as a Novice. He carried Castiel inside, attracting a couple of raised eyebrows (and a barely-stifled squeak of delight from Becky). Sam started to turn for the room Castiel had claimed as his own, then stopped. He rationalized that his and Dean’s was closer, and though Castiel was skinny, carrying another fully-grown adult wasn’t exactly effortless. Remembering a story Dean once told about a cadet on leave, Sam decided should probably keep an eye on Castiel, in case he choked on his own vomit or something, so he deposited him on Dean’s bunk and stood up with a sigh of relief. In the dim light Castiel looked sad. Small. Older, but vulnerable. Sam ran a hand over his face.
“What are we gonna do with him, huh?”
Sam jumped. He hadn’t heard Dean come up behind him.
“Fix him?” said Sam hopefully.
“Doubt it,” Dean said dryly. “You wanna sleep in his bed?”
“Nah. He’s off his face. We should stay here, get the bedroll out.”
“You’ll make a fine mother someday Sammy.”
“That’s kind of gross.”
For the first time since the news about Bobby, Dean laughed.
Part Seventeen