Castiel divides all the white plates from the red plates. He hums quietly, an old song that was harmonized from one corner of Heaven to the other, and figures out that there are chords and tempos his vessel cannot comprehend. He settles for a sailing ditty instead, picked up from Ur long ago. He doesn’t look at Sam, swaddled in a quilt and staring darkly at his half-eaten plate, memories and being draining in and out of himself. It looks like this is physically hurting him. He curls against the side of the couch, one fist clenched, biting down on the pain.
Castiel had almost put these things aside. They congealed in the process of their transformation, thick and black in his hands, and he felt in his heart like a poisoner. He held the worst fragments of Sam’s soul, and looked at Sam, and considered throwing it all away.
It could be better, for Sam, not to have these things. He could be a happier person. No one in this world, or in any world, would ever go looking for these fragments. Not even Lucifer.
But just as quickly, he throws it all in.
These are things that make Sam who he is. Taking them away is murder.
Castiel picks up a mug. He is suddenly afraid that this, what he’s done, could also be murder. How was Cas to know? But Sam is strong, he tells himself. He’s fast and dangerous and messy and strong, just like his brother. That’s why Cas had chosen them—the both of them. Their histories bolstered them. They followed only their own rules.
He cannot reduce Sam to being content on someone else’s chessboard.
His humming grows louder, turns loud and bright. He feels stupid, but also afraid of looking. He divides the plates again: white and round, white and square. He wonders if Dean would have asked him to set aside the bad stuff. He tells himself no, he wouldn’t.
“Cas?” says Sam, suddenly. It’s the first time since this place that Sam has said his name.
Castiel drops his mug. It shatters on the ground, loud as the Big Bang, many fragments skittering across the black like the start of a baby universe.
“Are you alright, Sam?”
Sam is very, very quiet. Cas steels himself, and goes to sit next to him.
“I can’t do it,” Sam says, pushing the plate towards Cas. He’s curled into himself as much as he can, hurt like all of his life is crashing into him at once. It probably is. There are fingernail marks on his skin, and the space beneath his eyes look bruised. He doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze.
“Sam.”
“I can’t do it myself,” Sam says, in a great, shuddering breath, “so you have to help me.”
“If you’re not ready—” says Cas, but he’s already spooning the fruit from the plate.
“I’m fine,” says Sam. His eyes are haunted, but his gaze is clearer and sharper than they’ve ever been in this place.
“It’s good to have you back,” says Cas. “Dean missed you. We missed you.”
Sam flinches, visibly. “You have to know something. And you have to tell Dean—”
“What?”
Sam shudders, and grabs hold of Cas’s elbow. “I wasn’t giving up,” he says. He looks down at the plate in Cas’s hand, and cringes again.
“Sam—”
“I didn’t—I didn’t make her do this. I didn’t make Anna do this.”
“Sam, I—”
“You have to tell Dean.”
Cas looks at him and notices scars for the first time. A pale ladder on the side of his neck, many nicks on the side of his wrist, a scar like a withered star on the back of his palm. All the little things that make a body a person with a history.
Sam breathes in, convulsively, and takes the spoon from Cas. There are tears trembling on his lashes, and he wipes them away, furiously.
Castiel is quiet for a moment as he takes in this Sam, labels and bad blood and all.
RE: Filled The Recorded History of Sam Winchester (4/4)
Castiel divides all the white plates from the red plates. He hums quietly, an old song that was harmonized from one corner of Heaven to the other, and figures out that there are chords and tempos his vessel cannot comprehend. He settles for a sailing ditty instead, picked up from Ur long ago. He doesn’t look at Sam, swaddled in a quilt and staring darkly at his half-eaten plate, memories and being draining in and out of himself. It looks like this is physically hurting him. He curls against the side of the couch, one fist clenched, biting down on the pain.
Castiel had almost put these things aside. They congealed in the process of their transformation, thick and black in his hands, and he felt in his heart like a poisoner. He held the worst fragments of Sam’s soul, and looked at Sam, and considered throwing it all away.
It could be better, for Sam, not to have these things. He could be a happier person. No one in this world, or in any world, would ever go looking for these fragments. Not even Lucifer.
But just as quickly, he throws it all in.
These are things that make Sam who he is. Taking them away is murder.
Castiel picks up a mug. He is suddenly afraid that this, what he’s done, could also be murder. How was Cas to know? But Sam is strong, he tells himself. He’s fast and dangerous and messy and strong, just like his brother. That’s why Cas had chosen them—the both of them. Their histories bolstered them. They followed only their own rules.
He cannot reduce Sam to being content on someone else’s chessboard.
His humming grows louder, turns loud and bright. He feels stupid, but also afraid of looking. He divides the plates again: white and round, white and square. He wonders if Dean would have asked him to set aside the bad stuff. He tells himself no, he wouldn’t.
“Cas?” says Sam, suddenly. It’s the first time since this place that Sam has said his name.
Castiel drops his mug. It shatters on the ground, loud as the Big Bang, many fragments skittering across the black like the start of a baby universe.
“Are you alright, Sam?”
Sam is very, very quiet. Cas steels himself, and goes to sit next to him.
“I can’t do it,” Sam says, pushing the plate towards Cas. He’s curled into himself as much as he can, hurt like all of his life is crashing into him at once. It probably is. There are fingernail marks on his skin, and the space beneath his eyes look bruised. He doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze.
“Sam.”
“I can’t do it myself,” Sam says, in a great, shuddering breath, “so you have to help me.”
“If you’re not ready—” says Cas, but he’s already spooning the fruit from the plate.
“I’m fine,” says Sam. His eyes are haunted, but his gaze is clearer and sharper than they’ve ever been in this place.
“It’s good to have you back,” says Cas. “Dean missed you. We missed you.”
Sam flinches, visibly. “You have to know something. And you have to tell Dean—”
“What?”
Sam shudders, and grabs hold of Cas’s elbow. “I wasn’t giving up,” he says. He looks down at the plate in Cas’s hand, and cringes again.
“Sam—”
“I didn’t—I didn’t make her do this. I didn’t make Anna do this.”
“Sam, I—”
“You have to tell Dean.”
Cas looks at him and notices scars for the first time. A pale ladder on the side of his neck, many nicks on the side of his wrist, a scar like a withered star on the back of his palm. All the little things that make a body a person with a history.
Sam breathes in, convulsively, and takes the spoon from Cas. There are tears trembling on his lashes, and he wipes them away, furiously.
Castiel is quiet for a moment as he takes in this Sam, labels and bad blood and all.
“He already knows,” says Cas. “We already know.”