Title: Worship the Tendrils
Wordcount: ~ 1650
Spoilers: Through the preview clip for 7.01
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine.
Summary: Sam loses his soul. Cas gains tentacles. There is sex.
Sam spends two weeks alternating between lying comatose in the panic room and screaming his head off. Dean’s forced to restrain him, heavy leather straps encircling his arms and legs and hips, and spends all two weeks sitting by his head and downing whiskey. Sometimes he strokes Sam’s hair. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes a rough voice and bright blue eyes pierce through Sam’s dreams and stop the pain. Sometimes he thinks he’ll pull through.
And then he does, and Dean is there, and Sam stares at the Devil’s Trap on the ceiling and tries to remember.
“I stabbed Cas,” he says. He wonders how he feels about that, and decides he doesn’t feel anything. It’s curious.
“Isn’t Cas anymore,” Dean says. “He’s gone all Old Testament God. Power trip from Purgatory.”
“Ah.” Sam blinks. Tugs at his restraints. “Do you mind letting me up?”
Dean shakes his head. “Yeah, of course, sorry.” He unbuckles the straps from Sam’s arm and waist, lets him sit up and undo the ones around his ankles. “So how are you feeling?”
“Better,” Sam says. He smiles, feeling nothing at all. “Much better.”
~ * ~
There are times when Sam wants to give up and tell Dean the truth. Tell him that for all his efforts, Sam’s soul is permanently locked behind the wall in his head. The memories of Hell are still with him, and he looks upon them with quiet curiosity. Michael is much more inventive than Sam would have thought, and he admires the way the angel worked him over in the Pit. The devil was much less interesting, but his tendency to rip out Sam’s liver and present it to his brother like a gift, like atonement—it’s the only thought Sam’s had since waking that makes him feel anything at all.
And it’s that one memory that keeps Sam from telling Dean the truth. So he goes on like before they discovered Sam was wrong, pretending to feel and pretending to sleep until he’s about to pass out from the strain. He sighs and postures and practices his sympathetic-face in the mirror. Dean watches him every second, waiting for Sam to slip up or break down or take off. Sam deals. They’ve lost Cas already—Dean’s lost Cas—and he’s not about to add to the pile of crazy and evil that the people they care about tend to become.
Finally, finally, Dean trusts Sam enough to leave him alone for a night. He says he’s planning on drink and sex, but Sam’s not stupid. He’s pretty sure Dean’s going to try summoning Crowley. Not that he expects it to work, but. Maybe it is their best bet. Either way, it gives Sam some time to drop the mask. They’re in Indiana, and the motel is orange. Sam wipes away one of the angel-warding symbols and lies on his bed and smiles.
“You know, those don’t work on me anymore.”
Sam doesn’t bother turning. “Hey.”
“I’ve been watching you. It’s good to see you’re not insane, though I do believe you should tell Dean the truth.”
“Because that always goes so well.” Sam sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Cas—or the thing wearing Cas, he’s still not sure how that works and he’s almost positive Dean isn’t either—peers calmly at him. “So. You’re God.”
“What do you want?”
Cas disappears and reappears right in font of him, blue eyes boring into Sam, like he’s searching for the soul buried somewhere in Sam’s subconscious. “You stabbed me in the back.”
“And you stabbed all of us.”
“Perhaps, in your mind. But I also saved you, if you’ll recall, and you repaid me by trying to kill me.”
Sam shakes his head. “Not me.”
“Close enough.” Cas draws a finger down Sam’s face. “I think you ought to repent for trying to kill your Lord.”
Sam laughs. He can’t help it; this whole thing is just too ridiculous, and it’s only getting crazier. “Won’t Dean mind?”
“Probably. But I don’t care about his feelings, and neither do you.”
“Good point,” Sam says. He grabs Cas’s stupid coat (Sam makes a mental note to buy him some more appropriate clothes) and drags him forward, licking lewdly at his God’s soft lips. Cas growls, slapping his hands away and pulling at Sam’s hair, angling his head and biting down on his tongue.
Then he feels something along the curve of his ear, wet and slippery like a tongue—but Cas’s tongue is currently down Sam’s throat, and he jerks away in surprise. Cas tilts his head as Sam stares at him. Stares at the shadows on the wall, the curling tendrils, the shadowy tentacles flickering, surrounding Sam. Not an angel anymore, he remembers, though it’s one thing to know Cas is different and something else entirely to see proof of it. The tentacles are only partially corporeal, dark gray, smooth with a thousand tiny suctions and Sam—
Sam is intrigued.
One tentacle goes back to brushing his ear, and he leans into it, moaning softly. Cas smiles and uses two others to pop the buttons off Sam’s shirt, sliding the fabric away from his firm body, teasing and stroking. The tentacles trail down his chest, over the sharply-defined abdominal muscles, barely touching the waistband of Sam’s jeans.
Cas’s hands aren’t touching him any longer. The God stands before him, expression perfectly calm. Sam’s not fooled—he can see the bulge tenting the front of Cas’s slacks—but he’s not complaining. He’s definitely not complaining about the strong tentacles that wrap around his chest and legs and arms, pulling him off the bed and suspending him in midair, ripping his jeans from his hips. His cock curves toward his stomach, hard and red and leaking, and a smaller tentacle hovers above it. Sam tries to move his hips, tries to get contact, but the other tentacles hold him still.
“Bastard,” Sam bites out, glaring. Cas just keeps smiling, draws another tentacle down the curve of Sam’s ass, and Sam cries out. It’s slippery and wet and circles Sam’s hole with an infuriating slowness. “You fucking tease.”
“Quiet,” Cas says, and Sam suddenly finds his mouth full of tentacle, pushing down his throat until he chokes before sliding out. Fucking in and out of his mouth like Cas is shoving his dick down Sam’s throat, and from the slight flicker in Cas’s eyes, he suspects it’s probably comparable. Sam sucks at the tentacle, tonguing the little suction cups.
Then the other tentacle breaches him, pushing slick and cool into Sam’s ass, and he bucks hard against the intrusion. The tentacles holding him tighten while their brother works its way inside Sam’s body. Sam groans around the tentacle in his mouth as Cas fucks him, two tentacles filling him at both ends and countless others binding and stroking him. One passes across his throat, just a little threatening; another strokes Sam’s chest where Cas pushed his hand into Sam and felt for his soul.
Another tentacle pushes its way into Sam’s ass, alongside the first, and Sam screams at the burn and the stretch. The tentacle in his mouth vibrates, and he feels his hole fluttering around the two tentacles stretching his ass, spreading him wide, alternating upstrokes as they fuck deep into his body, assaulting his prostate. Sam’s cock continues to leak messily against his skin, pools of precome gathering on his stomach.
“Profess your love unto me, Sam Winchester,” Cas says, his voice a soft rumble, and Sam growls.
“I can’t love. You know that.” He shouts as Cas’s tentacles thrust deeper, then groans in frustration as they cease movement entirely, the two in his ass holding him open and the one in his mouth gently tracing his lips
“Fine, you dick. I love you. Now fucking move.”
Cas obliges, his tentacles squirming deep in Sam’s body but not thrusting. Sam tries to kick him.
“Come on, Cas.” Sam gives him his best puppy-eyed look.
The tentacle on Sam’s chest starts pushing in, slow, like Cas’s fist, into the empty cavity where Sam’s soul should have been. He screams, arching into it. “I profess my love unto thee, my Lord, my God, my fucking Master of douchebag Angels now fucking let me—”
The rest of his words are muffled by the tentacle thrusting back into his mouth, the two in his ass working hard and fast and the one in his chest probing carefully around the soulless cavern, and fucking finally he feels yet another tendril wrapping around his dick and he’s coming, pain and pleasure shooting through his body, physical sensation far better than the distant memories of emotion. Cas wrings pleasure from him again and again, freaky God powers forcing him to come again and again until Sam’s thrashing in his grip and struggling away from the stimulation.
When he finally stops, Cas carefully pulls his tentacles from Sam’s body and lays him gently on the bed, covered in come and shaking so hard he thinks he might break down the wall in his head.
“Not quite,” Cas says. “Not quite. But we can work on that, Sam.” He smiles. “Dean’s a hopeless case. But you, Sam—you will respect me, sit at my right hand. You will love me.”
“I don’t have a soul,” Sam pants.
“That doesn’t matter,” Cas says, stroking his fingers through Sam’s hair. “I will make you addicted to me, and only Me. You won’t have to pretend anymore. Not for Dean. Because all you’ll need, all you’ll want—is Me.”
Sam feels a tentacle join Cas’s fingers. Cas is wrong, of course—he’ll stay with Dean, he has to. But Cas is so determined, and, well, Sam’s not complaining about the sex.
What harm could it do?
- Fic: Worship the Tendrils (SPN)