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"Cut me open and the light streams out.
Stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out between the stitches”
― Richard Siken, Crush
…
They’d been having a fight.
They’d been having a lot of fights lately. Dean trying to make excuses for what he did, and Sam trying to make him understand how it had hurt more than helped. Castiel standing helplessly to the side.
Cas never really interfered, unless it escalated to blows.
And it did, more than a few times.
Dean, stubborn and selfishly overprotective. Defensive and angry. He never knew when to let go of Sam and it always ended up causing more trouble than it was worth.
Sam would never wish the horror of possession upon Dean, he wouldn’t, god, he’s so glad that Dean’s never had to experience that, but Sam just wished that Dean could understand, for once. What it felt like, the lack of autonomy, not being able to control yourself, having someone else in your head. The inability to discern reality from hallucinations or projections.
More often than not, Sam threw the first punch, unable to deal with the bullshit and letting anger take over, tired of holding back, frustrated with Dean’s refusal to budge. His bullheadedness. For so long Dean had been Stone Number One, and now it had crumbled. So easily he’d entered his head, making a mockery of Sam’s trust, and tricked him into letting an angel possess him.
The last time he let an angel possess him, it’d been fucking Lucifer, and they all knew how it ended. But that time, he’d gone in with his eyes open, knowing what would happen, that it’d be for the best.
This time he’d put his unconditional trust in Dean, right after he talked Sam down a dangerous ledge.
Some ledge.
If he’d done those trials, Abaddon wouldn’t be a threat any longer. If he’d done those trials, Kevin would still be alive. All those people Abaddon killed, those would still be alive. Were they worth Sam’s life?
They were supposed to save people.
Castiel seemed to understand his sentiment, and stood largely on his side. At least, Sam thought so, especially considering that whenever things got violent, Cas always interfered a few punches too late.
Sam’s hands itched with the urge to punch Dean right now, but he held back with iron will. They were arguing, again. He didn’t remember what had started it. Something about trust. Something about being family.
He thought they’d established that.
If family didn’t end in blood, it didn’t start there either. And currently Sam couldn’t include Dean as such, not after what he’d done, not with his lack of regret about it.
He ran his hand harshly through his hair, fingers yanking at some of the knots. He really needed a shower too. He smelled and his hair had started getting stringy.
A deep breath , he told himself, mentally counting to five slowly as he did so. Hitting Dean would do no good. Dean would just block him or hit back. He wasn’t in one of his ‘just take it’ moods. And Sam had gotten enough sleep last night to know that beating the shit out of each other would solve no one’s problems.
He clenched and unclenched his cramping fingers, jaw aching from gritting his teeth too hard.
He rubbed at his temples, trying to ease the headache building. It’d been a while since he’d had any migraines, but ever since Gadreel, they’d come back. Castiel said it could be attributed to the constant memory altercations. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
Sam just wanted to slam his head into a wall, if that’d stop the pounding.
“Sam, I’m saying Kevin was my fault, not yours--” Dean had gotten uncharacteristically animated, and Sam threw his arms out, yelling.
“Yes, Dean! You’ve said it a hundred times, but saying you’re poison or whatever and feeling guilty doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t do anything about it,” Sam’s voice cracked on the last words, but the volume didn’t drop. In fact, it seemed to get shriller as he watched the expression on Dean’s face. Especially knowing Dean would probably still let Sam get possessed if it meant saving his life. “It’s not gonna bring him back!”
The pain spiked and his vision greyed out for a hot second. It all happened so quickly, one second Dean was right in front of him, and the next, Sam heard his cry of pain and a harsh thump. A loud exclamation from Castiel and the crumpled body of Dean against the wall.
His wide eyes first went to Castiel, whose own eyes widened, speaking hurriedly, “I didn’t do anything!”
Sam blinked, his stomach dropping, before they both hurried over to Dean’s groaing form. At least he seemed to be conscious. Sam’s headache had receded, the pounding now a dull ache, but he ignored it in favour of checking Dean’s eyes for a concussion. Even his anger had taken a corner pocket of his mind.
Dean batted away at his hand irritatedly, “What the hell just happened?”
“I-” Sam looked at Castiel helplessly, if he didn’t do it, then how--? “I don’t know.”
Dean’s eyes flickered over to Castiel’s as he pulled himself up, “Cas?”
But Cas’ eyes were fixed steadily on Sam with something akin to dawning realisation in them. Sam could feel his skin prickling uncomfortably, and he had a little inkling of where this could be going. And he didn’t like it.
Dean followed Cas’ gaze to Sam, staring uncomprehendingly for a moment before something seemed to click. “Sammy-?”
Sam swallowed convulsively, looking down at his hands. He hadn’t--
He flinched when he felt Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, eyes snapping up to meet the angels. “But I didn’t-”
“I believe Gadreel may have triggered some dormant powers in you, Sam.” Cas said, his voice deadpan as usual even as Sam’s world crumbled once again.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He thought he’d left this part of his freakishness in the past, the demon blood, it was supposed to be gone. He’d felt no craving whatsoever since they put Lucifer back in the cage. And he’d never been able to move things other than that dresser the one time.
He curled his fingers into fists, nails digging into his palm, shaking his head, “No, no, no, no, no.” he murmured over and over, repeating it, hoping that if he said it enough times, it’d be true. He’d be clean again. The trials had purified him, hadn’t they? Even if he hadn’t completed them, he was supposed to be clean now, wasn’t he?
So how did he throw Dean across the room?
***
The word spun around him in rhythm with Dean’s thumping on his bedroom door.
Sam just wanted to be alone and process what all this meant.
He couldn’t deal with Dean right now. Not his yelling, not his well meant but misplaced concern, especially not so soon after everything he’d done, not his questions or glances like he’s about to go darkside again.
His fingers were tangled in his hair, and the pounding had gone down. Both in his head and on the door. Maybe Dean had finally given up? Although he doubted that. Most likely Dean had decided to use another method; namely, trying to convince Cas to use his mojo into breaking down the door or something. At least Sam could trust Cas to give him some space.
“DAMNIT SAM, OPEN THE DOOR!” Dean roared suddenly after a full minute of silence, making Sam jump violently.
An empty beer bottle on his table exploded.
Dean went quiet again, before speaking, urgently and worried, “Sam? Sam, what was that? Don’t do anything stupid, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes were fixed on the broken pieces of glasses littering the floor and table, horror mounting. “I- I didn’t. I didn’t do--”
“Sam! Sam, just open the door, okay? Just open the damn door.” Dean had started banging against it again. Sam winced with every thud.
Castiel’s calm voice cut through the loud thumps, “Sam, are you okay?”
Numbly, Sam got onto his feet, shaking. The door looked miles away. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the broken bottle. He’d never done that before either. Oh god, what was happening to him?
His feet barely cooperated with him as he made his way over to the door.
He opened the door and gazed numbly at Cas and Dean’s faces. Dean’s face quickly scanned the room, pausing for a second on the pieces of glass before resettling on Sam. “What happened?”
“I didn’t mean to-” Sam stumbled over his words, his mouth barely forming them as he spoke, “I don’t know how-” he trailed off. Dean’s eyes widened as he realised exactly how the bottle had shattered. Sam braced himself for the remarks.
But it was Castiel who spoke, placing a steady hand on Sam’s shoulder, “You should sit down, Sam. Panicking won’t help.”
If he didn’t know any better, he’d have said that Castiel flew him towards the bed. He barely remembered making his way there. But then the bed dipped under him and Cas’ hand rested on his back in a soothing gesture.
Dean stood in front of him. But he kept quiet, not even pacing. And Sam was grateful for that.
When he’d thrown Dean across the room earlier, at least he’d been actually angry at the time, and Dean himself had been the focus of his emotions. He’d felt the build up of emotions, the headache. The frustration. And if he tried hard enough, he’d even be able to pin point the exact feeling, the point where it came out ‘like a punch’.
But right now? With the bottle? He’d just been startled, though badly, but still, just startled. If he started exploding stuff at every loud noise, every sudden movement, he’d be screwed.
“How did that happen?” Sam asked miserably after sometime. His vision had started swimming from exhaustion, and his body felt heavy. He just wanted to lay down in bed and sleep for a hundred years. Everything had become too much. As if the fallen angels and Abbadon weren’t enough, just another thing on their already brimming plate.
“Your… powers could be responding to your emotions,” Cas started patiently, his hand not moving from its position on Sam’s back, nor did Sam want it to, “And after finding out that you still do, in fact, possess them, you were exceptionally distressed. Highly strung, they probably just reacted to them.”
“So basically,” Dean butted in, “you’re saying that every time he’s anxious, shit’s gonna start exploding?”
“No,” Castiel said, and Sam felt his eyebrows shoot up at the slight edge of annoyance in his voice, “I am saying right now Sam is processing a lot of information. This shouldn’t happen once he’s gotten used to the fact that his powers seem to have resurfaced.”
Even Dean looked taken aback for a moment, but he didn’t counter argue like Sam half expected. Instead, he stepped closer to Sam, making his shoulders hunch and tense.
“Right, you’re right.” Dean murmured, and to his surprise, plopped down on Sam’s other side on the bed. “If I am having this much trouble ‘processing’ this, I can imagine what you’re going through. The one with the actual fuckin’ powers.” Dean buried his head in his hands, letting out a loud puff of breath.
His fucking powers.
The same powers which had been the cause of so much pain and heartbreak between the two brothers. The same powers which had killed Lilith and let Lucifer run amok in the world. The same powers which had made him one of Azazel’s special children.
The same ones with which he’d just exploded a glass bottle, the ones with which he slammed Dean into a wall. What else would he do before the day ended? How much would he do if they don’t figure this out? How much more damage could he wreak?
God, this was a nightmare. An actual nightmare come to life. His most ones, the worst ones, rolled into one big cosmic ‘fuck you’ from the universe. Him staring down at his bloodied hands, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be his life. Charred corpses and broken necks. He didn’t know where the blood came from, but he could taste it in his mouth. Rancid and bitter and burning.
“Sam.” He startled again when the gravelly voice sounded near his ear, accompanied by a warm hand on his own two.
Then he realised just how hard he’d been pressing on the old scar. It stung, and he’d dug his fingernails into it hard enough that bright crimson blood welled up from small half moon circles.
Cas gently pried his hands away from each other even as Sam stared down at the drops of blood welling up in his hand. Would his own blood taste like demon blood?
And suddenly he wanted nothing more than to scrub it off, for his hands to be clean. The blood seemed to glower at him, too red, too bright, the red scratches felt like warnings, carved right into his hand.
“Sam, it’s alright,” Castiel reassured urgently when Sam started rubbing at the cuts, but he didn’t move to pull his hands apart again. Dean remained strangely quiet, just staring at Sam’s hand, then back to his face.
“How could this be happening, Cas?” He spoke, at last. His voice on that edge between anger and desperation. “I thought the whole demon blood thing had been left behind years ago, I thought he was clean!”
Clean .
Sam felt a laugh bubbling in his chest, but still had enough presence of mind not to let it out. He’d never been clean . He’d never be clean. He’d always been impure, the freak. The boy with the demon blood. The abomination.
His body, tainted by so many who used it. Azazel, Meg, Lucifer, Gadreel. They’d already left their marks, scraped up the inside of him, left it bleeding and dirty.
Dean couldn’t even begin to understand just how unclean he was.
“Sam was always psychic,” Castiel spoke, one of his hands wrapped around Sam’s wrist. Just resting there, un-restricting even as Sam’s right thumb remained buried in his left palm. “The demon blood didn’t give him his powers. The blood was…” Cas tilted his head to the side, his brows furrowing for a moment before they cleared, “Ah. It was more of a crutch than anything. Ruby made him dependent on it to manipulate him. He never needed it.”
Sam blinked.
Ruby had said something like that once too, he vaguely recalled, although he couldn’t remember her exact words anymore.
Dean spoke first, “So you mean to say… it wasn’t the demon blood?”
Sam’s chest felt too tight, and he could barely breathe. His heart pounded in his ears as the implications rattled in his head. “Azazel didn’t give me my powers?”
Castiel turned to him, just as calm as ever but a small sympathetic smile tugging at his lips, “No,” he said, “they’re god given, I suppose.”
God given.
God given , Castiel said.
So, what Castiel meant; Sam wasn’t unholy. Not impure. There may be many things wrong with him, but this wasn’t one of them. He might, in fact, be closer to god than ever.
Sam actually chuckled at that, hoarse and broken. Being close to god meant absolutely nothing, the same god who’d done jackshit when the apocalypse happened, the same god who did nothing when his angels fell. But he couldn’t help it. The relief left his body feeling numb, a heavy weight lifting off.
Not tainted. Not impure. Not unholy.
Dean and Cas sent a concerned look his way, but he just scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head.
Dean still looked worried, but he turned to Cas, “So what’s the deal with the whole demon blood thing?”
Right, the deal with the demon blood. The cause of unfathomable grief and strife. His heart clenched at everything that had transpired that year, the dominos tipped after Dean’s body had been ripped to shreds by the hellhounds, shredding Sam’s heart in the process too.
“I think it acted as some sort of… booster. Gave an initial burst of power, or something similar,” Cas frowned, “But in the long run inhibited his powers more than anything.” His gaze turned towards Sam, and he paused for a second before continuing. “That may be why they didn’t resurface before the possession.”
So, what? Angel grace had the same effects as demon blood? The implication left an unpleasant feeling in his gut.
This also meant that… that Ruby making him drink the demon blood had just been another layer of manipulation. Of course it had. That he could’ve gotten powerful enough to kill Lilith even without them, without the fucking demon blood. He chewed on the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. Or sobbing. So much pain could’ve been avoided.
“What?” Apparently Sam didn’t have to give a reaction at all, Dean had enough of a reaction and emotion for both of them, “Then why the demon blood at all?!”
“Because he’d been Lucifer’s vessel,” Cas said simply.
Sam barely managed not to flinch at the mention of Lucifer. The apocalypse always came down to Lucifer. The demons, and Azazel and his ‘army’, it all always came down to Lucifer.
He loathed the word vessel, loathed it with every fibre of his being.
He hated Lucifer and he hated himself.
His fingers had begun cramping from his constant clenching, a white knuckled fist resting on his knees. His eyes fixated somewhere on the floor so he wouldn’t have to look at Dean’s face. He could imagine what the expression there would be like, and he’d rather stare at his red hands then Dean’s face.
He hadn’t asked for any of this.
The last time this had ended in the cage, followed by years of torture. How much better would this time be? His powers resurfacing felt like a huge flashing billboard of bad omens, despite whatever Cas said about them being ‘god given.’ His skin crawled and he wanted to drain out all his blood, leech out everything wrong with him.
“Sam?”
“What?” Sam snapped, or tried to. But his voice didn’t come out quite right. He cleared his throat and tried again, this time looking up, “What?”
“Sam,” Dean’s eyes were wide and his body had tensed. His eyes darted around the room and Sam realised that-
He could feel the vibrations under his feet, the bed creaking as it shook, the sparse items he kept on the shelves rattling dangerously.
Sam cursed, “Fuck.” Fuck fuck fuck.
He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down harder on the inside of his cheeks, the coppery taste of blood blooming on his tongue. He barely felt it over the pounding in his head. He’d barely even noticed the headache building.
He doubled over, breathing harshly, fingers tangling in his hair. He could hear Castiel’s voice as though from underwater, his words unintelligible over the roaring in his ears. A pair of hands firmly gripped his shoulders and he slowly peeled his eyes open.
“Look at me,” Castiel commanded, and Sam did. He looked into his blue eyes, willing his heart to slow down. His vision swam and Castiel went in and out of focus for a few seconds before he heard his next words-
“The room is still, Sam,” Cas said, firm and grounding, gesturing with a jerk of his head, “See? It’s fine.”
“Right,” Sam choked out, pulling away from Cas’ grip. He felt cold. He removed his hand from his hair, and pressed the heels into his eyes. Dragging his hands away from his face, he blinked his eyes open, edges bleeding with darkness.
Freak freak freak freak--
His eyes found Dean’s, and he automatically grimaced.
But he- he didn’t look scared or angry or… he didn’t look at Sam the way he had when he’d first started having those visions of people dying.
In fact, his brow was creased, mouth parted in worry as his eyes tracked Sam’s every movement not in a wary way, but concerned. Another band around his lungs loosened. Sam looked away first.
He stood up abruptly, making Castiel back up a couple steps.
Sam blew out a loud breath, “I need some- I need some space,” he said, and then, more cautiously, “I’m going for a walk.”
He looked at them, swallowed, heart thudding, wondering if they’d even let him go out like this. If he would be deemed too ‘dangerous’, too unstable. If they wanted to keep him under observation. Under lock and key, even. Like the last time.
And what he would do if they did.
Castiel nodded.
Sam’s lips parted in half surprise, half relief. Dean didn’t look particularly happy, but he didn’t say anything to contradict him.
After a few moments of just staring, Dean cleared his throat, “We’ll figure it out. We always do.” With that he turned and stalked out of the room.
Sam watched him go, made no move to stop him. Yeah, they always do, don’t they? He wondered if it could necessarily be counted as a good thing. He’s learnt enough to doubt the credibility of their ‘solutions’.
Cas stayed quiet as Sam made his way to the bathroom, to get ready for a walk. Or a jog, or just laying down on the grass and staring up at the sky. Whatever suited his fancy. He just needed to be away.
***
In hindsight, he should’ve expected this.
If a simple flinch could trigger a bottle exploding, or a bad memory make the whole room shake, he should’ve expected this too.
He’d barely had a single restful night’s sleep since--
Since Jess died, really. But with the pile of traumas climbing up every year, it just got worse.
He’d sometimes wake up screaming and look down to see bloody hands, but the blood won’t come off. His nose would fill up with the faint smell of burning flesh and sulphur, his mouth would taste like blood and bile.
Most of his hunts nowadays were done on pure adrenaline and will power.
So-
So there was a crash, a thud, a yell.
Not necessarily in that order.
The nightmare had already blurred and slipped through conscious memory, leaving behind the faint sounds of screams and fire.
His head ached and a weight settled in his chest, coiling around his lungs.
As his vision cleared and mind righted itself, he looked around the room, and right into Castiel’s eyes, his face right in front of Sam’s. Sam flinched back in surprise, and Castiel quickly straightened up.
“Cas?” he said, tentatively and uncertain, and heard a groan from the far side of the room, his eyes snapping towards the noise.
“What the hell, Sam,” Dean said, “this is the second time now.”
Sam’s eyes widened as he realised what had happened. Dean picked himself off the floor, his hand creeping up to the back of his head where he rubbed at it exaggeratedly. His tone had been irritated but his face betrayed yet more concern.
More observation of the room revealed shattered picture frames, and a shelf on the floor, the wood split down the middle, the items which had been on it scattered around it. His books displaced from neat little piles on chairs and tables to all over the room.
The coils got tighter, and he forced himself to suck in a ragged breath.
“Fuck,” he ran a hand through his damp hair, “ Fuck .”
Dean hurried over to his bedside as Sam swung his legs off the bed, eyes going over to his bedside table for a glass of water, only to find glass shards scattered all over.
The lamp flickered ominously.
“I can’t do this,” Sam whispered, burying his face in his cold hands and pressing over his eyes, making himself see a myriad of colours. His throat felt tight with the sob building up, and the pounding in his head refused to go down.
He wondered if it was the room that spun still or his head.
The bed dipped beside him, and he peeled his hands off his face to see Dean sitting there. His eyes were hesitant and the expression tentative.
“We’ll help you.”
“And how exactly would you help me , Dean?” Sam asked, his voice rough and snappy.
Because Dean sounded earnest, but the images flashing through Sam’s head were all about the last time Dean had tried to ‘help him’ with anything remotely related to Sam’s psychic abilities, his freakish powers. Bobby’s panic room stamped into the back of his eyelids, the dark iron walls closing in around him, the screams and the torture and the thirst and hallucinations, the seizures, being unable to breahte--
“By getting your powers under control, helping you use them better.”
Sam’s mind screeched to a halt. What?
He looked at Dean, who’s eyes had softened with regret and hope, “Well, you need to learn how to use them better, right? Can’t have you causing an earthquake every time you have a nightmare.”
When Sam kept staring, Dean looked down at his hands. Sam turned his gaze towards Castiel. His vision had returned more or less to normal, although the migraine still persisted around his eyes, a dull stabbing pain. Cas just stared right back, his eyes soft.
“Look,” Dean said abruptly, “I know we fucked up last time, but we’ll do it right this time.”
Sam swallowed thickly, and his eyes blurred again, this time with tears. He not so discreetly wiped a hand across his eyes and face, coughing awkwardly.
Castiel nodded along, his mouth quirking in a small, comforting smile, “You won’t be alone this time.”
And so, maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Maybe something good could come of his god given powers. Maybe he didn’t have to be so afraid, even though he had every reason, even though he couldn’t help it. This time he had Castiel and he had Dean. This time there was no Ruby and no apocalypse. No army and no yellow eyed demons.
Just him and his family.