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Castiel thought that, in his near-infinite wisdom, he knew almost all there was to know about everything. This was, as it turned out, very far from true. Sam and Dean had taken him on one hunt to see how he fared, just as he was, as a test of his skills. This ended up being a terrible mistake. Castiel fumbled his way through nearly everything, knowing nothing of how to hold a gun, or how to talk to a witness. In the end, he gave away their identities and drove them from the town. Sam had begrudgingly called Garth and had him send another hunter to finish their job, and Dean had fumed and ignored Castiel for three days. At this, Castiel realized just how much there was that he didn’t know.
He asked them to teach him. Sam and Dean bickered it out, but Dean settled on teaching Castiel weapons and lockpicking, and gun and auto maintenance. Sam agreed to teach Castiel how to pass as human better.
Sam taught him a lot of things, now. Dean did too, of course, but those things were all physical, required hands on a gun or fingers on lockpicks, tactile things. The things Sam taught him were verbal, things in theory, things relating to emotion, sympathy and empathy. They were often difficult to understand, but Sam was warm and kind with him, patient and understanding.
Castiel found that the more they talked, the more he understood Sam and his choices. He realized they had a lot in common, their pain and rebellion, their hunger for redemption. Most of all, they both had an unnatural thirst for knowledge, a need to know and comprehend things outside of themselves. He thought this suited them well in their lessons, and it meant that no matter what Sam set on the table in front of him, no matter how frivolous or useless it seemed, he wanted to hear Sam’s gentle, steady voice explain it to him.
In time, he came to realize that was more about Sam and less about the learning.
*
When Sam taught him, they always sat at the motel table near the window, across from one another. It was a constant thing, and no matter how hectic or uncertain their lives were, he could be sure that Sam would sit on the other side of that table and impart knowledge to him.
Castiel had learned all manner of skills, ones he never thought would be useful but now understood to be imperative: how to tell if a person was lying to you, how to speak with just enough authority, ways in which to coax information from someone unwilling, how to soothe a person with your words and your gestures, how to make someone comfortable with your presence. It was something new each time, but Sam delivered them all with surety and experience. He often made Castiel repeat things back to him until his tongue didn’t trip on the words anymore, until he was almost as confident with it as Sam was.
Once Sam had decided they were done for the day, if they had time, they talked. The words flowed easy between them in a way he had never dared to believe they could. They talked about anything and everything they could come up with, string theory and sociology and cooking, Sam’s past and Castiel’s life. Sam particularly loved it when Castiel told him stories from centuries ago, painting impeccable pictures of Babylon with his words. Sam looked at him with the most enraptured expressions when he would talk about his past, and suddenly Castiel found that he’d do almost anything to get Sam to look at him that way.
Castiel tried not too think too hard about what that meant. There were many words in many languages to place a name to the feeling, but he didn't want any of them. He was afraid. He had never spent so much time with anyone before, and he’d never had this unfamiliar tug in his chest, this ache for more. He tried to ignore it, tried not to look at Sam, or sit too close to him, but it was difficult since they were always so near, always sharing space and breath.
He began to yearn for touch. He and Dean touched a lot, certainly, since their training was tangible, Dean placing things in Castiel’s hands, fingers brushing casually, shoulders nudging, knees bumping. The touch he really wanted was Sam’s, and that was the one he never got.
There was ever the barrier between them: Dean, or the vinyl of car seats, or the table. It made it difficult to get any kind of contact this way, even accidental. Castiel’s skin yearned for the feeling of Sam against it. He tried to be subtle about it, tried to cautiously slide his finger across the table to brush against Sam’s, but he found that his timing was terrible. Each time he reached out, Sam would gesture, pick his hands up off the table, or stand up from his spot. Castiel hoped, desperately, that it was all coincidence, that Sam didn't know his motive and was trying to shy away from him.
If he was being honest with himself, he knew better. Castiel was attracted to souls, to spirits and personalities, but he knew humans, and likely Sam, were attracted to bodies. If past experiences were any indication, he was certain that Sam wasn't interested in bodies like his; hard and unyielding where softness and pliancy was desired. Even if Sam was, there was really no reason he would be attracted to Castiel.
His purgatory scars were still fresh on his mind and body. He had helped break the world, and he had broken Sam. He had betrayed them, looked on them as if they were nothing, expelled words like broken glass that cut skin and shattered trust. Yes, if he was honest, he knew Sam would never want him.
Honesty was a funny thing.
*
Castiel had told big lies, and that had been easy enough. They rolled easy off his tongue, tasted bitter on the way out; you can trust me, I haven’t betrayed you, we’re still friends. He tried not to think about it, those things he had done penance for in purgatory, but they ached at the back of his mind every day, clawing at his memories like they were trying to get out. Sam never brought them up, and for that Castiel was thankful.
The thing that was difficult for him was telling little lies. At first, it didn't make sense to conceal the small things, and Castiel didn't understand why he couldn't just tell someone there was a ghost and they needed to kill it. That was precisely what had gotten them all into trouble on his first hunt. Sam had to teach him a measure of empathy, and that regular people were to be left out of the loop of what they do.
He was learning, but he still needed some improvement. He wasn't always certain when the appropriate situation to lie was, or what to say when he had to. So, he waited at the table for Sam to come and teach him.
The flimsy hotel door clicked open and shut as Sam walked in. He tossed something on the table, and it slid until it bumped into Castiel’s fingers. He grabbed it, turned it over in his hands and inspected it. It was an FBI ID, convincingly made, that had his picture and a false name in it.
“We’re lying today,” Sam explained simply, hanging his heavy tan coat on the back of his chair and sitting down. His knees bumped Castiel’s under the table, and they settled comfortable against one another. Castiel was surprised, when they sat together they never touched, Sam seemed to disallow it. Castiel made a pointed effort not to think about the contact.
“Alright then,” Castiel nodded, “teach me.”
Sam smirked. Since they had been doing this, spending this time together, it seemed to Castiel that Sam had been smiling more than ever before. It made his heart feel light, free in his chest.
“Okay, then, I’ll lay it down. When someone says something to you, when someone asks you something, you’re going to want to tell them the truth, it’s natural. But you can’t. You’re going to be a different person to each one of these people, and you have to sell it to them.” He reached across the table and tapped the FBI ID in front of Castiel. “This is you, today.”
Castiel grabbed it again, opened it up and inquired, “So, for this scenario, I’m…” he paused, then read the name off the ID, “Agent Roger Daltry?”
“Right. Maybe if it’s easier to assume that identity, to pretend you really are him, that would be easier?”
Castiel frowned. Roger Daltry, a man with Castiel’s face who never existed and never would, was a blank slate. “I don’t know anything about him.”
“Invent something. Something to solidify the alias in your head. That way, when someone asks who you are, you have something to tell them.”
He wondered how easy it might be to create this persona. He could invent any detail he liked for this fake man. Maybe he liked to eat only porridge for breakfast. Perhaps he always wore mismatched socks. It could be, even, that he had someone who loved him very much waiting for him at home, someone with a strong jaw, hazel eyes and too-long hair. Castiel cleared his throat. “Alright. I believe I understand.”
“Good, okay,” Sam said, brushing hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear. He looked into Castiel’s eyes for a flicker, just a second, and it was a knowing glance. Suddenly, Castiel was terrified that Sam knew how he felt, but Sam didn't say anything, didn't pull his legs away from Castiel. A moment passed, and then Sam said, “So, I know you can lie, but I’m just not sure how well.”
Blessedly, Sam didn’t bring up any of Castiel’s previous transgressions, and he was grateful. He knew he’d never forget what happened, playing god and betraying them, and he knew Sam never would either. He merely hoped that someday they could reach a point where it wouldn't matter any longer.
“What do you mean?” Castiel asked, leaning forward, his elbows bumping against the table.
“Well, you have to be an expert at it. You have to be able to tell a lie as easy as if it were the truth.”
That sounded difficult, because the two things were so far apart from each other, they were so dissimilar. The truth was easy, pure, clean, and a lie was just the opposite; dirty, unsure, burdensome. Castiel clenched his fingers, and asked, “What do you recommend?”
Sam folded his hands in front of him, long fingers splayed against one another. He considered Castiel’s question for a moment, then answered, “”Well, you must lie more often than you think. Did you lie to anyone today?”
Castiel felt like his tongue was tied. He wanted to tell Sam, yes, I did, I lie every time I’m not touching you, every time I’m not telling you how you twist me up inside, I’m a liar. He couldn't say those things, though, now or probably ever.
“Just something little,” Sam coaxed.
So, Castiel picked something that was innocuous, wouldn't hurt feelings or break trust.
“Yes. This morning, Dean asked me if I liked his music.”
“Okay, what did you say?”
“I told him I dislike it.”
Sam snorted. Castiel had often expressed his distaste for Dean’s music, and in the past he had claimed that it was barely a level above ‘noise.’
“Well, that isn't a lie, then.”
“I don’t dislike it. I hate it.”
Sam laughed, loud and beautiful, and smiled right at Castiel. It was very nearly too much for him, Sam’s dimples punctuating either end of his wide grin. “That’s almost a lie!” Sam suppressed another smile. The corners of his lips turned down, but his eyes were still warm.
He leaned back in his chair, and his feet nudged against Castiel’s. “Okay, let’s try another exercise. I’ll ask you a question, and you tell me a lie.”
Castiel glanced down to the FBI ID still on the table. “Will I be Agent Daltry for this scenario?”
“Nah,” Sam said, grabbing the ID off the table. He reached between them and grabbed the lapel of Castiel’s coat, peeled it back and tucked the ID in an inside pocket. He patted it twice for good measure, then said, “Just be Castiel.”
It took him a moment to gather himself after Sam had been so close to him. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Sam’s hand on his chest.
“Alright, I think I can do that.”
“Okay,” Sam smirked, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms, “here’s an easy one. What are you wearing?”
Castiel didn't understand the point of lying about such a thing, when it was plain as day to anyone what he had on. “You can clearly see—”
Sam waved a hand, cutting Castiel off. “A lie, Cas.”
Cas considered for a moment, and then said, “A dress.”
Sam almost immediately dissolved into laughter. Castiel balked at Sam, wondering for a moment if Sam’s laughter was because he had done something wrong. He was about to protest when Sam laughed, “It was a lie, anyway. You, uh. You delivered it well.”
“Thank you, although I’m not sure I understand the purpose of this.”
“It’s the little things. Did you want to try a bigger lie?”
Bigger lies meant concealing bigger truths. Truths that he was trying to conceal from Sam, and questions he didn’t want Sam to ask. He hesitated. “I … yes.”
Sam cocked his head a bit, then asked, “Where were you yesterday? Give me something believable.”
This was another easy question. The truth had been that Castiel was with Sam and Dean. They had finished their previous hunt and settled in to their present hotel room until something else would present itself. But Sam wanted a lie, something reasonable.
“I was at work.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. It was an unusual answer, certainly, but Castiel thought it was a believable one. After all, he could have said he was in France.
Sam played along with Castiel. “Oh, yeah? Where at?”
Castiel faltered. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He considered how he usually dressed, how old he appeared, what sort of job a man who looked like him might have. “I, it’s… a bank. I am a teller.”
Sam nodded, breaking the scenario. He seemed pleased with Castiel’s effort, and surprised that he had managed any sort of a response at all. “Good. That was good.”
Castiel’s heart thrummed under Sam’s praise. He respected and cared for Sam so much that any approval from him was enough to make Castiel content.
Sam sat back in his chair again, and he looked right into Castiel’s eyes. It was appraising, at first, like he was trying to figure Castiel out, to understand something about him, but then the look shifted into something calculating. Castiel began to shift nervously in his seat. It seemed that Sam was seeing right through him, through the barrier he had put up.
Sam’s lips twitched, insinuation of a smile on them, and then he said, “Let’s do another exercise. This time, I want you to tell me the truth.”
Castiel swallowed. His words felt stuck like tar in his throat, and his chest felt heavy, fit to burst. He didn’t know what to say our how he should say it, how to exit the situation without alienating Sam. He felt stuck. The words did not come easy.
“Alright.”
Sam leaned forward, reached out and wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s wrist. The touch was not firm, not an indication of Sam holding him in place, but rather of Sam steadying him. Castiel was nervous, surprised. Sam had never touched him this much before.
“What do you want, Cas? Really. I mean, if you could have anything you wanted, anything at all, what would it be?”
Sam seemed so earnest, and his tone was gentle, encouraging. Castiel knew that Sam had to know. It was a trick.
“I don’t see how this will help.”
Sam shook his head, maintained his hold on Castiel’s wrist.
“Just answer the question, Cas.”
Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line. Whatever he told Sam here, it couldn’t be the truth. Sam had taught him many things, and he only hoped that the tutelage was enough for him to set a lie on the table and for Sam to examine it as the truth.
“Nothing. I want for nothing.”
A laugh punctuated the air, loud and biting. Sam’s grip tightened on his wrist, holding him in place, now, but not as firmly as it could. Sam was leaving him an out.
“You’re lying. It’s just a question. You can tell me the truth.”
Sam wasn’t holding him in place. He was feeling his pulse. Suddenly, he knew there wasn’t going to be anything he could get past Sam. Sam knew him better than anyone, knew his tells, knew how he had been taught, knew what he’d lie about. Sam was the only one he could never lie to.
“I— It isn’t a what. The thing I want. It’s a who.”
Castiel could feel Sam’s heartbeat through his fingertips, matching the pace of his own. Sam was nervous too. Before Castiel could begin to wonder why, Sam asked, “Who is it?”
“Really, I don’t—”
“Who?”
It was firmer, this time. Demanding.
This had been exactly what Castiel feared. Sam knowing of his want for him, Sam finding out. How could he explain to Sam that he was the one thing on this earth he wanted? That Sam was his anchor, Sam tempered him, reminded to be human and taught him how? That Castiel respected him in a way he could never have foreseen for giving up his life, for sacrificing everything for the world? There was that word, sitting heavy on his tongue, the one he wanted not to think of.
He loved Sam. That was simple enough in its explanation. There never had to be any sense to such a thing, and it seemed there never was.
“It’s you, Sam.”
Castiel caught only a flash of Sam’s reaction, of want, of requitedness, and then there was a sudden rustle of motion and Sam’s lips were upon his, Sam’s stubble scratching against his. It was like a dam breaking open, like everything became more crisp, more sure because of this touch.
He felt Sam’s cool hand against the warm skin of his face, tangling in his hair and hushing over his cheekbone. It was this that he had wanted all along, Sam’s touch, Sam’s kiss. He had never imagined he might get it.
Sam pulled away after a moment, and his lips clung sweetly to Castiel’s. Their breath mingled for a moment, hot between them. Sam gave him an unknowable smile, something beautiful Castiel had never been privy to before.
“Cas?”
“Yes?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”