![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
antonymmouse posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
srs2012_r2Summary: Castiel likes to hide on the rooftop of the cabin - from Dean, or from reality. But not even his rooftop sanctuary can protect him from Lucifer, or, even worse, Sam Winchester.
Word Count: 3448
Characters: Sam, Castiel, Lucifer
Pairings: Sam/Castiel
Tags: Graphic violence, character death
The first thing Castiel recalls is that everything goes quiet.
He's lying on the rooftop of his cabin, altering his state of mind so he can forget exactly why it is he's lying on the rooftop of his cabin. The stars are dancing around, and right now, he can find that funny, because he doesn't have to be broken. He can just be. He can be component parts; fingers and toes and hair and lips, and he doesn't have to worry about if he's got enough food to eat, if the world will ever pick itself back up again, or if he's gonna die tomorrow. He’s allowed to laugh at the waltzing stars.
He inhales again and the tip of the blunt glows orange, casting his hand in amber warmth. Something very wrong creeps in at the edges of his consciousness, but for the moment, he can’t be bothered to think about it. There’s always something wrong; it’s the end of the goddamned. world. And then it hits him. He realizes then that the air is still except for his breathing. Even stoned, he knows there's always sound here. Something is always alive and moving, be it the trees or the night watch walking carefully around the perimeter. There's nothing.
Castiel sits up, and it seems like it's a domino effect; there's a flurry of motion and sounds, bloodcurdling screams and feet dashing, then choking and gurgling. He distinguishes the sound of bodies hitting the ground, and he wishes he didn't know it so well. He's terrified; he has no weapon, nothing else to defend himself with, and he's stuck on the roof of the cabin with nowhere to go but down. If a hoard of croats had swarmed the camp, he was fucked. He liked to pretend that he was safe here, closer to the sky. Closer to his old home.
He tries to determine an exit, some way down, when there's another chorus of screams. There's a shout and a high pitched shriek nearby, but it's cut off right at the peak. He jumps as he makes out meaty bits of them, bloody chunks and pieces illuminated by the lantern light.
Everything's gone quiet again, and Castiel is more terrified than before. He's in shock, breaths coming in gasping bursts. He still has no idea what's happening or why. He hears steps now, crunching in the grass and pine needles, squelching carelessly in gore. He sees movement and then--no. No, it's worse than anything Castiel had imagined. But it's here.
All white. A man in an all-white suit steps toward the lantern light. When he sees the long hair, curling just at the nape of his neck, the moles, the pointed nose, he thinks—just for a split second—that it's Sam. His lips contort into a smile and then Castiel knows. That was not an expression Sam could ever make.
The joint falls from his fingers and rolls, glowing, down the shingles until it lands in the gutter. Castiel is frightened nearly sober. Lucifer locks eyes with him and smiles.
“Hello, Castiel. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
Castiel says nothing, simply because there is nothing he can say. He wants not to acknowledge him, he wants for Lucifer not to have come to his home and slaughtered everyone. His breath catches in his throat and makes an odd sound.
“Not feeling chatty up there? That's alright, you can join me,” Lucifer raises his hand, Sam's hand, and then flicks his fingers to the ground, “down here.”
Castiel lets out a horrible shout as he's pulled forward from the slope of the roof. He tumbles over himself and hits his head on the rain gutter, the rough metal slicing into his skin. He tries to cling onto the edge of the roof, but he's propelled the ground. He falls onto the porch and lands on his stomach, arms beneath him. Something snaps, and Castiel's not sure if it's him or the wood. Lucifer laughs, small closed-mouth chuckle. Castiel tries to push himself off the ground and crumples. It’s him; his arm is broken, bent into an unnatural shape. He tries not to cry out, doesn't want to give Lucifer any satisfaction. He can feel the blood trickling down the back of his neck.
“You look a bit worse for wear, brother.”
Castiel feels the pain spread up his arm. He groans, collapsing back onto his stomach, resting his face against the cool wood of the porch. He hopes if he closes his eyes and counts to three in his head, Lucifer will be gone. It doesn't work. Castiel lets out an indignant huff.
“I wish I could say the same to you, Lucifer.”
The thing is, Lucifer looks pristine. It sounded like he had murdered the whole camp, killed everyone there except for him. His suit looks perfect, not a drop of blood on it, and Sam shows none of the wear Lucifer's old vessel had. Sam is as beautiful as ever; he just seems so ugly with Lucifer stuffed inside of him.
“Oh, you're a cheeky one. I don't think you have much room to joke, though.” Lucifer strides closer to Castiel, looks him over. “Marijuana. Uppers. Women. You've fallen far.”
Lucifer wasn't here to question his life choices, Castiel knew that much. Lucifer always had an ulterior motive, always saw others as a means to an end. The fact that Castiel wasn't dead right now meant that he was useful in some way to him. He just couldn't fathom how. He was broken, fallen, completely useless as an angel, and a pretty piss-poor excuse for a human. Castiel pulls himself up into a sitting position. Lucifer staring down at him, it's too much.
“Why are you here? Why did you do this?”
Lucifer laughs now, open mouthed and entirely wrong. Sam's laughter was never like that, never harsh and barking, never cruel. Sam's laughs were light, few and far between, and they always made Castiel feel like his skin was too tight. He shoved down the thoughts. No use in imagining he'd ever hear Sam's laugh again.
Lucifer sits on the step, within feet of Castiel. They're not facing, and Castiel honestly prefers it that way. This way he doesn't have to look at Sam's face and hear Lucifer's words coming out of it. He says nothing. His silence is more unnerving than his laugh. “Well?” Castiel asks, not as bravely as he had hoped, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
“Because I need you, brother.”
It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh. It comes out as barely a wheeze, and it’s painful. He wonders if he cracked a rib. It serves to remind him how human and fragile he is, how completely useless.
“What need could you have of me? I’m an invalid! I can’t do anything.” The hardest thing Castiel ever had to face was his own impotence. With time, he had grudgingly accepted it, resigning himself to his fate as a useless ex-angel, who only stuck around because he had nowhere else to go.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Don’t you want more than this? It’s just us, Castiel. We’re all that’s left of our big, dysfunctional family. We understand each other. I can give you a piece of yourself back. Something you’ve maybe been missing, no?”
“Fuck off,” he says, more out of habit than anything else. Family doesn’t mean shit at the end of all things; it’s just you and hours ticking away until death. And then he actually registers what Lucifer said. With great effort, he turns his head, scraping his skin against the wood. “What do you mean, ‘missing’?”
Lucifer sighs like a long-suffering parent. “I can give you back your grace. Make you whole again, return you to full power. How about it, little brother?”
“What can you gain from this?” What a wonderful, terrible way out Lucifer was dangling in front of him, as enticing as the Fruit of the Tree, and just as damning. Castiel is ashamed that he didn’t deny Lucifer outright.
“Information. You know things that would be potentially very, very important to me.”
“Like what?” Castiel asks sourly.
Lucifer’s lips turn down and he shrugs his shoulders as though it’s all the same to him. “Nothing too difficult. Just a few vital pieces of knowledge. Like, say, where is Dean Winchester?”
Castiel’s heart lurches in his chest, panic rising at the mere mention of his name. Dean fucking Winchester. He scares Castiel more than the devil himself sometimes; he’s cold, and hardened, and so, so far away from what he used to be. He had been for years, ever since Detroit, ever since he got wind of a story of a man in white, calling himself the devil and laying waste to the human race.
Sam had ruined more than just himself by saying yes to Lucifer. He ruined Dean, too. He ruined the whole fucking world. Castiel had always felt ruined by Sam, by the want of him. This didn’t seem any different.
“Too much?” Lucifer condescends, mistaking Castiel’s quiet panic for a lack of comprehension. “Alright, maybe you could tell me where he’s got that gun hidden?”
“I won’t tell you a thing,” he spits out, an uncharacteristic surge of loyalty swelling up within him. Dean’s mission - find the Colt - is of absolute importance, and possibly the only thing that can halt the Apocalypse. Giving him up to Lucifer now is unthinkable.
“You always were loyal, weren’t you?” Lucifer’s hand twitches where it’s resting against his thigh, like he wants to hit Castiel, but holds himself back. “What would it take to break that loyalty, I wonder?” He hums thoughtfully, and Castiel’s stomach ties itself into knots. He thinks of Zachariah, and remembers that angels are good at torture, both the mental and the physical. Lucifer’s had eons of Hell to teach him even better. “What do you want, Castiel? Power? Longevity? Oblivion?”
Lucifer bends forward, staring Castiel down. Castiel can’t help but watch the long line of Sam’s stolen body, the smooth arch of his back and the strong set of his shoulders. He remembers wanting that body, under him, over him, next to him. He wishes that it didn’t suit Lucifer so well. “A person, maybe?” And Castiel wishes that he had never moved in the first place. Of course Lucifer noticed. Of fucking course.
“Ah, yes. I see.” Lucifer slides his hands over his lapel, gesturing at himself. “He is a fine vessel, isn’t he? My perfect fit,” he says, dimples punctuating either end of his mouth. It’s a smile reminiscent of Sam’s, but made so much more by the Morningstar, and Castiel is both awed and horrified that something so wonderful could be made so ugly. “Did you want him, brother? Did you crave him, night after night, a warm body to chase away the darkness?” Castiel wrenches a hand up to cover his ear, trying to block out the sound of Lucifer’s voice.
“Shut up!” he begs, whispering brokenly. But it’s too late. Lucifer is inside of his head, turning Sam’s sweet, dark voice into a sibilant, hissing worm, burrowing in and taking hold and never, ever letting go. Castiel can’t help but to listen.
“You know, I never would have guessed it. All this time, I thought you had fallen for Dean. But you fell for Sam, didn’t you? An angel of the Lord, throwing away the grace of Heaven for one damned soul. How... poetic.” The sneer in his voice tells Castiel exactly what Lucifer thinks of him.
Castiel tries to cover his face, out of shame or a need to hide he isn’t certain, but he’s impeded by his broken arm. He lets out a groan, but he stifles it with his fist.
“Why are you taunting me?” Castiel pleads. He’s not beyond begging; this is one thing he simply does not wish to think about. If he could forget Sam, forget his desire for him, forget the way Sam had hurt him, hurt everyone, Castiel would. “Where does this get you?”
Lucifer strokes a finger over his lips. Something cunning shines bright in his eyes. “I could give him to you. Let him out to play. I know you miss him terribly.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Castiel’s heart gives a painful shudder. “Can you do that?” he asks, voice hushed, refusing to hope. He cannot let the devil hold sway over him like this. He has to be strong. He has to resist temptation. But he has to know - if he could talk to Sam, just for a minute... “Is it possible?”
Lucifer reaches a hand out to Castiel, strokes the back of his fingers over Castiel’s sickly-pale cheek. Castiel tries to turn away from the touch, but he’s got nowhere to go. Fisting his dirty shirt, Lucifer pulls him upright, setting Castiel’s back against the porch steps. He pulls his hand back, and folds both neatly in his lap, casting his eyes downward. His body trembles, shaking like he’s going to break apart into a thousand pieces of glass. It’s frightening, confusing - Castiel, in all his years that he can still remember, has no idea what the devil is doing. But when Lucifer lifts his head, it - it isn’t Lucifer at all.
It’s Sam. One hundred percent, honest to God Sam, and - he looks horrible. Without Lucifer’s grace filling in the gaps, he looks pale, emaciated, and scared. His cheeks are hollowed in, skin pulled taut over bone, like he hasn’t eaten in years. Three years, Castiel guesses. Possibly more. “Sam?” he breathes quietly. It could be a trick. It is, in all probability, a trick. But Castiel hopes, he prays, that it isn’t.
Lucifer and Sam are occupying the same body, the very same one, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him now. Sam’s mouth opens, like he’s afraid to speak, or unsure if he can. “Cas?” His voice is raspy, grating, like he’s been screaming himself raw. “Is it... am I...” His eyes widen as the full brunt of what he has done slams into him with all the force of car crash, sudden and heavy and frightening. “I - oh God - !”
“Sam!” Castiel reaches with his good hand, trying to cut through Sam’s panicked tirade, “Calm down. It’s just me, just you and me, nobody else,” he lies, because how could he not?
“Is this real? Am I dreaming?” Sam gasps, his hands clutching at his own stomach. “Is... is he gone?” Castiel doesn’t have to ask who “he” is. “He” is the nightmare that stalks them all.
“You’re not dreaming, Sam,” Castiel says. “We’re alone.” And when Sam’s breathing evens out, when his shoulders and hands shake just a little bit less, Castiel can’t possibly feel guilty over one little white lie.
“Thank God,” Sam chokes out, and Castiel desperately hopes that he’s saying it because he’s actually thanking God. He covers his face with his hands, and makes a horrible, keening wail, more animalistic than human. He is crying out for everything that he has done. Every human he has killed, every sin he has committed. He cries as if someone is listening. Castiel finds it distasteful, disgusting.
“Can you not?” Castiel asks sharply, smothering the guilt he feels when Sam flinches. “What good do you think crying will do? God isn’t listening, Sam, and you know it.”
Sam scrubs the tears from his eyes ineffectually. “I know that,” he says, voice watery, “of course I do. Shit, I know that better than anyone. Why do you think I said yes?” The casual way he mentions his decision to consent to Lucifer - the key event of the entire damn Apocalypse - startles Castiel. Wouldn’t Sam rather bury his resounding “yes” deep, deeper than Hell, so deep that no light could possibly reach it?
“You used to pray every day,” Castiel says softly. His chest aches, the broken rib making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s Sam’s presence.
“I figured out a long time ago that God wasn’t listening to me,” Sam responds acidly. This is wrong. Sam should be exhausted, hollowed out after playing host to Lucifer, not bitter and angry, sparks of rage shooting out of his eyes. “I stopped praying. I lost faith. I figured there was no way out.” He draws his knees close to himself, hugs himself as if trying to keep out the cold. “Saying yes to Lucifer was... it was like slow motion suicide.”
“Suicides go to Hell,” Castiel says, possibly without thinking. Sam doesn’t flinch.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Castiel stares at him, uncomprehendingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Bloodshot eyes, loss of weight, horrible smell?” Sam’s mouth twists in a sad smile. “I’m a junkie too, Cas. I just have a different drug.” He laughs softly, a vile, self-deprecating punch of air. “I spent all this time angsting about how you and Dean are alike, when really, it’s us...”
With his good hand, Castiel pulls himself along the wooden step, closer to Sam. Sam doesn’t back away, or move to help him. Castiel is too overtaken by Sam’s presence to really notice, too busy thinking about how he was once so solid, so strong, and so beautiful, and now he has been reduced to a husk of his former self - but he’s still Sam. Underneath the white suit, and the smell of sulfur, he’s still Sam, the cursed boy that Castiel somehow fell in love with, all those years ago, and the person he has missed the most in his long, tumultuous life. “I don’t understand.”
When Sam turns to him, their faces are nearly touching. Castiel breathes loudly, stifling the pulsing pain in his chest. Sam’s lips are cracked and chapped, dry and worn like the rest of him. Castiel still very much wants to kiss him. “I always thought it was you and Dean, together forever, but, you and me... we’re something else, aren’t we?”
It’s that one word that sets him on fire. We. Him and Sam. Castiel had never suspected that Sam might ever return his feelings, had never even hoped, but now, even just the implicaiton is enough for him. Raising himself on his knees, he cups Sam’s face, slotting his lips over Sam’s.
Kissing Sam is nothing like kissing one of the human girls at the camp. Sam’s lips, the heat of his skin beneath Castiel’s’ hand, and the sick wheeze of his breath are more potent than any orgy, any drug he’s ever tried. He wonders what kissing him would be like years later, after he has regained his health. His heart beats quickly in his chest at the idea, the pulsing pain from his rib making it that much sweeter.
It takes him too long to realize that pain isn’t coming from his chest. It’s radiating out from his stomach. Sam pulls away, and there is blood on his lips. He tilts his head, as if Castiel is a very interesting specimen. “What a peculiar thing you are,” he murmurs. The devil is back in Sam’s skin. Castiel thinks that he never actually left.
There is a sick squelch, and Lucifer pulls his hand out of Castiel’s stomach. His organs spill out, blood and undigested food staining the wood. His blood is roaring in his ears, and just under that, he thinks he can hear the echo of Sam’s scream inside of Lucifer’s mouth. “Why?” he tries to ask. Blood bubbles up in his mouth instead, mixing with spittle and vomit and drooling from the corner of his parted lips. “Why?”
“Why what?” asks Lucifer. “Why did I kill you? Because you’re not important to me. Why did I lie about Sam?” He crouches before Castiel, speaking softly. “Because I didn’t want him to see this. He loves you, for some unfathomable reason. Did you know?” Castiel coughs wetly, eyes drooping. Despair crawls its way into his heart, and will not be moved, even by swiftly-approaching death. “He always wanted to tell you, too. But he figured that you couldn’t possibly return his feelings.” Lucifer laughs. “I guess he was wrong. Isn’t that funny?”
It’s not funny. But Castiel is in a million pieces right now, and for some reason, he laughs, too. Lucifer stands up. “Goodbye, brother,” he says fondly, as if this is only a momentary parting. With a sound of wings, he is gone. Sam is gone. Dean is gone. The whole damn world slips through his fingers like water.
The last thing Castiel recalls is that everything goes quiet.
Word Count: 3448
Characters: Sam, Castiel, Lucifer
Pairings: Sam/Castiel
Tags: Graphic violence, character death
The first thing Castiel recalls is that everything goes quiet.
He's lying on the rooftop of his cabin, altering his state of mind so he can forget exactly why it is he's lying on the rooftop of his cabin. The stars are dancing around, and right now, he can find that funny, because he doesn't have to be broken. He can just be. He can be component parts; fingers and toes and hair and lips, and he doesn't have to worry about if he's got enough food to eat, if the world will ever pick itself back up again, or if he's gonna die tomorrow. He’s allowed to laugh at the waltzing stars.
He inhales again and the tip of the blunt glows orange, casting his hand in amber warmth. Something very wrong creeps in at the edges of his consciousness, but for the moment, he can’t be bothered to think about it. There’s always something wrong; it’s the end of the goddamned. world. And then it hits him. He realizes then that the air is still except for his breathing. Even stoned, he knows there's always sound here. Something is always alive and moving, be it the trees or the night watch walking carefully around the perimeter. There's nothing.
Castiel sits up, and it seems like it's a domino effect; there's a flurry of motion and sounds, bloodcurdling screams and feet dashing, then choking and gurgling. He distinguishes the sound of bodies hitting the ground, and he wishes he didn't know it so well. He's terrified; he has no weapon, nothing else to defend himself with, and he's stuck on the roof of the cabin with nowhere to go but down. If a hoard of croats had swarmed the camp, he was fucked. He liked to pretend that he was safe here, closer to the sky. Closer to his old home.
He tries to determine an exit, some way down, when there's another chorus of screams. There's a shout and a high pitched shriek nearby, but it's cut off right at the peak. He jumps as he makes out meaty bits of them, bloody chunks and pieces illuminated by the lantern light.
Everything's gone quiet again, and Castiel is more terrified than before. He's in shock, breaths coming in gasping bursts. He still has no idea what's happening or why. He hears steps now, crunching in the grass and pine needles, squelching carelessly in gore. He sees movement and then--no. No, it's worse than anything Castiel had imagined. But it's here.
All white. A man in an all-white suit steps toward the lantern light. When he sees the long hair, curling just at the nape of his neck, the moles, the pointed nose, he thinks—just for a split second—that it's Sam. His lips contort into a smile and then Castiel knows. That was not an expression Sam could ever make.
The joint falls from his fingers and rolls, glowing, down the shingles until it lands in the gutter. Castiel is frightened nearly sober. Lucifer locks eyes with him and smiles.
“Hello, Castiel. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
Castiel says nothing, simply because there is nothing he can say. He wants not to acknowledge him, he wants for Lucifer not to have come to his home and slaughtered everyone. His breath catches in his throat and makes an odd sound.
“Not feeling chatty up there? That's alright, you can join me,” Lucifer raises his hand, Sam's hand, and then flicks his fingers to the ground, “down here.”
Castiel lets out a horrible shout as he's pulled forward from the slope of the roof. He tumbles over himself and hits his head on the rain gutter, the rough metal slicing into his skin. He tries to cling onto the edge of the roof, but he's propelled the ground. He falls onto the porch and lands on his stomach, arms beneath him. Something snaps, and Castiel's not sure if it's him or the wood. Lucifer laughs, small closed-mouth chuckle. Castiel tries to push himself off the ground and crumples. It’s him; his arm is broken, bent into an unnatural shape. He tries not to cry out, doesn't want to give Lucifer any satisfaction. He can feel the blood trickling down the back of his neck.
“You look a bit worse for wear, brother.”
Castiel feels the pain spread up his arm. He groans, collapsing back onto his stomach, resting his face against the cool wood of the porch. He hopes if he closes his eyes and counts to three in his head, Lucifer will be gone. It doesn't work. Castiel lets out an indignant huff.
“I wish I could say the same to you, Lucifer.”
The thing is, Lucifer looks pristine. It sounded like he had murdered the whole camp, killed everyone there except for him. His suit looks perfect, not a drop of blood on it, and Sam shows none of the wear Lucifer's old vessel had. Sam is as beautiful as ever; he just seems so ugly with Lucifer stuffed inside of him.
“Oh, you're a cheeky one. I don't think you have much room to joke, though.” Lucifer strides closer to Castiel, looks him over. “Marijuana. Uppers. Women. You've fallen far.”
Lucifer wasn't here to question his life choices, Castiel knew that much. Lucifer always had an ulterior motive, always saw others as a means to an end. The fact that Castiel wasn't dead right now meant that he was useful in some way to him. He just couldn't fathom how. He was broken, fallen, completely useless as an angel, and a pretty piss-poor excuse for a human. Castiel pulls himself up into a sitting position. Lucifer staring down at him, it's too much.
“Why are you here? Why did you do this?”
Lucifer laughs now, open mouthed and entirely wrong. Sam's laughter was never like that, never harsh and barking, never cruel. Sam's laughs were light, few and far between, and they always made Castiel feel like his skin was too tight. He shoved down the thoughts. No use in imagining he'd ever hear Sam's laugh again.
Lucifer sits on the step, within feet of Castiel. They're not facing, and Castiel honestly prefers it that way. This way he doesn't have to look at Sam's face and hear Lucifer's words coming out of it. He says nothing. His silence is more unnerving than his laugh. “Well?” Castiel asks, not as bravely as he had hoped, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
“Because I need you, brother.”
It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh. It comes out as barely a wheeze, and it’s painful. He wonders if he cracked a rib. It serves to remind him how human and fragile he is, how completely useless.
“What need could you have of me? I’m an invalid! I can’t do anything.” The hardest thing Castiel ever had to face was his own impotence. With time, he had grudgingly accepted it, resigning himself to his fate as a useless ex-angel, who only stuck around because he had nowhere else to go.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Don’t you want more than this? It’s just us, Castiel. We’re all that’s left of our big, dysfunctional family. We understand each other. I can give you a piece of yourself back. Something you’ve maybe been missing, no?”
“Fuck off,” he says, more out of habit than anything else. Family doesn’t mean shit at the end of all things; it’s just you and hours ticking away until death. And then he actually registers what Lucifer said. With great effort, he turns his head, scraping his skin against the wood. “What do you mean, ‘missing’?”
Lucifer sighs like a long-suffering parent. “I can give you back your grace. Make you whole again, return you to full power. How about it, little brother?”
“What can you gain from this?” What a wonderful, terrible way out Lucifer was dangling in front of him, as enticing as the Fruit of the Tree, and just as damning. Castiel is ashamed that he didn’t deny Lucifer outright.
“Information. You know things that would be potentially very, very important to me.”
“Like what?” Castiel asks sourly.
Lucifer’s lips turn down and he shrugs his shoulders as though it’s all the same to him. “Nothing too difficult. Just a few vital pieces of knowledge. Like, say, where is Dean Winchester?”
Castiel’s heart lurches in his chest, panic rising at the mere mention of his name. Dean fucking Winchester. He scares Castiel more than the devil himself sometimes; he’s cold, and hardened, and so, so far away from what he used to be. He had been for years, ever since Detroit, ever since he got wind of a story of a man in white, calling himself the devil and laying waste to the human race.
Sam had ruined more than just himself by saying yes to Lucifer. He ruined Dean, too. He ruined the whole fucking world. Castiel had always felt ruined by Sam, by the want of him. This didn’t seem any different.
“Too much?” Lucifer condescends, mistaking Castiel’s quiet panic for a lack of comprehension. “Alright, maybe you could tell me where he’s got that gun hidden?”
“I won’t tell you a thing,” he spits out, an uncharacteristic surge of loyalty swelling up within him. Dean’s mission - find the Colt - is of absolute importance, and possibly the only thing that can halt the Apocalypse. Giving him up to Lucifer now is unthinkable.
“You always were loyal, weren’t you?” Lucifer’s hand twitches where it’s resting against his thigh, like he wants to hit Castiel, but holds himself back. “What would it take to break that loyalty, I wonder?” He hums thoughtfully, and Castiel’s stomach ties itself into knots. He thinks of Zachariah, and remembers that angels are good at torture, both the mental and the physical. Lucifer’s had eons of Hell to teach him even better. “What do you want, Castiel? Power? Longevity? Oblivion?”
Lucifer bends forward, staring Castiel down. Castiel can’t help but watch the long line of Sam’s stolen body, the smooth arch of his back and the strong set of his shoulders. He remembers wanting that body, under him, over him, next to him. He wishes that it didn’t suit Lucifer so well. “A person, maybe?” And Castiel wishes that he had never moved in the first place. Of course Lucifer noticed. Of fucking course.
“Ah, yes. I see.” Lucifer slides his hands over his lapel, gesturing at himself. “He is a fine vessel, isn’t he? My perfect fit,” he says, dimples punctuating either end of his mouth. It’s a smile reminiscent of Sam’s, but made so much more by the Morningstar, and Castiel is both awed and horrified that something so wonderful could be made so ugly. “Did you want him, brother? Did you crave him, night after night, a warm body to chase away the darkness?” Castiel wrenches a hand up to cover his ear, trying to block out the sound of Lucifer’s voice.
“Shut up!” he begs, whispering brokenly. But it’s too late. Lucifer is inside of his head, turning Sam’s sweet, dark voice into a sibilant, hissing worm, burrowing in and taking hold and never, ever letting go. Castiel can’t help but to listen.
“You know, I never would have guessed it. All this time, I thought you had fallen for Dean. But you fell for Sam, didn’t you? An angel of the Lord, throwing away the grace of Heaven for one damned soul. How... poetic.” The sneer in his voice tells Castiel exactly what Lucifer thinks of him.
Castiel tries to cover his face, out of shame or a need to hide he isn’t certain, but he’s impeded by his broken arm. He lets out a groan, but he stifles it with his fist.
“Why are you taunting me?” Castiel pleads. He’s not beyond begging; this is one thing he simply does not wish to think about. If he could forget Sam, forget his desire for him, forget the way Sam had hurt him, hurt everyone, Castiel would. “Where does this get you?”
Lucifer strokes a finger over his lips. Something cunning shines bright in his eyes. “I could give him to you. Let him out to play. I know you miss him terribly.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Castiel’s heart gives a painful shudder. “Can you do that?” he asks, voice hushed, refusing to hope. He cannot let the devil hold sway over him like this. He has to be strong. He has to resist temptation. But he has to know - if he could talk to Sam, just for a minute... “Is it possible?”
Lucifer reaches a hand out to Castiel, strokes the back of his fingers over Castiel’s sickly-pale cheek. Castiel tries to turn away from the touch, but he’s got nowhere to go. Fisting his dirty shirt, Lucifer pulls him upright, setting Castiel’s back against the porch steps. He pulls his hand back, and folds both neatly in his lap, casting his eyes downward. His body trembles, shaking like he’s going to break apart into a thousand pieces of glass. It’s frightening, confusing - Castiel, in all his years that he can still remember, has no idea what the devil is doing. But when Lucifer lifts his head, it - it isn’t Lucifer at all.
It’s Sam. One hundred percent, honest to God Sam, and - he looks horrible. Without Lucifer’s grace filling in the gaps, he looks pale, emaciated, and scared. His cheeks are hollowed in, skin pulled taut over bone, like he hasn’t eaten in years. Three years, Castiel guesses. Possibly more. “Sam?” he breathes quietly. It could be a trick. It is, in all probability, a trick. But Castiel hopes, he prays, that it isn’t.
Lucifer and Sam are occupying the same body, the very same one, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him now. Sam’s mouth opens, like he’s afraid to speak, or unsure if he can. “Cas?” His voice is raspy, grating, like he’s been screaming himself raw. “Is it... am I...” His eyes widen as the full brunt of what he has done slams into him with all the force of car crash, sudden and heavy and frightening. “I - oh God - !”
“Sam!” Castiel reaches with his good hand, trying to cut through Sam’s panicked tirade, “Calm down. It’s just me, just you and me, nobody else,” he lies, because how could he not?
“Is this real? Am I dreaming?” Sam gasps, his hands clutching at his own stomach. “Is... is he gone?” Castiel doesn’t have to ask who “he” is. “He” is the nightmare that stalks them all.
“You’re not dreaming, Sam,” Castiel says. “We’re alone.” And when Sam’s breathing evens out, when his shoulders and hands shake just a little bit less, Castiel can’t possibly feel guilty over one little white lie.
“Thank God,” Sam chokes out, and Castiel desperately hopes that he’s saying it because he’s actually thanking God. He covers his face with his hands, and makes a horrible, keening wail, more animalistic than human. He is crying out for everything that he has done. Every human he has killed, every sin he has committed. He cries as if someone is listening. Castiel finds it distasteful, disgusting.
“Can you not?” Castiel asks sharply, smothering the guilt he feels when Sam flinches. “What good do you think crying will do? God isn’t listening, Sam, and you know it.”
Sam scrubs the tears from his eyes ineffectually. “I know that,” he says, voice watery, “of course I do. Shit, I know that better than anyone. Why do you think I said yes?” The casual way he mentions his decision to consent to Lucifer - the key event of the entire damn Apocalypse - startles Castiel. Wouldn’t Sam rather bury his resounding “yes” deep, deeper than Hell, so deep that no light could possibly reach it?
“You used to pray every day,” Castiel says softly. His chest aches, the broken rib making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s Sam’s presence.
“I figured out a long time ago that God wasn’t listening to me,” Sam responds acidly. This is wrong. Sam should be exhausted, hollowed out after playing host to Lucifer, not bitter and angry, sparks of rage shooting out of his eyes. “I stopped praying. I lost faith. I figured there was no way out.” He draws his knees close to himself, hugs himself as if trying to keep out the cold. “Saying yes to Lucifer was... it was like slow motion suicide.”
“Suicides go to Hell,” Castiel says, possibly without thinking. Sam doesn’t flinch.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Castiel stares at him, uncomprehendingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Bloodshot eyes, loss of weight, horrible smell?” Sam’s mouth twists in a sad smile. “I’m a junkie too, Cas. I just have a different drug.” He laughs softly, a vile, self-deprecating punch of air. “I spent all this time angsting about how you and Dean are alike, when really, it’s us...”
With his good hand, Castiel pulls himself along the wooden step, closer to Sam. Sam doesn’t back away, or move to help him. Castiel is too overtaken by Sam’s presence to really notice, too busy thinking about how he was once so solid, so strong, and so beautiful, and now he has been reduced to a husk of his former self - but he’s still Sam. Underneath the white suit, and the smell of sulfur, he’s still Sam, the cursed boy that Castiel somehow fell in love with, all those years ago, and the person he has missed the most in his long, tumultuous life. “I don’t understand.”
When Sam turns to him, their faces are nearly touching. Castiel breathes loudly, stifling the pulsing pain in his chest. Sam’s lips are cracked and chapped, dry and worn like the rest of him. Castiel still very much wants to kiss him. “I always thought it was you and Dean, together forever, but, you and me... we’re something else, aren’t we?”
It’s that one word that sets him on fire. We. Him and Sam. Castiel had never suspected that Sam might ever return his feelings, had never even hoped, but now, even just the implicaiton is enough for him. Raising himself on his knees, he cups Sam’s face, slotting his lips over Sam’s.
Kissing Sam is nothing like kissing one of the human girls at the camp. Sam’s lips, the heat of his skin beneath Castiel’s’ hand, and the sick wheeze of his breath are more potent than any orgy, any drug he’s ever tried. He wonders what kissing him would be like years later, after he has regained his health. His heart beats quickly in his chest at the idea, the pulsing pain from his rib making it that much sweeter.
It takes him too long to realize that pain isn’t coming from his chest. It’s radiating out from his stomach. Sam pulls away, and there is blood on his lips. He tilts his head, as if Castiel is a very interesting specimen. “What a peculiar thing you are,” he murmurs. The devil is back in Sam’s skin. Castiel thinks that he never actually left.
There is a sick squelch, and Lucifer pulls his hand out of Castiel’s stomach. His organs spill out, blood and undigested food staining the wood. His blood is roaring in his ears, and just under that, he thinks he can hear the echo of Sam’s scream inside of Lucifer’s mouth. “Why?” he tries to ask. Blood bubbles up in his mouth instead, mixing with spittle and vomit and drooling from the corner of his parted lips. “Why?”
“Why what?” asks Lucifer. “Why did I kill you? Because you’re not important to me. Why did I lie about Sam?” He crouches before Castiel, speaking softly. “Because I didn’t want him to see this. He loves you, for some unfathomable reason. Did you know?” Castiel coughs wetly, eyes drooping. Despair crawls its way into his heart, and will not be moved, even by swiftly-approaching death. “He always wanted to tell you, too. But he figured that you couldn’t possibly return his feelings.” Lucifer laughs. “I guess he was wrong. Isn’t that funny?”
It’s not funny. But Castiel is in a million pieces right now, and for some reason, he laughs, too. Lucifer stands up. “Goodbye, brother,” he says fondly, as if this is only a momentary parting. With a sound of wings, he is gone. Sam is gone. Dean is gone. The whole damn world slips through his fingers like water.
The last thing Castiel recalls is that everything goes quiet.
