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"I'm sorry," Cas tells him, eyebrows drawn together with a sadness that Sam isn’t sure he can comprehend. Not just its depth, but the very fact of it.
He's sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. He's been like that for around half an hour now, he thinks, ever since he woke up with a nightmare clinging to his mind like a cobweb refusing to be swept away. Cas came in and asked him what was wrong, and he said something about nightmares, about his body not feeling right; he doesn't remember exactly, it was only a few seconds ago but he doesn't remember. And now Cas is sitting on the bed next to him and Sam is wondering how an angel's face can be carved with such sorrow for something like him.
"What for?" he says, flicking his eyes downward so he doesn't have to face the sympathy he's sure he doesn't deserve.
Cas hesitates, long enough that Sam looks back up at him. "Your hurt, I suppose. That you have to face nightmares when you deserve a peaceful rest. That you have to have a body in the first place."
Sam's so startled he lets out a laugh that doesn’t sound entirely sane. "You're sorry I have a body? What's the alternative?"
Cas shrugs. "Personally, I find the whole experience very harrowing. It was easier when Jimmy was still within mine, at least."
Sam can't imagine Jimmy would agree with that statement. "Why's that?"
"Angels are not meant to possess an empty vessel, or we would not require consent. To walk alongside humans on Earth comes hand-in-hand with our grace existing alongside their souls. But now…this body…it feels too much like it belongs to me." Cas looks down at himself—no, at his vessel—with a somewhat surprising amount of disgust. "If I am to exist as myself only, I would rather be allowed the extent of my true form instead of this claustrophobic shell that I have been given unwilling ownership of. Unwilling from Jimmy’s side too."
An idea is starting to form at the very edges of Sam's mind. It clings even as he tries to shake it off, so he shoves it down instead. He's good at ignoring things until they don't let him anymore. "I think I know how you feel," he says quietly, instead of voicing the idea out loud.
Cas does that curious head tilt of his. "How so?"
"The…body. Belonging to you. Sometimes I feel like…" Sam takes a breath. "I mean, I was literally born to be L—to be his vessel, right? And in the—sometimes—" He hates himself for not being able to articulate this, because he doesn't want it to matter enough that it prefers being lodged in his throat. Cas is the one who has the lowest grasp of human languages on the surface, but Sam can't help but admire how out of all of them, it seems the angel finds it easiest to lay out what he's feeling. Sometimes there is still shame or uncertainty within it, but never in saying the words themselves, not for Cas. And yet he is looking at Sam with such patience right now; there's no judgement of Sam's struggle to say what should be a simple sentence. He forces himself to take another couple breaths before trying again. "There were times, long spans of time, where it felt like I didn't know anything but his Grace. It was just my soul in there, no body to contain it, and—him. And it was awful, so awful—"
Cas reaches out and, with a motion so tender Sam almost thinks he's imagining it, brushes a tear from Sam's cheek. He hadn't known he was crying.
"I'm sorry for that too," Cas tells him. "My rescue attempt did so much more harm than good, in more than one way."
This is another thing about Cas: the self-loathing that goes beyond even Sam and Dean's everyday internally directed hatred. Cas is the furthest thing from a soldier of Heaven now, but sometimes Sam wonders if it doesn’t still have its effect on him, on how he sees himself. No orders to follow without question anymore, but maybe for Cas, that newfound free will won't ever be fully separated from the idea that individual thought and action means disobeyment in the eyes of those you spent so long perceiving as your only truth.
Faith is the word for that, Sam thinks. It reminds him of Dean—Dean and their father.
"That's not the point, Cas," he says, because he doesn't know how to directly address that train of thought in a way that will make it better. He doesn't know how to help. This is another place where he will ignore it as long as it can; he's had plenty of practice at that with his own problems and with Dean’s. "I just meant that I spent a lot of time in a kind of—half-possession? And since then, there's been Gadreel, there was Crowley and Gadreel—" He sees Cas open his mouth as though about to say something, but he can't take another apology right now, he really can't. He's finding it hard to slow down his slightly panicked breathing, and he clutches at the blankets underneath him, feeling alarmingly unsteady, but he forces himself to spit out the words anyway, draped in shame and hued with anger—at himself, at the world—that he hasn’t let himself feel properly in years. "Sometimes I feel like I’m more used to being possessed than being alone in my own body."
He can't meet Cas's eyes. He's barely able to face his own darkest thoughts right now, let alone the angel in front of him. "I know it's really fucked up, and I don't want to be possessed, I can't stand the thought of it. Sometimes I want to hurt Dean for forcing it on me. Sometimes I want to hurt everything that's ever occupied my body, even if they had my consent. Sometimes I want to tear off my own skin to make sure there's nothing else underneath. It's just that it doesn't fit me right."
"'It' being your skin?" Cas asks, soft, quiet, and that's what makes Sam look back up. Cas isn't looking at him—his eyes are closed, his head tilted slightly downwards, his hands unusually relaxed at his sides, as though listening to Sam speak is so important it cancels out the need for any other senses.
"Yeah," Sam says after a moment. "I—yeah. Fuck. Sorry."
Cas opens his eyes now. Their bright blue is almost startling in the dim light of the room. "Our existence in our respective bodies feels unnatural to the both of us, then." He doesn't sound like he's expecting a reply, just stating an observation that Sam finds a little too spot-on.
The idea from earlier slips back into the forefront of his thoughts, and he swallows, not sure that he can voice it. But Cas isn't looking away, and he doesn't feel like he can look away either, and there's something there in the air between them, something he's not sure how to put a name to--an emotion too broad for him to grasp but too substantial for him to ignore.
"Yes," he says, even though he knows Cas wasn’t asking a question.
"Sam?"
"Yes. I give you consent."
"Sam, I—"
I want to be okay , Sam wants to say, and this is how I get there. But the truth is, he has no idea if this will help to any extent or just make everything worse. All he knows is that frantically throwing haphazardous solutions at his atrophying mental state is all he's been capable of doing for himself for a long time, and Cas is the only one he trusts with this particular idea.
And if this is a way that he can help one of his best friends feel even a little more at ease? He'll do it a thousand times over.
" Yes ," he says again, forcefully even as it comes out half as a dry sob. This is his decision, no one else decided it or even thought of it before him, no one brought it up to him or told him it was what he was going to end up doing or tricked him into doing it or did it to him. This is his choice all the way through, and whatever Cas's response to it, that notion in and of itself is a reassurance.
And then there's a light that's practically blinding, pressing up against his eyes and fusing itself to his skin—no, deeper than that, his mind, his soul, it's in him and he wants to scream—
You have the ability to cast me out whenever you desire to, says Cas, and it’s spoken from within him, not from Sam's mouth. He realizes he's full-on crying now, and that fact brings him so much relief that he doesn't have the space to be embarrassed by it, because it means he's still in control. Somehow, he's still in control.
He takes a moment to force down the tears, breathe, make his muscles relax, tell himself he’s safe. Then he closes his eyes and turns his thoughts inward. He's never had the chance to adjust to a possession before—then again, it's never felt less like something literally possessing him. He can feel Cas within and throughout him, this angelic thing now residing in his body, and it's still his body .
"Okay," he says out loud, just to hear himself say it. It's as much an acknowledgement of the general situation as a response to Cas's statement. "Okay. This is okay." He puts a hand on his own chest, feels it rising and falling. Keeps his eyes closed and lets Cas brush up against his soul. They're not as intertwined as they could be, there's only a small amount of blurring between the edges of Grace and soul, but they still both fit. Sam blurs the distinction between them a little more to let Cas sense his appreciation for the internal walls, and marvels at the control he has over those walls. He can feel Cas's responding emotions—acknowledgement, satisfaction, peace—like a heartbeat, nestled alongside his own.
Castiel is possessing me, he thinks. Thoughts as direct as that are probably audible to Cas even as separate as the angel is keeping himself, but Sam is okay with that. After what happened with Death's mental wall, maybe he shouldn't trust the angel with his mind to this extent, but he does. He's always found forgiveness easy, especially when it comes to Cas, and despite how that’s had not-entirely-positive consequences in the past, in this case the choice to trust feels right.
Cas allows a question to bleed into Sam, more a sense of inquiry than actual words, but Sam understands it as though it's his own thought. No, this is not a bad thing, he tells Cas, and then, after a slight moment of hesitation, lets up the boundaries just a little more so that Cas can understand fully. The angel’s Grace burns, but it's tame compared to the Morningstar, and getting a little singed at the edges is nothing when you've had the distinct pleasure of going up in flame.
Cas reaches through the vague borders between them, and Sam lets him, and suddenly he is enveloped in Castiel . And it's—it's love. That's the only word for it he can think of, this thing that has swept over his soul, this emotion woven through all of Castiel and therefore all of him as well. And so much of it is love for him , with a depth and intensity that until now he has only known in Dean, except Dean's love feels more like a wildfire than anything: even this, even Cas's lightning-tinged Grace.
They bring their hand to their chest, and feel it rise, and fall. They start to breathe deeper, slower, and Sam's fairly sure it's because of Cas; there's a kind of peace in that, in the thing sharing your body doing nothing more than slowing your breath for you and even then allowing you to do it with them. The actions belong to both of them but Cas is making sure that the body is still Sam's, and for the first time in a while, that feels right .
They don't move for a long time. Sam's not sure how long; he'd check the clock but he's keeping his eyes closed. It's partly because he's focusing on the feeling of Cas's Grace within him, the burning-fractaled-twisting-perfect shape of it, of Cas . The other part is that he'd rather avoid looking over at the empty vessel on the bed next to them. At least it's not Jimmy's body , not since God reformed it for Cas. But still. Sam shifts at the thought and Cas lets out a small huff of amusement through Sam's mouth.
"Squeamish?" he says, and Sam takes back control to shake his head in lighthearted denial. This is easy, this is so easy.
"Should we do something?" Cas suggests, after another brief span of silence that’s shared in every sense of the word. It's kind of weird to hear his own voice pitched that low, but Sam's already getting used to it. This isn't the first time someone has used his voice as their own.
Sam can feel Cas taking that particular thought as a warning sign, but he lets down the walls again, lets Cas know it's okay with him. Maybe not a hundred percent, but close enough. Cas’s begrudging acceptance feels light in Sam’s throat—Cas is so small compared to an archangel, there are so many places for him to fit—before it dips back into simple curiosity about the question he’d asked.
"Sure," Sam says out loud in reply, letting the word sit and soak on his tongue, wholly his. He is still in control. This is still okay. "What would you like to do?"
Cas doesn't know, doesn't particularly care either, just thought it might be interesting, so after a few moments of contemplation, Sam opens their eyes and carefully reaches past the empty vessel to grab his iPod and headphones from the nightstand.
As he moves, he can feel Cas as a part of that movement, conjoined with every stretching muscle and bending joint. Not controlling—just existing. Sam never thought he would find possession to be anything close to a comfort, and yet this is, in certain ways: the way that Cas's own contentment bleeds through into his, the way that Cas's Grace does not overflow either his soul or his body but fits just right, and, however fucked up it is to find comfort in, the way that it's still singeing just a little. Not quite comparable to a comet, not for Sam, but there is still that sense of overwhelming power, and it's honestly somewhat grounding. Like pressing into the wound on the palm of his hand had been—the electric burn of Cas's true form within him, unaccompanied by loss of control and autonomy as it is, is a welcome reminder of his own body and soul and self. He's not sure how he'd be able to explain it out loud to Cas, but he doesn't have to for Cas to understand, and that too is welcome.
He plugs the headphones into the iPod jack and starts scrolling through the song selections, trying to figure out what Cas might like before he remembers Cas has access to his mind and therefore might already know all the music.
No, Cas conveys with reassurance that trails itself just beneath Sam’s skin, there are still walls up, still boundaries, still separation—your memories are your own. Your ears will hear the music for the hundredth time but I will hear it for the first.
Sam wants to cry. He doesn't fully know why, only that there is this being within him, this beautiful and overwhelming being, so like the others that have used Sam's body as a tool, a weapon, a vessel, a body of their own—and yet when Sam plays music the body knows by heart, Cas has chosen to give him so much control that it is his decision as to whether or not Cas will know it too. And until he decides otherwise, Cas doesn't know it too, because the body does not belong to Cas, the body is still Sam's body, and he feels gentle tears spill again down his cheeks, and Cas carefully takes one of their hands away from the iPod to wipe the tears away.
Sam takes a breath as the gentle feeling of Cas’s concern settles into love along his spine. "Okay, we'll go with this one," he says quietly, putting in the earbuds and clicking shuffle on one of his favorite albums, music that Dean would put up a fuss over him playing in the car. He closes their eyes, and leans back against the pillows and the wall, and turns the music up perhaps just a little too loud. He wishes he had proper headphones like Dean does, just hasn't gotten around to getting them. The thought is fleeting. The song feels like it's a part of him just as much as Cas is, harmonies and rhythms pooling inside his soul, and Cas's Grace intertwining itself with the melody. Sam hasn't given much thought to how angels perceive music before this, but it makes sense that it would be different from how humans do. He relaxes into the feeling.
I like it, hums Cas, weaving webs of simple joy around Sam’s bones. What pleases you about it?
Instead of responding in words, Sam lets Cas into his emotions and thoughts, the tangle of perception and experience that shapes his love for the music, and just a little, his love for Cas in this moment too. It’s almost exhilarating, knowing someone knows you that well, and most importantly, that it’s because it was you who shared yourself with them.
They shift until they’re lying on the bed fully; Sam isn’t sure who does it but it doesn’t particularly matter. Everything feels so smooth with Cas. It’s not about control but cohabitation. They don’t seem like they’d be the most compatible, Sam thinks, Cas’s true form coiled and sparking within Sam’s body and around his ragged soul. And yet both of them are content like this, experiencing a song in their own ways and still sharing that experience. Not just the song—each other, and there is beauty in that, Sam thinks, this can be something that has beauty, this can be something he is allowed to love.
The album plays all the way through with them like that, hands loosely open and eyes gently closed, fleeting points of emotion and observation traded between them as easy as breathing. Breathing, too, is easier than Sam would have thought. He finds peace in the inhale and exhale, the way Cas untangles just a little more every time their lungs expand and deflate. When the music dies down, they lie still, and Sam thinks he would like to keep this moment, tucked away inside his ribcage like the amulet in the box underneath his bed. He would like to keep Cas beside his heart, against his spine, within his lungs, safe and warm and love and peace.
And then Cas suggests, is there something else you would like to do? We could stay like this, or we could go elsewhere, if you’d like.
Sam is sure his breath would have hitched if he was the only one operating his lungs at the moment, because all of a sudden he's thinking about standing in the center of the Bunker and his hand reaching out in front of him to splay deathly fingers across Kevin’s face—he knows Cas wouldn't take control if he didn't want him too, but it doesn't help—it's not okay—and this, this sharing of control right now, this is good and fine and manageable at least , but getting up and walking, with another being woven through his legs, his arms, his hands—
Cas is drawing the edges of himself back in, the stretching-twining-not-limbs, the interlacing webs and melodies. Maybe it’s just because it’s where Sam's anxiety is sitting heavy, but it feels like Cas is condensing, confining , himself to the center of Sam's chest. Maybe it’s Cas's anxiety. Probably all of the above.
Whichever, though, Sam now finds himself jolting relatively upright with his knees drawn up to his heaving chest. He can't breathe, he just can't, because he's panicking too much and Cas has given him back full control over his body and he needs Cas back even though the idea of stronger possession is what's making him panic in the first place, and now he's full-on sobbing in between those heaving gasps of air, bent over himself and longing for the angel within him to thread back through his lungs.
Sam needs Cas to take over in a way that's not taking over at all, and he hates himself for that desperate and messy and contradictory neediness. The weight in his chest is getting tighter and tighter, and when he feels Cas's uncertainty and Cas’s questioning and Cas’s intense concern , all he can think is get out get out getoutnow .
Cas does.
For a moment, Sam's not sure if he feels more like he's dying or like he can finally breathe. Possibly both.
“Sam, are you okay?” It’s Jimmy’s voice now, Jimmy’s body with Cas inside it, sitting next to him on the bed.
Jimmy didn’t get to say get out. Jimmy’s get out didn’t get to mean anything. Sam can’t breathe. He barely fills his body on his own. He needs Cas. His body is an empty shell. He needs Cas to be as far away from him as possible. He needs Cas to breathe with him, clear the infection of self-loathing at the base of his lungs. He needs to learn how to fix himself without Cas. He needs to not be an empty shell. He needs to—
“Breathe, Sam. In for four seconds, out for six. A coworker from the Gas’n’Sip told me about that breathing technique. I found it helpful in moments of anxiety, such as when the smoothie machine broke down and I was the one tasked with fixing it. I think it was a good experience overall, though—learning how to fix the smoothie machine—”
Cas’s voice is a low rumble against Sam’s shoulder. Oh, Sam realizes, Cas is holding him. Chin on shoulder, chest against chest, arms encircling him loosely. He lets his head lay fully on Cas’s shoulder, feeling the fabric of the trenchcoat against his cheek, and Cas breathing deliberately and deeply against him, which he tries to copy as best he can. Numbers of seconds feel like too much to keep track of so eventually he just matches the rhythm of his breaths to the way Cas is rubbing his back, slowly, gently, like being anything but tender with Sam has never once crossed his mind.
Cas is still talking—rambling—about the Gas’n’Sip and the broken machine, and Sam can feel himself calming down as he speaks; at the next pause in the story, Sam whispers a heavy “Thank you” to him, and then, “I’m sorry.”
He can feel Cas shake his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” When he doesn’t respond, just presses his forehead harder into Cas’s shoulder, Cas pulls back a bit and says, “You really don’t, Sam, okay?”
“If I say okay, will you keep talking about the smoothie machine?” Sam mumbles into his trenchcoat, and Cas’s chuckle reverberates against his chest.
It’s more soothing than he’s pretty sure it should be—Cas going on about arbitrary things, his low tone settling against Sam’s skin in a much more peaceful way than the nightmare had clung that morning. He doesn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed about finding comfort in the embrace, and Cas would probably find it silly if he did, anyway, so he lets himself stay close even when he hears a heavy clang from somewhere in the Bunker. “Door?”
Cas glances at the bedside clock. “Door. It’s about the time Dean said he’d be home.” He starts to swing his legs off the bed to stand, before turning instead to face Sam properly. “I forgot to thank you back.”
“What?”
“It was nice. Sharing your body with you. For the duration you were comfortable with it, I appreciated it greatly.” Cas reaches out and takes Sam’s hand, folds both of his own around it like he’d done all those years ago upon their first meeting. “Thank you.”
Sam feels his face heating up. He doesn’t know what to say. But even though Cas isn’t sharing his headspace anymore, he gets the feeling he doesn’t have to say anything at all; Cas understands anyway.
“Yo, I brought food!” Dean’s voice rings out, loud enough for them to hear it muffled through Sam’s door.
“Coming!” Sam yells back, tearing his gaze away from Cas. He feels Cas let his hand go as they both go to stand and leave the room, but he doesn’t feel disappointed by the lack of contact. Not as long as he has Cas standing beside him now, looking at him like he’s something cherished, like he’s something dear, like his body is his own and perfect for it.
“I’ve got another album by the same artist,” Sam says softly, “if you want to listen some time.”
Cas smiles at him. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” says Sam, smiling back, the memory of Cas’s love folded inside his ribcage, tucked beside his heart and against his spine and within his lungs. “I think I’d like that too.”