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Sam has always believed in angels.
His knees have known the floor since before he can remember, hands spending far more time interlinked with his own rather than someone else's. He always knew, desperately yet quietly, that his whispers were heard by more than just sordid motel rooms. He had to have faith somewhere in his life. Having been steadily losing it in most every other area - normalcy, family, father.
The day those same hands touched that of a real soldier of Heaven, it wasn't in death. It was in the shape of a man. Whom immediately reminded him that he was not, in fact, wholly that.
Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood.
The notion of the Holy Father being all loving grew gaunt in his chest at that. It was heavier than he let on.
He can't help but wonder if that's what's echoing through Castiel's mind, as he stares down at him. Sam is kneeling for the first time since. And the angel is squinting at him in that funny way, like he always does when Sam's brother says something stupid, except nothing is funny to Sam right now.
"This feels.. apologetic," he rumbles. Sam swallows.
"It kind of is."
He looks colossal from this angle, Sam's fingers feeling far away when they rest on his auditor getup slacks, the fabric not doing much to ground him.
"It's an interesting way to look at it."
Interesting. That's usually Cas' choice of adjective when it comes to Sam and the things he does. The omnipotence of it never fails to make him nervous, make him feel looked at.
Mouth drying, he lets himself slide his hands to the angel's zipper. The sound is deafening as he moseys it down.
Again heard by nothing but the motel walls and a celestial being. His brother is out on an errand, which points to drinking like a fish and winking at blonde bartenders, which Sam is for once grateful for.
He doesn't have to look up to know Castiel is scrutinizing holes into his face.
He's trembling when he pulls the pants halfway off his thighs, and won't let himself stall with the other layer. Peels that down too. Cas is unmoving and, as always, unblinking, like this doesn't shake him. Because it doesn't. Because he's ancient, and Sam is just a man.
Half of one, anyway.
There's a catch of breath at the sight of the angel's bareness. He grasps it to steady himself, and when that doesn't get anything, that's when he takes it between his lips.
A sigh from Cas - Sam's entire body seems to pulse with that one minute sound. He sinks down slow.
"Repenting. Look at you."
His back crawls with a shiver. Brows pinching, further he goes, and there's a prayer in the way he takes it all and looks up at the angel with eyes that are probably meeker than he'd like them to be.
Castiel doesn't lay a finger on him while making him feel pinned and flayed, and Sam is pretty sure that's exactly what he needs, exactly why they share this under the seclusion of moonlit rooms. Castiel needs something from this too, or he wouldn't be doing it. Sam doesn't think he'll ever know what.
Moving now, slowly, reverently, backward and forward again. Reverent is how Cas likes him. He tastes like ozone and forgiveness.
The way his mouth can pull hums out of such a stoic being makes him feel lighter. Useful settles itself into his brain and trickles down his body, until he lets himself turn less rigid.
"Let me see your eyes, please."
He opens them, Castiel's gaze strips him naked. He swallows. Goes down, down, down.
"Good, Samuel," is whispered from above him. It's what this is for.
The sound it wrenches from Sam is a little embarrassing, but at least it's muffled, even as that doesn't quite disguise how high it was.
Sam feels a hand card through his too-long hair. It stops at the back and grips, in what'd he'd sickly consider to be not nearly hard enough. And then it's guiding him. Shepherd. The pace does not speed up. There's tears gathering in his lashes at the pressure in his throat.
In this moment, his world reduces to Cas' face above him, his slackly open mouth. The way his chapped lips part to pant. His eyes don't get glazed over like anyone else's would, though, they're ever sharp. The angel can touch him because he's purifying him, he thinks, dazedly.
Dean would be appalled if he got back early. It's hilarious and terrifying.
But this isn't for Dean, and it sure as hell is not for God, either. But it's the next best thing.
"You're going to swallow it."
A gutted whimper. He tries to nod around Castiel, and gets a dry laugh for his efforts. Which tapers into a strained breath. His tugging grows harder, deeper, until Sam's head is held down once. Twice. Dragging. And Castiel groans. It's a pious choir. It should be heard echoed through a cathedral, it should be heard in liturgy.
For now, this is the only Rapture Sam is familiar with. This is the end times and Eden's beginning all the same.
He waits to pull off until the angel does it for him.
"Thank you," he says, voice scratchy and hushed like a secret.
"..You're welcome, boy."
Sam hopes his knees will be bruised forever with the evidence of his redemption. Cas is gone with a whisk of wings that are probably beautiful, and they will not acknowledge this again until the next time Sam is lost.