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depollute me, pretty baby
suck the rot right out of my bloodstream.
oh, dilute me, gentle angel,
water down what i call being grateful.
Sometimes, it feels like he’s an abandoned body in the desecrated tomb, surrounded by angry dogs. Profaned, defiled, violated. That’s what it feels like to live in his decaying body, what it feels like to be impure, to be contaminated with sin as a mere baby. To be Lucifer’s vessel.
Maybe it’s the demon blood or maybe it’s the aftermath of Lucifer’s Cage or maybe that’s just how fucked up Sam really is, it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he’s surrounded by mad animals, teeth bared and ready to bite and rip off even more meat from his already rotting skin. He’s not dead, not really — but there’s nothing alive about him either. He’s stuck in between, the smell of decay filling his nostrils and his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
They’re wild dogs, always wild, never rabid, because to be rabid is to be held prisoner in your own dying body, to be hurt and helpless in the eyes of the disease (maybe he’s rabid, all messed up from the inside if he thinks about it hard enough). All Sam does is watch as they tear the flesh off his bones and then chew right through them; sometimes, he pulls the bones out himself, one at a time, and throws them as far as he can just to get a second for himself. A femur there and a rib here, that’s all he’s good for. He’s all bones, all misery, all sin. Dirty and yet people continue to defile him even further — they don’t care. Wild dogs rarely care about anything other than meat. Wild dogs do as they please.
The rot inside his bloodstream never leaves — the demon blood he got fed as a baby, the demon blood he fed himself, the sins he commits in the name of love, it’s all there, all mixed up. All staining his soul. And Castiel sees it. Castiel sees it all. He can see the sickness, the disease that Sam is. He knows what a deformed abhorrent creature Sam is. What a rabid fucking bitch he is. He knows it all.
He knows and still, he chooses to stay.
It makes Sam feel ashamed — whenever Castiel’s eyes stray to him, look at him with that depth of a thousand oceans, whenever he can feel that all-knowing gaze on him — he’s so embarrassed, so ashamed, and just so, so mortified. Castiel’s an Angel of the Lord — and no matter how much Sam can hide from Dean or himself and no matter how much he could ever hide from Jess, he can’t hide anything from Castiel. Castiel can X-ray his soul whenever he pleases. Sam can tell him to stop or don’t and Castiel doesn’t have to listen because Castiel’s the epitome of pureness, Castiel’s pristine and… absolute, and Sam is not any of that. Sam’s more polluted than Louisana on its best day. He’s pretty much covered in sin, that’s what his bones are made out of — not calcium but dirty, dirty fucking sin and he can feel it in himself, he can always feel it now that he’s aware. He’ll always feel it, no matter how many times Dean tells him it doesn’t matter. Because it does; it did and it does and it will and it won’t ever not matter, not in the eyes of God.
The God that never answers. The God that maybe never even listens. The God that made Sam like this — the God that made Sam Lucifer’s, the God that doomed him, the God that Sam still reluctantly believes in. The God Sam still sometimes prays to.
The God that’s still not here.
Sam wants to rip the skin out of his body, wants to tear out chunks of meat, break bones and twist the guts into knots, wants to open himself and let the bugs eat him alive — he wants to get out of this dirty polluted fucking thing because this, this vessel he’s forced to reside in is so fucking disgusting it makes him vomit. Sam’s a rabid dirty fucking bitch, a dog in heat that needs to be fucking put down, put out of its misery.
Castiel’s hands caress his skin, like Sam’s fragile; like Sam’s made out of glass, and not at all like he’s disgusting, contaminated, or spoiled. Castiel touches his skin as if Sam’s not Lucifer’s vessel, the boy with the demon blood in his veins. Like he’s not an abomination, not quite human, and not quite fully sinister. Castiel’s hands touch him like he’s the righteous man, made to remain pure no matter how many sins he commits.
Sam knows Castiel knows what he’s thinking. He always knows, even though he says he never intends to read his mind. He says Sam’s mind is loud; he says that self-loathing is always louder than self-love because it’s unnatural, and saddening, because it’s what angels are supposed to see, to hear, to dilute.
Sam used to pray to angels to fix him — now, he just thinks they made it worse.
Sam prays to God — but Lucifer’s the one who listens, the only one who answers.
“I don’t want Dean like this,” Castiel says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if Sam’s delusional to think otherwise. As if it wasn’t the biggest lie Sam ever heard him say. “Do you think I would be here if I wanted him instead?”
They both know the truth.
“Dean’s not like me,” Sam says quietly. They both know what he means. But Sam doesn’t say it out loud. It’s enough that it’s always in his head. That vicious word, unclean. “He’s not ruined like me.”
It feels funny to say. Especially since they are both equally ruined, just in different ways. But Dean’s not here. Dean is nurture to Sam’s nature. Dean was raised to hurt. Sam, he sometimes thinks, was born like that. Anything he does always ends up in hurt, maybe because Dean protected him his whole life.
Dean takes his hurt like a man. Sam runs away each time.
“You think you’re ruined,” Castiel’s hands run up and down Sam’s naked chest, making him shiver. “What does that make me? Sam, what does that make me? Me, an Angel of The Lord, fooling around with the devil’s favorite plaything?”
Castiel sucks on his neck and Sam pretends the tears that prick his eyes are the tears of pleasure. They both know they’re just substitutes for each other — Castiel is his absolution, and Sam’s the closest thing he gets to have of Dean.
“If you’re ruined,” he whispers against Sam’s ear. “If you’re ruined, then so am I. Why don’t we just rebuild each other, then?”
Castiel takes him apart, piece by piece. He sinks deep down into Sam’s very foundation — the black that stains it, the hate and love and everything that holds him together and he takes it all apart and holds it in his hands, reshapes it, makes it different. Not better. Just different.
Sam’s grateful for that. Castiel never says he can fix Sam — because he can’t. Nobody can purify his soul, nobody can suck that rot out of his bloodstream. But Castiel makes him forget, just for a moment, with his hands and his grace and his kisses. Sam never thinks about the L word; he thinks if he did, he’d destroy himself utterly.
He’s not in love with Castiel. He knows if he was, Castiel would be dead by now. Sam can’t love him that way. This, what they are, it’s not love — Castiel can probably see it because he sees it all. They’re friends, maybe. Barely. But Castiel belongs to Dean and Sam knows it. His heart, his loyalty, it’s all Dean’s. But this thing they share, it’s something difficult to explain. They are both forsaken by their kind, both ruined so similarly it hurts. Castiel hates things that make him feel human and Sam hates things that make him feel like he isn’t.
Maybe Castiel’s attracted to the amount of evil in Sam — as an angel, maybe he feels the need to soothe the burn inside his soul, maybe he feels responsible for making Sam let Lucifer inside his guts, maybe he wants to reshape his bones so they’re less appealing for the beasts that always creep around the corners. It’s all maybes but never love.
The only time Sam’s sure he loves — that he’s even capable of loving — something, somebody, anything or anyone, they all end up dead. That’s what his love does to people. So he tries not to love anything anymore. He wonders what would happen if he started to love himself.
Castiel’s sweet, in the way he kisses him; it’s only ever kisses, the gentlest and softest of all. Only ever delicate touches fluttering over his skin, barely grazing, but to Sam, that’s everything. Castiel can take all he wants from him — he can tear Sam’s ribcage out, rummage through his guts, take out his heart. Sam wouldn’t stop him. He can’t ever stop people from doing that. There was Meg, there was Ruby, there was Lucifer. There were others in between. They’ve all been inside him, all taken a piece of him with them. They all hollowed him out, saw the illness in his soul.
Lucifer’s the worst, Sam reasons. Go figure. The literal capital-d Devil is bad, boo hoo. But that self-loathing thing Sam has going on? Lucifer feels it too. Maybe it’s even worse with him — but if Sam was a pure, angelic thing, something good, something just, and got twisted and defiled like Lucifer? If he got cast away by his family, told to never come back once he leaves? Sam would probably turn out like the Devil, too. If his older brother was ordered to kill him, Sam would probably turn into something twisted, something cruel, too.
Sam hates Lucifer for making him think about it — he hates him for so many reasons and yet no reason at all. He just loathes him, with all he has.
Castiel dilutes the hatred in Sam’s soul; Dean soothes the heartburn going on inside.
Lucifer violated him in the worst ways possible — he’s seen it all, he’s been inside Sam’s grapefruit. He disfigured Sam’s insides until all his body knew was how to fit Lucifer inside. He knows everything; he knows of shame, of impureness, of blood, of love. Lucifer looks inside Sam and all he sees is a wretched mirror of himself and he hates that.
You’re all I could’ve been, Lucifer used to whisper in his ear, as he slid in and out of Sam, dick coated in blood and sweat, the only liquids there ever were in the cage. There were no tears because Lucifer would lick them all off Sam’s face as soon as they appeared. And I’m all you will be, once the time comes. I’m all you would be by now if you weren’t playing house in the devil’s basement.
You always trade one cage for another, Sammy, he’d say wearing Dean’s face. You always think you’re out, always think you’re free but you’re just in a different cage. That’s what Stanford was, that’s what demon blood was. You’re a circus freak, Sam and freaks belong in cages, right? Stupid desperate little bitch, he’d say as he turned Sam inside out.
He defiles Sam’s mind, Sam’s love, Sam’s everything — over and over again, just because he can.
Castiel peppers his skin with kisses, “I admire you sometimes, Sam. You still try, no matter how many times people break your insides. You try so hard to be good, no matter how many times people tell you you’re evil. I know you’ve forgiven me for leaving your soul behind; but can you forgive yourself? Extend that kindness to yourself?”
Forgiveness isn’t kindness, Sam thinks. There’s nothing beautiful about forgiveness. It’s ugly and it’s filthy and it’s nauseating. It’s devouring the hate and waiting until your guts digest it, even as you puke and cry and wail. It’s crude, it’s barbaric and it’s disgusting. There’s no forgiveness for Sam.
Lucifer would peel his skin off and rub salt all over the exposed muscle and gore. And he’d say, you’re stained so beautifully, Sam, and then fuck him until all Sam could think about was him.
He’d say, I love you, as he burned him from the inside, you did this to me, you trapped me here, he’d say with Dean’s or Jessica’s face. Your love did this to me, he’d say while making them look like rotting corpses, white maggots chewing through the eyeballs. Your love ruined me because all you do is ruin everything you touch, Sammy. He’d force Sam to watch them all burn for hours, he’d force Sam to set them on fire and tell him, I burn for you, Sam. Do you burn for me, too? And then he’d set Sam on fire, too. For five years or so. He’d fix the outside but leave the bones black and charred. Ruined.
He’d be gentle, sometimes. You’re so pretty, Sammy, so velvet and perfect. He’d ruin even softness and gentleness for Sam. He was clever like that.
There’s nothing sexual about Sam and Castiel. One’s too dirty, one’s too clean. They don’t mix, like oil and water. Sam would never risk contaminating Castiel or risk Castiel burning out the filth out of him because that sickness is so intertwined with him that it might as well just kill him. Maybe none of that matters. Maybe there’s nothing sexual about them because Sam doesn’t want there to be. Even though that’s never mattered before.
“I am content with you like this, Sam,” Castiel says as he nips at his neck, maybe leaving a red bruise or two. He doesn’t rip his throat out like Lucifer, like the dogs looming behind the doors. “I will take only what is freely given. Anything else, I don’t want.”
He says as if it’s that simple. He kisses him as if he’s happy with just that; he kisses him like they’ll never have sex, never become one, and like he’s satisfied with that. Like that’s enough for him. Like he’s happy with Azazel’s plaything, Ruby’s doll, like he’s happy with Lucifer’s sloppy seconds, or, at this point it could be sloppy fifths or sixths. There’s been so many people inside of Sam he’s not even counting anymore. He’s missing so many bones he feels like jello whenever Castiel’s like that; sweet, gentle, caring. Not loving because there shouldn’t be any love when Sam’s involved. Because Sam’s poison.
Castiel seems to think he can make it non-lethal.
“I don’t want sex,” Sam confesses like it’s wrong. Like it’s a sin. Like it’s evil to say no. Like it’s evil because he’s Sam Winchester and not anyone else. “I probably won’t ever want to have sex. But you can, you can still fuck me, if you— if you want,” he says crudely, swallowing nausea down. He doesn’t want sex. He won’t ever want sex again. But he knows he will have it again, once another hound smells his odor. It doesn’t matter what Sam wants, never did. Not with John and not even with Dean.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Sam pulls out his heart instead of his bones. He rips it out carelessly. But he holds it out, gently, and offers it for Castiel to take, tear to shreds. His ribs are exposed after he broke them to get inside his own chest — he offers those, too. He holds himself open, ripe, and ready for taking.
“No,” Castiel growls but no teeth are tearing into Sam. “No, Sam, I don’t want to. I don’t want to fuck you.”
Something inside him shatters, “You don’t want to?”
“No,” Castiel says, gently this time. He looks at him pitifully. “I don’t want to. I won’t ever want to, Sam. As long as you don’t want to, I won’t either.”
“It, it can’t be that simple,” he chokes out. “That’s not, that’s not how it works. I’m supposed to say no and you’re supposed to make me say yes, anyway.”
Come on, Sam, Lucifer’s voice haunts him in his head, say yes to me. Say yes to hell. Say yes to heaven. I’m still an angel, you know. I can cure that fucked up little head of yours if you just say yes. I’m the only one who can, the only one who can stand to purge the filth out of you, how fucked up is that?
Later, when they were in the Cage, Lucifer confessed, I lied, Sam. The only time I ever lied to you was when I said I could fix that messed up melon of yours — you’re just too sick, too fucked up even for me. And I’m the freaking Satan, Sammy. I’m the literal Devil and yet you’re still too diseased even for me. Nobody can fix you.
Ruby made him say yes. Lucifer made him say yes. Even Dean makes him say yes, even if he doesn’t mean to the way he does. They all make him say yes when all he wants is to say no.
“It is,” Castiel says sadly. “That’s how it works, Sam. What Lucifer did — it’s abhorrent. It’s vile, Sam. Once you say no, that’s it. No is a no. Possession works the very same way.”
His eyes grow wet, as do his cheeks after a second. Castiel lets them. There’s no forked tongue licking the proof of Sam’s misery off his face.
“I don’t love you,” Sam lies. “But maybe if I could, I would.”
If I was allowed to, he doesn’t say.
“I know,” Castiel says and he knows Sam’s lying. He always knows. “I’m an angel, Sam; we’re not made to love. But if I could, maybe I’d love you too,” Castiel lies and it’s all but a confession between them.
Sam doesn’t love him. But maybe in another universe, Sam would grow to. But in this, he’ll never know.
“I would have ruined your love,” is all Sam says.
“No,” Cas whispers. “The only thing you’d ruin is me, Sam. Because I wouldn’t be able to stand you think yourself a monster the way you do.”
They don’t have sex. Sam always says no and Castiel never makes him say yes. But it’s a very close thing, what they do — Sam thinks that if he could have sex ever again, he’d want to have it with Castiel. But he doesn’t, so they don’t.
Saying no always felt like a sin. Always felt wrong and shameful. With Castiel, it just feels like saying no.
There’s no love between them; but if there was, it’s not like Sam would ever tell. His heart is caged underneath the chewed bones and it wouldn’t be too hard for someone to worm their way inside — but Cas only takes what’s freely given, and until Sam says yes, it’s a no. It’s a no until he says yes. But only if he wants to say yes.
They never have sex.
(One day, he'll find Castiel with Dean. He'll know one of them feels guilty. But he'll never find out for sure which one is it.)
depollute me, gentle angel
and i'll feel the sickness less and less.
come and kiss me, pretty baby
like we'll never have sex.