Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things Sam was fluent in—or rather, a lot of things he just knew. Information stored away and remembered, sometimes at random. Sometimes useful, sometimes not. A lot his brother would consider boring, irrelevant, or just plain nonsense.

And maybe what he knew was odd, but at one point or another, most of what he knew did become relevant in their hunts. Case in point: he knew the flora in the Midshaw Woods didn’t have anything extravagant, such as the flower in front of him.

And sure, maybe he knew more flowers than his brother probably could name, but he didn’t know them all. And certainly not this one.

This hybrid little thing looked like a cross between a Rafflesia arnoldii —otherwise known as the stinking corpse lily, or the monster flower—and a rose… on LSD. The core was nearly black, spiraling outward in hypnotic shades of red, then orange, then yellow, finally bleeding into white. The white petals branched out like the stamens of a spider lily—long and delicate.

He knew enough not to touch it. It was unnatural here in this habitat of Ohio in October, and not only did it look poisonous, but spider lilies, in general, were toxic if ingested or touched.

So no, he wasn’t going to touch it, and he hoped to God that Dean wouldn’t either if he came across it too.

He looked around suspiciously. He fully assumed that it was the creatures doing; he had no doubt about it. 

The question was: how did the plant factor in?

A lure, maybe? Something to draw the victims in? Hypnotize them? Poison them? Mark them in a way that the creature could follow them home?

When he turned back to the flower, it pulsed—just once—then released a burst of pollen into the air. And more dreadfully, into his face.

He recoiled, coughing, stumbling to his feet. The scent was sweet, the taste too, but at the same time bitter. His vision blurred almost instantly, and the ground felt as if it was rippling and shifting beneath his feet as if an earthquake struck.

His knees buckled. “D-Dean—” he called out, voice cracking as the ground rushed up to meet him.

And everything went black.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but he woke to the sound of his name spoken in a deep, familiar grumble.

“C-Cas?” he rasped, squinting up to find the angel hovering over him.

“Sam? Sam, are you alright?” Castiel’s brow was furrowed with concern.

“Wh-what? I… I think so?” He pushed himself up slowly, looking around in a confused daze. “Why… why are you here?”

“Dean called me to find you.”

“O-oh, uh, sorry.”

The angel tilted his head, puzzled. “Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I just—I mean, you’re busy,” Sam mumbled. “So I didn’t mean to interrupt your, uh, God-hunt or whatever. It’s not that big of a forest. Dean would have found me eventually.”

Cas shook his head as he stood up. “You were missing. And with the creature you're hunting lurking in these woods, of course, I came. I’d never be too busy to help search for you. You could have been in danger. I was worried.”

He held out a hand.

Sam hesitated for a brief second, then accepted it, cheeks flushing. But when he got to his feet, Cas didn’t release his hand. Instead, he clasped Sam’s hand tightly in his own.

Sam’s face flushed even hotter as he stared down at their joined hands. “Er, uh.”

“What is it?” Cas tipped his head to the side.

“You-you’re, uh… aren’t you going to, um…” Sam waved vaguely with his free hand. Cas just continued to stare at him in confusion. “M-my hand. Aren’t you going to, you know… let go?”

Cas followed his gaze down, frowning as if he’d only just remembered they were touching. His grip tightened slightly—almost enough to hurt. “No,” he said simply, then turned and began walking, tugging Sam gently along behind him.

Sam huffed a breathy, nervous laugh but matched the angel’s pace, leaves crunching underfoot. “No? Wh-why no?”

“Why not?” Cas countered.

“Um.”

“I have to make sure you don’t get lost again,” Cas explained flatly. “If I hold your hand, we won’t be separated.”

Sam chuckled, despite himself. “I doubt I’ll get lost so suddenly if we walk side by side. And it was Dean’s idea to spread out and search the woods, I didn’t just wander off.”

“Perhaps,” Cas said. “But I’d rather not risk it. You were unconscious when I found you. Do you feel unwell?”

Sam frowned, suddenly feeling sluggish and weighted. “No, I mean… actually, I am a bit tired.” He blinked hard, struggling to shake the fog creeping into his thoughts. “It was some plant—a flower.” He looked around lamely to find it. “It, uh, it sprayed this mist in my face, knocked me out.”

Cas looked concerned but focused. “I see, but I didn’t see a flower nearby when I found you.”

Sam continued to scan the woods uselessly, eyes blurry. “Huh. Uh… Cas, look. You can hold my hand if… if you really want to. But can you maybe… ease up a little? It kind of hurts.”

Cas glanced down again, then immediately loosened his grip. “Oh. I’m sorry. I… forget my strength sometimes.”

Sam gave him a small, tired smile. “Thanks.”

“I know where Dean is,” Cas said calmly. “But since you’re tired, why don’t we slow our pace a little? He’s not far.”

Sam nodded, but each step grew heavier, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Cas’s grip on his hand was starting to tighten again—slowly, steadily.

Time was lost on him as Cas all but dragged him through the woods toward his brother. The woods blurred around him like a smeared painting of green, brown, red, and yellow.

Yet when Dean’s voice cut through the trees, it sounded as if Dean was behind them. Sam blinked hard, confusion spiking through the haze. He looked around. “C-Cas, ow,” he muttered as the grip on his hand tightened sharply.

Cas’s expression twitched—almost nervous.  “How odd,” he murmured.

“Huh?”

The thud of footsteps and crunching leaves directs Sam’s attention behind them, from the direction they had come from. Dean yells his name again, closer, desperate.

Sam tried to yell, to answer, but his voice came out weak, barely louder than a normal tone. He wasn’t sure if Dean had heard him.

Dean burst through the trees, flushed with sweat and panic. “Sam! S-Sam? Wh-what the hell is going on?” he hissed, raising his gun, finger on the trigger. Pointed straight at Cas.

Sam raised his free hand slowly, the other still gripped tightly in the angel’s. “Woah, Dean… wh-what are you doing? Put the gun down, man.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to him, wild and wide. “Sam, what the hell is that?! Get away from it!”

“What? Get away from what ?” Sam looked around, bleary and confused, then back at Cas. Then to Dean. “You mean Cas? Did you bang your head or something?”

Dean faltered, face wrinkling with something between horror and concern. “O-okay. I—I don’t know what you’re seeing, Sam…” He shook his head, voice low and grim. “But that sure as hell ain’t Cas.”

Sam looked at the angel, who had a serious look on his face. “Sam,” he muttered. “That isn’t Dean. It’s the creature you’re hunting. You have the rock stake to kill it, don’t you? Give it to me.”

Sam winced as Cas’s grip tightened again.  “Y-yeah, I have one.” He fumbled for the stone blade strapped at his belt, gaze flicking to his brother across the clearing. “Y-you’re sure?” Sam tried to find some sort of tell, but his vision swam, and he was just so tired that he could barely think straight.

“Sam, don’t give it to him!” Dean barked. “It’s not Cas!”

Sam hesitated, looking between them. He tried to pull his hand free, but Cas only gripped him tighter. Pain lanced up his arm. “C-Cas, th-that hurts. Let go.”

“Sam, it’s not Dean,” Cas said again, more forceful this time. “Give me the stake.”

“Dammit, Sam, think about it!” Dean growled. This is how it lures its victims! It’s not Cas!”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. He groaned, fighting the nausea and the lead weight in his head. His heart thundered. Cas’s grip was iron now—relentless. He felt as if his whole arm was being squeezed, and he was just so damn tired.

“Sam, it’s trying to confuse you,” the angel said. “Give me the weapon. I’ll kill it, so you don’t have to.”

Sam felt sick as he opened his heavy eyes, blinking hard against the fog. Cas looked like Cas, and Dean looked like Dean. And they both said the other wasn’t really who they looked like.

Sam felt sick as he thought about it. Dean seemed to act as he should, or would—angry, desperate, familiar, but… but Cas…

He should have known. He felt foolish, felt sick with himself for even believing this ruse.

Cas had been… kind. Too kind. Gentle, even. Said he was worried about him— him , Sam Winchester, the boy with demon blood. The one who unleashed Lucifer and started the apocalypse. If anything, the angel would be more annoyed. He’d be angry to have been taken away from his important God-hunt, to be demanded to search for him. And Cas would never again ever hold his hand, especially not like this, not for this long.

He’s an idiot. Stupid. So pathetically stupid.

He had believed it—believed the lie, because it felt nice. Because for a second, he wanted to believe the angel cared that deeply for him.

But Cas would never—

He clenched his jaw, anger rising behind the fog. At the creature. At himself. At how much he wanted it to be real.

“Cas,” Sam whispered.

“Yes, Sam. Give me the stake. Quickly.”

The grip on his hand eased just slightly. Sam took a shaky breath, swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said. “Here.”

“Sam, no!” Dean shouted. “It’s not Cas!”

Sam mustered every bit of strength and energy he had left—and drove the stone stake into the angel’s heart. If it really was Cas—which he was doubting—then it wouldn’t kill him. Might not even hurt him. If anything it’d probably piss Cas off. Sam would just apologize; he couldn’t otherwise take the chance to kill or hurt his brother. And if it was really Cas, he’d understand; it was Dean they were talking about.

Cas gave an ear-piercing, inhuman screech that had Sam flinching away. His free hand slapped over his right ear, teeth gritted as the sound burrowed into his skull like shards of glass.

And almost immediately, as if a curtain was yanked from his eyes—he saw it. A creature made of twisted branches, roots, and rot. Its branch-woven head had no facial features other than the blue points of light where eyes should be.

As it collapsed, shriveling in on itself, Sam was pulled with it. Suddenly, pain flared bright as lightning, throbbing and pulsing at his shoulder. He cried out, clutching it. Saw it.

His arm— God , his arm—

The skin was bare, the sleeve torn away entirely. His entire arm was blackened with deep purple veins, sick and swollen— dying . Dead.

As the creature’s roots receded from his skin, to wither into ash along with its body, it left behind punctures. Tiny, round wounds where vines pierced into him like syringes, threading under the skin, to suck his life away.

Sam gasped in shock and pain. “You're gonna be okay,” Dean says, suddenly beside him on the ground. His voice is tight as his eyes inspect the damage. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“I—I’m sorry, Dean, I—” Sam shook his head, trembling. “I don’t know how it got to me. Oh God, Dean, my arm—”

“You're gonna be okay,” Dean repeated, firmer now. “We’ll get it fixed.”

“It—it—can we? Sam’s voice cracked, his vision blurred. “I—Dean—I don’t know—”

“We will, okay? We’ll call Cas. The real Cas. He’ll fix it.”

“C-can he?” Sam wondered. Will he? he feared to ask.

By the time they reached the Impala, Sam could barely stand. Dean helped him into the passenger seat, then shrugged off his jacket and threw it over him. He suspected it was to hide his dead arm from onlookers. It wasn’t until Dean was cranking the heat up that he realized he was shivering violently and his teeth clacked together uncontrollably. He leaned back against the seat, dazed.

“It-it’s dead,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean said, gripping the wheel. “Yeah, the thing’s dead. You killed it.” He looked over, forcing a small smile. “Good job, little brother.”

Sam shook his head, eyes wide. “N-no. No, my—my—”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean hissed. “We’ll fix it. Alright? We will.”

Sam didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive. Didn’t think. Didn’t feel. Didn’t see , really.

Everything blurred together—the trees, the road, Dean’s quiet mutterings under his breath. The low rumble of the Impala melted into the static in his head. One blink, and they were pulling into the motel lot. In a foggy daze, Dean was guiding him toward the bed, voice low and coaxing.

But Sam didn’t want to go to the bed. “Shower,” he mumbled. “I wanna.” He drifted toward the bathroom.

Dean caught his arm— the good one —and gently tugged. “Sam, hey—look at me. You’re in shock, alright? You should rest.”

Sam shook his head. The motion made the room spin.  “I’m fine,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m just tired. It—it dosed me with something. I’m tired, but I’m gonna shower, maybe that’ll help.”

With what exactly, he didn’t know. The exhaustion? The chill? The ache in his shoulder? What he really wanted was a few minutes to himself.

Dean didn’t argue, but the look on his face said he wanted to. Sam pretended not to see it as he disappeared into the bathroom.

He kept his eyes down, away from the mirror, away from his arm—because if he looked at it, he’d have to feel it, or rather not feel it. And he couldn’t do that right now.

Struggling out of his clothes one-handed was frustrating. More frustrating than having one arm in a cast, at least it worked. The blackened arm was useless, hanging like dead weight at his side, but he managed it somehow.

He shivered under the steaming water, feeling numb. He stayed there a while, letting it run over him. Steam filled the room, fogging the mirror behind him, curling around his legs like smoke.

It became too thick to breathe, but he continued to stand there, under the torrent, shaking. “I should have known,” he whispered under the sound of the beating spray. “I’m such an idiot. I should have known.”

He was nothing to Cas, despite the opposite. Cas was everything to him.

No, he corrected, he wasn’t just nothing to Cas. He was just Dean’s brother. The boy with the demon blood. The ender of the world. Lucifer’s perfect meatsuit.

He had no right to covet the angel. No right to want anything from him, even if it was just to hold his hand.

The guilt sat heavier than the pain drumming in his shoulder.

* * *

“How bad?” Cas asked, his voice low.

Dean ran a hand over his mouth. “His whole left arm. Some of his shoulder too. You—you can heal it, right?”

Castiel hesitated. “I don’t know. I… I couldn’t heal Bobby.”

Dean let out a frustrated growl and dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed, scratching at his head. “This is on me. I was the one that said we should split up to cover more ground. We should’ve stuck together. Dammit.”

“How long were you separated?” Cas asked.

“I-I don’t know, like… Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes tops. The woods weren’t that big. Why?”

Cas tilted his head, thoughtful. “Nothing in particular. You said that his entire arm was drained, yet it took only twenty minutes, at most? That’s just unnaturally fast. Typically, they knock the victim unconscious, bring them to their lair, and feed. You said Sam was awake, walking with it. Dryads can disguise themselves using an illusion. Lure people that way, too. It must have known it could keep the illusion up, at least for a time. And the rate the creature feeds depends on who the victim sees.” Cas shrugged.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What does that have to do with anything? Does it matter who he saw?”

“No. Like I said, it’s nothing, I’m just curious who he saw. Depending on who you see, it affects how fast the creature can consume. It can be a rather painful process if it eats too quickly. If the illusion takes the form of someone deeply trusted, deeply loved, the body will endure more without resistance. Pain is dismissed or rationalized.” Dean frowned at him. “What? Do you know who he saw? Was it you? Not that I’m surprised.”

Dean glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but the sudden sound of the shower snapping off had Dean springing off the bed. “Sam! Cas is here. Get out here so he can heal you!”

“I just got out of the shower, Dean,” Sam called back, annoyed. There was a pause, then, “Can you bring me some clothes?”

Dean rolled his eyes but moved to dig through Sam’s duffel. With a small pile, he heads over to the door, knocks once, then opens it. Sam scowls at him as he hides his privates behind a towel, as if Dean wants to see his junk, as if he hadn’t seen his junk before, hell, changed his diapers.

He put the clothes on the sink counter and turned to leave, but hesitated. “Do you… need help?”

“No, I got it. Just get out,” Sam grumbled.

“Uh, alright, but…” Dean glanced at Sam’s gimp arm. They’d both dealt with broken or sprained limbs before, Sam more than him, but he knew how difficult working with only one could be. But this was different. Sam couldn’t move his whole arm. “Are you sure?” He offered again.

“I said I got it.”

Dean grunted and stepped out, though he didn’t go far. He hovered outside the door, arms crossed, listening.

Nearly five minutes of muffled grumbling and clumsy fumbling later, Dean couldn’t help himself. “Anytime, man.”

“You try doing this one-handed,” Sam snapped.

“I asked if you wanted help.”

“I said I got it! Shut up!”

Cas tilted his head curiously. “I don’t understand why humans are so uncomfortable displaying their bodies to one another. Most human forms look relatively the same, so modesty seems—”

“Cas, shut up,” Dean muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

A moment later, Sam stumbled out of the bathroom, disheveled but dressed—at least from the waist down. Dean had made the right call, giving him joggers instead of something with a button and a zipper. “You didn’t give me a shirt,” Sam muttered irritably.

Dean raised a brow. “What’s the point? Cas needs to see the damage.”

“A t-shirt , Dean. It’s not gonna cover much.”

“Exactly. So stop whining and let the angel work his magic.”

Dean turned to said angel, who was just staring at Sam, his expression unreadable—but his gaze was intense. Dean knew firsthand that Cas didn’t see the world like anyone else did. Not like humans. Hell, not even like the other angels. Cas seemed to look deeper, like he could see through flesh and bone, past the soul, down into the very fibers of a person’s being.

Cas’ gaze swept slowly from Sam’s blackened shoulder down to his limp, unresponsive fingers. Dean swallowed hard. There was something else in Cas’ gaze. Something about it felt… off. It wasn’t just concern. There was a quiet gravity in Cas’ stare—something distant, something deeply unsettled, as if what he saw disturbed him in a way he didn’t know how to put into words.

Was he thinking he can’t heal Sam? Dean wondered, the fear hitting him low and fast. Like he couldn’t heal Bobby?

Dean feared Sam was suspecting something similar because he was shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Cas’ gaze. His face was tight with nerves, and he had a look of mourning and shame in his eyes.

Dean swallowed thickly. He didn’t care what Cas was seeing. He wasn’t going to allow Sam to just give up or lose hope—not yet. Not ever.

He stepped forward and clapped a hand on Cas’ shoulder, harder than necessary. “Well?” he bit out, voice low and tight. “Don’t just stand there.”

Cas blinked, almost like he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room. His blue eyes shifted from Sam’s arm to Dean’s face, like dragging himself back from somewhere far away. “What? Oh. Yes.”

He stepped over to Sam, who stood stiffly and refused to look at either of them. Cas reached out and gently touched the blackened skin. “Can you feel anything?” he asked softly, his brow tightening.

“No,” Sam muttered. “I can’t even move my fingers or elbow. Just my shoulder a little. And even that’s… not easy.” He gave a weak demonstration.

“Hmm.”

Dean shifted beside them, growing impatient. “Would you just heal him already?”

“I may be able to close the wounds from the root punctures,” he said, studying the damage. “But I don’t know if traditional healing will restore function. I might be able to… encourage his circulatory system to start flowing again.”

“You mean his blood flow?” Dean says.

Sam flinched slightly. Cas caught it, glanced at him. “Sam?” he questioned.

“Uh, n-nothing. Never mind,” Sam muttered, but kept his eyes low, jaw clenched.

“Yes,” Cas said, answering Dean, but watching the younger Winchester closely. “I mean his blood. But it’s not just blood that flows through your bodies. It's oxygen, nutrients, hormones, carbon dioxide, and several other things. I think that would be the best option if healing doesn’t work.”

Sam didn’t reply, just gave a curt nod.

Cas stepped closer and raised a hand to Sam’s forehead. The younger Winchester grimaced but didn’t pull away. And as expected, healing didn’t work in reviving the limb. It was obvious, but he stated it out loud anyway, anticipating Dean’s unnecessary remarks about Sam’s arm still being discolored. “I suggest you lie down,” he tells Sam.

“Huh? Why?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Even I can see that you're tired. This will take time. I have to go slow.”

“Why? Just get it over with. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do than fix my arm.”

Cas tilted his head. “Perhaps. But if I force circulation back too quickly, it could cause more damage. Your veins, arteries, capillaries, they’re… shriveled, starved for too long. If I go too fast, it could rupture or tear from the sudden flow. It would be painful—excruciating—and cause internal bleeding. Making things… more complicated.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay, that—that makes sense.” He moved to the table instead of the bed and sat in one of the chairs. As he settled, he realized he was still shirtless and shifted awkwardly. “Dean, toss me a shirt.”

Cas moved to the table. “Nevermind it,” he says before the brothers can bicker about it again.

“I… I’m cold,” Sam mutters.

Cas tilted his head, detecting a small tingle of fabrication. He wondered what the whole truth was. “I’ll warm you,” he replied simply.

Sam ducked his head, hiding his face, and didn’t respond.

“Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?”

“I’m fine,” Sam croaked. “Really. I want to finish this book before we return it to the library anyway. I’ll just read while you… you do whatever it is.”

“Alright. Just let me know if you change your mind.” Castiel gently laid his hand on Sam’s upper arm. Only his fingertips touched the unblemished skin near the shoulder. The rest of his hand rested over the dark, mottled purple flesh.

Cas closed his eyes and began to work. Minutes passed in silence. Then quietly, Cas asks, “Who did you see?”

Sam’s heartbeat—already elevated—quickened further. He swallowed hard. “Wh-why does it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Cas said, “but you must have trusted this person deeply, loved them deeply. Seeing as the damage started at your arm—your hand, it was touching your hand.”

“It had its grubby branches wrapped around his arm,” Dean said from his bed, restlessly flicking through a magazine. “But hey, he’s got a point, Sammy. Earlier, Cas said if it feeds too fast, it’s painful. And he sure ate fast.” He gestured vaguely. “So what did he say that made you think it was okay for him to hurt you?”

Sam went rigid. After a few silent beats, he murmured, “He didn’t mean to.”

“He didn’t—? He didn’t mean to?” Dean scoffed, incredulous.

Sam cleared his throat, shrugged with his good shoulder. “Didn’t know his own strength or… uh, whatever.”

Dean stared at him.

Sam swallowed thickly and stared intently at his book.

Dean had a—more than vague but less than concrete—hunch of the answer, but he asked anyway. “Which one was it more? Trusted or loved?”

“Dean,” Sam croaks, hunching forward.

Castiel’s brows drew together. “Be quiet,” he said flatly. Dean was upsetting his brother, which made it more difficult for him to guide Sam’s blood flow where he wanted it, which was down his left arm, not up his neck carotids. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Me, be quiet? You were the one who started asking questions,” Dean sneered.

“I was speaking to Sam, not to you,” Castiel replied coolly.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, I believe he saw you, not me,” he muttered under his breath.

Castiel blinked and looked over at the older Winchester. “What?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Nothing. Forget it.”

But Castiel turned back to Sam. “You saw… me? The dryad impersonated me?”

Sam flinched violently. Then, in a sudden, jolting motion, he stood up. “You know what, I should take these books back now. We’re probably leaving first thing tomorrow, and I’d rather do it tonight than listen to McQueen over there bitch about stopping at the library on the way out of this funky town.”

Dean froze. Then quickly looked up at his brother, who was fumbling to put the books in a pile with one hand.

Castiel looked between them, perplexed. Both heart rates had spiked, but Sam’s concerned him the most at the moment. “Wh-what’s happening? Sam, calm down.”

“I’m calm. I’m fine,” Sam said tightly, moving toward his jacket. He began struggling to shove his limp arm through the sleeve.

Dean was already moving to Sam’s side. Bringing his hands up, palms forward, not quite surrender but not a threat either. “Sam, hey. Easy,” he said gently, voice low and steady. “What do you think is going on here?”

“Nothing,” Sam snapped. “Absolutely nothing is happening! I just have to get these books back.” Sam was backed against the wall now, eyes wide and darting. His good hand snagged a book from the table and clenched it to his chest like it might anchor him—or be used as a weapon if anyone got too close.

“Sam, no. Slow down.”

“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “You just don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me, Hilts!”

“McQueen and Hilts are different!”

“Okay?”

“McQueen is—is—first player, main character , the hero! And Hilts is just… just background. A cameo. A-a—the antagonist— the villain. Nobody likes that guy.” His voice cracked. “Especially not a pure supporting character like that!”

“Pure?” Dean blinked. “What the hell does that—” 

Sam glared at his brother until he understood.

“Oh! Oh. Uh, well, I mean… Hilts ain’t a villain, man. He’s main, too, obviously.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, heroes usually think that their villain can change, but supporting characters know better. Villains tend to always be tainted down to their foundation—their blood and soul, there's never going to be a change there. And as long as the hero’s pure and the villain isn’t, that supporting character’s gonna pick a side. They'll always want the hero and hate the villain. Villains don’t get redemption, don’t get the girl, a happy ending.” His voice fell to a near whisper. “So why bring it up? Why’d you have to bring it up?”

Dean’s expression softened. His brother always called himself a freak, but never a villain before. But things have changed; his brother was stalked by demons, gained powers, was killed, found out he had minuscule blood relations to black eyes. Angels existed, and they were douches, basically tearing down his faith with a cannonball. And now they were thrown into an apocalypse, planned by Heaven and Hell. And Sam had his hand on the trigger on that.

No one beats themself harder when they’re already down and bloody than his little brother. And Dean gave several hard kicks in there, too.

“I’m sorry, Sammy, I-I shouldn’t have—it was undertone, man, you didn’t hear anything, I honestly didn’t think about the— the pure’s acoustics.”

Sam lowered his voice to a murmur that had Dean leaning in just to hear him. “Now there’s going to be questions that can’t be answered, and possibly a civil war. The hate’s just gonna get uglier.”

“Between… McQueen and Hilts?”

“No. Hilts and…” Sam trailed off.

“Oh, well, uh, McQueen doesn’t sense any hate, and even if there was, McQueen has Hilts’ six. There isn’t going to be war. I honestly don’t see why there would be one.”

Sam sighed exhaustedly. “Of course you don’t. And anyway, Hilts shouldn’t have McQueen at his six, or anywhere around him for that matter. All he’s ever done since forever is burden McQueen, especially lately. And it seems McQueen doesn’t even want Hilts around anymore, not that Hilts blames him.”

“What?” Dean said, baffled. “Who says I don’t want you around?”

“You’re always angry. Pissed at me. You can’t even stand to be in the same room most days.” Sam swallowed. “And—and it’s fine, I get it, I don’t even want to be in the same room as me. I just wish you’d finally tell me to get lost. Finally, tell me that you’re done with me and my mistakes.”

“Sam, yeah—you messed up. But I don’t want you gone. You’re my little brother.” Dean gripped his good shoulder, firmly but gently.

Sam sighed. “That means nothing. ‘Family doesn't end in blood’—but it doesn’t start there either. You can find more trusted family elsewhere, and cut all ties with the untrusted ones.”

“I trust you, Sam. Of course I do.”

Sam shook his head, saying nothing. Then, suddenly, his knees buckled.

“Whoa, whoa—Sam!” Dean caught him under the arms, and Castiel was instantly at his side, helping to hold him up. “You okay? You alright?” Dean asked, patting and searching him for more wounds.

“I don’t know what just happened, or why,” Cas said, frowning. “I didn’t understand a lot of your conversation—I’m assuming that was on purpose—but Sam, I’m going to insist that you lie down now and let me continue healing you.”

Sam was struggling to keep his eyes open. He gave a jerky nod. “Yeah… bed. That sounds… Sorry.”

“I’m not entirely sure why you’re apologizing,” Cas murmured, “but thank you for finally agreeing that you need sleep.”

They—mostly Cas—helped him to the bed.

“Obstinate,” Sam mumbled as he collapsed onto the mattress, voice already fading. “Villainous trait…”

He was asleep before he finished the thought.

Cas cocked his head at the unconscious Winchester while the conscious one maneuvered a blanket over him, albeit his left arm.

“So… Hilts is Sam, and McQueen is you. And Sam is supposed to be a villain of some kind, and you’re the hero… yet I don’t understand why this all started because Sam wanted to return some library books? Or how that turned into an emotional reunion between you two?” Cas asked, baffled.

“You make my head hurt, Cas,” Dean muttered, shaking his head.

“No, I believe I should be the one saying that. Was it really necessary to speak in code? I already struggle to understand you two as it is.”

“It helps Sam when his head gets a little frazzled. It’s like… pushing your problems onto someone else. It’s easier to talk about if it ain’t your problem.” Dean hesitated for a beat. “You’re the pure supporting character, by the way.”

Cas frowned, clearly trying to place himself in the coded mess.

A dryad had used the guise of someone trusted, someone loved, to attack Sam. And that someone… had been Cas. Sam trusted him. Sam loved him. Sam held him dearly enough that a monster used his form to justify hurting him. Yet… from what Castiel could piece together from the brothers’ secret conversation, Sam believed that Cas saw him as a villain, tainted, and Cas hated him… because of—what? His blood? His soul?

Sam is tainted. He’s an abomination. But that didn’t mean Cas hated him or considered him a villain of some kind. 

Cas’ voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “He… became upset because I’m the one he saw, and I found out about it?”

“Uh, yeah, pretty much.”

“But… why? I’m honored that he trusts me and—and… although I’m perturbed that it was enough to justify me hurting him. But… why would that make him think I hate him?”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, and while we’re on that—what the hell was that crack earlier? You wouldn’t have been surprised if the dryad took my face?”

“Well, you two are frequently aggressive with one another. Mainly you. I believe ‘handsy’ would be the right description.”

“Handsy?! Oh, I’ll fuckin’ show you handsy.”

“I’d like to remind you what happened last time you tried to punch me. And I am currently trying to heal your brother, so I’ll—as you say—let you stew until I’m finished.”

Dean scowls at him. “I don’t get what he sees in you.”

Cas smiled mildly. “I believe I’m a delight.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Seriously. I never get what goes on in that big brain of his. And I swear to God, Cas, if you really do get why Sam freaked out… if you really understand why the dryad became you and what that meant to him—then you damn well better take care of my little brother. Because if you hurt him, I will find a way to hurt you.”

Cas met Dean’s eyes. “I do understand. “And I hope to keep that threat as is, I don’t want to hurt Sam.”

“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise. It’s a guarantee. Hurt Sam, I hurt you.”

“Either way, I understand the implication of the matter, and hurting Sam, well, I don’t want to do that. I’m… His fears are unfounded. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. He'll rest tonight, he needs it.”

“Good,” Dean nodded. “Now save his damn arm.”

Chapter Text

Sam woke to quiet. There wasn’t even a car zooming past outside, nor the neighbors on the otherside of the wall were making a sound.

He looked over to find Dean’s bed empty. He blinked against the thin morning light seeping around the curtain.

He shifted slightly, his arm tingled as if it was just waking up with him.

His left arm… it didn’t hurt. It didn’t throb. It wasn’t numb. His fingers twitched. They moved.

His breath hitched. Before he could fully sit up, to look, a presence made him freeze.. He flinched to find Cas sitting in a chair beside his bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His eyes weren’t on Sam’s face, but on his hand—his left, the one that had been strangled and sucked of life by branches and bark. The hand that he wanted Cas so badly to hold and cradle again with care and warmth.

“You’re awake,” Cas said, voice low and warm.

Sam swallowed hard, mouth drying out. He flicked a glance toward the open bathroom door, then the rest of the room. “Wh—where’s Dean?”

“He went to get breakfast. For you. And himself.”

“R-right.” He squirmed, moved to get up off the bed, get away, but froze when Cas took his hand. The one that…

“We should talk.”

Sam flinched and didn’t meet his eyes. “Uh, look,” he croaked. “Thanks, you know about healing my arm. Really, thank you. Did you stay all night just to do that? I-I’m sorry you got pulled away from, you know, your mission—finding God, or whatever.” Sam swallowed, throat tight, but he continued to babble. “That’s important. I don’t want to keep you from… from…” Sam trailed off as the angel continued to sit there quietly, holding his hand. But unlike yesterday, Cas’ thumb was gently brushing the back of Sam’s hand in a slow rhythm.

The room fell into silence again, like it was holding its breath along with Sam.

“You surprise me,” Cas said. His voice was quiet, but Sam still jumped at the sound.

“Uh, I, uh… I’m sorry?” Sam finally looked at him then with weary confusion. “I don’t…”

“You apologize for the strangest things. You surprise me, Sam,” Cas repeated. "Because after yesterday—after a creature used my face to hurt you—I expected you’d be… I don’t know, wary of me?” He shook his head. “But here I am. And you’re letting me hold your hand.”

Sam’s eyes squeezed shut as his throat worked around a lump. “Maybe I’m still under its illusion,” he whispered. “Maybe I’m still out there with it. Dean didn’t save me, and I’m stuck in this illusion where you…”

“Where I… what?” Cas prompted, his voice careful.

Sam trembled. “What do you want? Why are you here?” Sam said, voice rough with shame. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, alright?”

Cas sighed, but not with frustration. More like heartbreak. “There you go again—apologizing for the oddest things.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat.

“I’m here, I stayed despite your arm being as healed as I could get it, because… I wanted to make sure you rested, because we should talk, because I needed time to think, because…  He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around Sam’s. “I didn’t want to leave. Not after yesterday. Perhaps you don’t have anything to say to me, but I do.”

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to run, didn’t want to listen. But another part wanted to stay. Because maybe…

His eyes drifted to their joined hands again, to the gentle stroke of Cas’ thumb, and something inside him trembled. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Maybe both.

“I do,” Cas said again. “But I don’t know where to even start. I suppose… first, I want you to know that I’m flattered.”

Sam all but curled in on himself, tugging his hand out of Cas’. “Oh, god.”

“S-Sam?”

“Just get on with it,” Sam moaned. “I already knew this was coming, how could I not? Just get it over with.”

Castiel frowned. He had a feeling Sam was misunderstanding him, or maybe, more likely, he hadn’t used the right words to get his thoughts across. He sighed at himself for causing Sam more grief and pain. “Sam. I’m sorry, I’m not good with words. I’ve never been good at conversation, speaking my mind when it comes to… this. To you.”

Sam rubbed a trembling hand over his face, still not looking at Cas. “Just say it, Cas. That you don’t feel the same. That you never could. I already know.”

Cas leaned forward, slowly, carefully—like he might spook Sam if he moved too quickly. “No. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I’m trying to say at all.” He paused, then said, “I care about you, Sam. I’m honored to be someone you trust… someone you love.”

His voice lowered even more. “I’m trying to tell you that I don’t see you as a villain or a background character. I don’t see you as less than Dean. I never have. You matter. You carry burdens no one else could, and still… you stand. You fight. You hope. You try.

“I don’t hate you, Sam Winchester. I never did. Not once. I’m sorry I made you think so.”

Sam shook his head, eyes glassy. “You should,” he whispered. “You should. After everything I’ve done. Because of what I am.” His gaze dropped, heavy with shame. “You don’t know… what I want from you. What I feel toward you.”

Cas reached out again, gently resting his hand over Sam’s. “I think I do. And it doesn’t change anything.”

Sam stared at him, eyes searching.

“And what you are?” Cas merely shrugged. “An abomination. A human man with demon blood. A human, Sam. You’re a human first. What they put in you doesn’t define you. Doesn’t make you like them. Doesn’t make you any less than a human. You’ve proven that. If anything… I think you’ve reminded me what it means to care. Deeply. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. Sam, you feel so much that it could have killed you.”

Sam looked away, heat rushing to his face. Cas' fingers tightened just slightly around Sam’s. “That’s not something to be ashamed about. Not something to apologize for either.” He paused and began gliding his thumb up and down the back of Sam’s hand, like before.

“When I pulled Dean out of Hell, I saw you through his soul. I saw how dearly Dean holds you. I saw what kind of human you are. You’re not demonic at all. Certainly not a villain. But whatever you think you are, it doesn’t mean that no one can care for you, Sam, love you. Trust you.”

Cas looked down briefly at their hands, then back up—his gaze unwavering. “No, I have never hated you. Not even when I didn’t understand you. Not even when you were angry or afraid or making choices I disagreed with. You’re important to me, Sam. More than I think you know. More than you let yourself believe.”

Outside, the familiar rumble of the Impala rolled into the parking lot, revealing that Dean was back. Cas didn’t move from his place at Sam’s side. Sam shifted, but didn’t pull away either.

“I don’t believe this conversation is over,” Cas said quietly. “But I hope… I hope you’ll keep letting me stay. Letting me hold your hand.”

Sam’s voice cracked around the tightness in his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I… I want that. I'd like that.”

Dean whistled on his way to the motel room door.

Cas smiled, soft and small.

Dean knocked—three short raps. “I’m coming in,” he warned.

Sam sighed at the implication. He's embarrassed by his brother, but comforted by the familiarity of his vulgar comments.

Cas didn’t let go of his hand.

Neither did Sam.