SUPERNATURAL (2005-2020) 11.17 ❃ Red Meat

supernatural s11e20 don't call me shurley (w. robbie thompson)

Whumptober Day 20: Fetal Position

“Sam.”  The gravelly voice sounds from the doorway, and Sam flinches.  

He’s not at his worst, today.  Those are the days where Sam’s bedroom door is closed, where he spends hours sitting at his desk or on the bed, staring at the undecorated walls of his bedroom.  Those are the days where Dean leaves food outside his door without knocking, where Cas occasionally stands guard outside (used to, Cas used to stand guard outside) for hours at a time, angelic presence palpable even through the bunker’s heavy wooden doors.  Sam’s never thanked him for it properly.  Never thanked Dean either, although in Dean’s case that’s probably a positive; he’s just as happy not acknowledging Sam’s bad days at all.

No, this isn’t the worst of days.  Sam’s been reasonably functional, which is a victory in and of itself on a day when there’s no crisis in immediate need of addressing.  He went for a run.  He cleaned up the previous night’s dinner dishes.  He dusted and swept out his bedroom, not because it particularly needed it, but because it kept his hands busy.  He even picked up a book from the library—not the bunker’s library, the town library, a Joseph Heller classic he remembers not really understanding in college.

And now he’s just…stalled.  Sitting on his bed, staring at the pages, at the words that refuse to resolve into a story—trying not to sink back into his head, into the endless replay of the moment where that awful shift took place, Cas’ kindly features twisting into a shape both alien and horribly familiar—

He forces himself to the surface.  “Hey, Cas,” he says, not looking up from his book.  Not really ready to face the angel, all too aware that he’ll have to anyway, sooner or later.  “Dean’s in the garage washing Baby, if you’re looking for him.”

Cas stands his ground; Sam wonders with momentary irritation whether the angel still doesn’t pick up on hints after all these years, or whether he simply pretends not to when it’s inconvenient.  “I wish to speak to you, in fact.”  

Stifling a sigh, Sam puts the bookmark into his book and glances up.  Takes a moment to really look at Cas’ face—Jimmy Novak’s face, he reminds himself, though he’s a little fuzzy on why the distinction feels so important.  “Sure,” he says, schooling his face into the friendly neutrality that’s appropriate to their relationship.  “What do you need?”

Cas, to his surprise, takes a breath, lets it out, looks into the room with trepidation.  Like a vampire who hasn’t been invited in.  The thought occurs quickly, before Sam can squelch it; it’s unfair, he reminds himself, Cas has never intended—  

“I…believe it is customary among humans to make an apology when one has hurt someone they care about.”

Sam’s heartbeat is audible in his ears.  He’s abruptly glad that he’s already sitting down; he focuses on his breath, the way it fills his whole chest, the warmth of it as it blows out through his nose.  Focuses his eyes on Cas, on the features of his face, and does his best to really see them, in a way that’s been difficult since—since.

They’ve changed.  Sam realizes, with distant surprise, that Cas looks older, more careworn;  Bobby would’ve grunted and said something like had some city miles put on him.  Lines etched more deeply than Sam remembers, pouchiness under the eyes suggesting too little sleep.  A vessel ridden too hard and long?  A side effect of his battered wings?  Or is it something deeper, heavier, something weighing on him—

Shame?

Breath under control, heartbeat slowing a fraction, Sam meets Cas’ eyes.   “Come sit down,” he says, gesturing to the small chair by the desk.

Cas hesitates a moment longer, but obeys, pulling the door shut behind him.  He perches on the wooden chair in that strange way he has, as if he lacks the physical instinct to relax.  A breath, then two.  “It’s…difficult to work out where to begin.”

At the beginning is usually a good start.  Sam bites back the tart reply; perhaps it’s better this way, where he can be the one to take the plunge.  He takes a deep breath.  “I assume this is about Lucifer?”  No stutter on the name, no visible outward sign of distress.  Neat and perfect, barely a splash.

Cas looks at him, face weary.  “I made the wrong decision,” he says without preamble.  “I betrayed your trust.  I nearly got you and your brother killed.”  Another pause, then a simple admission.  “I have no excuses.”

“You don’t.”  It comes out a little sharper than Sam intended, and Cas’s face tightens, but he only dips his head in acknowledgement.

“I don’t.”  Cas’s misery sits heavy and nearly audible between them.  “I see how you flinch away, when I look at you.  I understand why.  I…miss the trust that we had, before.”

“Me too.”  This time, the words are simply forlorn.  “You have to understand, seeing him in your face—”  Sam stops, clears his throat.  Takes a breath.   Opens his mouth again.  “We don’t trust easily, in our line of work,” he says.  “We know you felt it was justified.  But your betrayal…”  His throat is threatening to close up again, tears prickling at his eyes, but he manages to get the words out through thickened vocal cords.  “It was awful.”

Cas nods, his head sinking further down.  “Especially for you.”

“Yeah.”  Sam’s voice is barely more than a whisper.  A tear is sliding down his cheek.

“I won’t ask your forgiveness.”  Cas sits a little straighter, squares his shoulders.  “That would be selfish, and besides, what I did was unforgivable.  But, for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”  A moment, as if emphasizing the point, and then he stands.  “I’ll leave you be now.”

“Cas.”  By the time Sam gets the name out, the angel has nearly reached the door to the room; he pauses, hand on the doorknob, and turns to look at Sam.  

It’s Sam’s turn to struggle, another pair of tears sliding down his face.  “Everyone makes wrong decisions sometimes,” he finally says.  “We do the best we can in the moment.  And I think…the most important thing is that we forgive ourselves.”  

Cas looks at him with an expression that on anyone else Sam would call agonized.  “Then how do we keep it from happening in the future?”

Sam swallows, thick, finds that the words are coming a little easier.  He even feels a half-smile lift one corner of his mouth—damp, wry-bitter, but unmistakable.  “We make our best that little bit better.”  A breath, in, out.  “And if we’re very lucky, eventually the people we care about are also able to forgive us.”

Cas thinks this over, acknowledges it with a single nod.  “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam nods in return, breathes a little easier.  “Of course.”

A moment more of thought, then Sam finds himself pinned under Cas’s gaze—the one that, even if Sam didn’t know him, would tip him off to Cas’s inhumanity.  The one that sees through things.  “I hope you are able to forgive yourself, too.”  And he turns and leaves, shutting the door once more.

Sam breathes once, twice, three times—each breath growing heavier and heavier.  With the sweep of an arm, he sends the book flying; it thuds against the wall before falling on the floor, spine split.  Sam ignores it.

He slides down onto the bed, curls into the fetal position, and sobs.

14.17, game night script

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Stackednatural- 248/327

Sam? Sam. S-sam? Oh, come on. Sammy! Come on, come on. Come on, damn it.

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For last day of Sastiel love week: a sketch I’ll never finish!

I still posted it cause this ship deserves all the love I can give it  ❤

Let it end. Let them come.

half Christ, half cowboy

14.17, game night script

Sam Winchester Appreciation Week 2023: Day Four - Favorite Sam Arc [insp]