#touch verse

One of Cas’ hands was fisted in his shirt at the small of his back, the other pressed hard between his shoulder blades, holding him close. Sam tried to focus on that, on the breath on the side of his neck, on anything but the out of control race of his heart.

“Dean’s gone,” he choked out, and Cas’ arms tightened.

Eventually, eventually he got control of himself. Got the whole story out, heard Castiel’s.

Cas stroked a hand through his hair, pulled back far enough to look him in the eye. “We’ll find him, Sam,” he said, solemn and sure.

Steadied by Cas’ warm hand on his shoulder, Sam set up an alert for traffic incidents involving a black ‘67 Impala and then another for the plate number. Whoever took Dean, if they were smart, would’ve changed out the plates. But there was a chance they weren’t smart.

There was no way to tell what direction they drove when they left the bunker - but they went looking anyway. Sam drove. He wasn’t too sure on the hour count since he’d last slept, but he wouldn’t be able to if he tried anyway. Too keyed up, running his thumbnail back and forth the vinyl of the starting wheel, blinking hard when his visions blurred.

Three gas stations who didn’t think they’d seen an Impala and Sam was gunning for the fourth cardinal direction, but Cas put a hand on his arm and said his name, and-

He was shaking again, he dimly realised. And Cas looked exhausted too - guilt curdled in his stomach for a moment, and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

(He lay with Cas pressed up against his spine and his heart pounding for hours before he fell asleep).

In the morning there was a traffic report for a car matching the Impala’s description running a red in Dallas. Another in Atlanta. A hit and run in Nashville. They covered the ground - thankful that the worst injury was a broken arm.

No good shots of who had been driving.

No more leads.

They picked up news of what sounded like a poltergeist on their way out of Nashville and Sam - he didn’t want to. He wanted to keep looking for Dean. Even without a direction he just wanted to keep driving, and Cas wasn’t going to judge him from the passenger seat. He took the job, and Cas’ hand covered his on the seat between them.

They stopped for the night in a motel. Cas ran interference while Sam got the bags planted to expel the ghost.

There was a moment of relief they’d done it that way when a heating unit wrenched itself off the wall and launched itself towards Cas’ head in an arc of dust - a flash of light knocked it back the way it came. Sam pushed the last bag into place, ready for silence.

Instead Cas launched into a fit of wracking coughs. Relief turned to worry - Sam went to him laid a hand on his back, felt the fit subside slowly. Cas straightened from where he’d doubled over, wiping at streaming eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “I inhaled at the worst possible time.”

He’d phrased it like a joke, but Sam’s laugh was hollow. “Are you alright? I’ve never seen you do that before.”

Cas forced a smile, pressed a little closer before stepping away. “I’m fine.”

More police reports. Louisville, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Chicago. Then nothing for a while until a man matching Dean’s description held up a liquor store outside of Vegas. No sign of him by the time they got there - plus the store’s CCTV had been on the fritz. But it had apparently been on the fritz for weeks, so nothing specific to the robbery. They took statements, the found a motel. Sam checked his laptop and found a new parking ticket for a ’67 Chevy Impala in Reno.

“Do you think it’s really him?” Sam said.

Cas said, “I don’t know.”

They drove to the bunker, for another fruitless search into the Mark, knocked out a murderous shapeshifter on the way. Sam kept his hands braced on the steering wheel so they didn’t shake. Cas watched him.

Days turned to weeks, turned to a month, turned into two.

Jody got a tip off about someone that sounded like Dean in Montana, they drove there and found stories about an asshole who’d broken three chairs and won a four-against-one bar fight, but again no proof - a man with a black eye and a split lip cottoned on to them maybe knowing the victor, and while they managed to avoid him getting hurt more, they didn’t manage to avoid Sam getting a bottle to the head.

Cas healed it in the car, grace sealing the cut, clearing up what felt like the beginning of a concussion.

They got a room there, too tired to keep moving, and Sam fell asleep curled into Cas’ chest.

Sam woke up and Cas - Cas was breathing even. Eyes closed, face slack, and Sam was used to Cas’ eyes opening as soon as he sat up. He didn’t need sleep, he stayed in Sam’s bed for the contact, and for Sam’s sake. But this. This was sleep. Real sleep.

Unnerved, Sam gently pulled himself free of Cas’ arms, of the tangle of sheets. Went to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

When he emerged, Cas was blinking awake, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Sam?” he said, grogginess adding an unfamiliar tone to his voice. His eyes sought out Sam in the doorway to the bathroom.

“You were sleeping,” Sam said. “I didn’t know you needed to.”

“I don’t,” Cas said, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “I- I didn’t.”

Sam sat on the bed, facing him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.

Sam shut his eyes. He heard Cas sigh.

“It’s nothing you should concern yourself over.” A hand covered his. He opened his eyes to see Cas watching him intently. “Sam, you have enough to worry about.”

Sam reached out to cup Cas’ jaw, leaned in to press their foreheads together. There were arguments he could make, there was logic, there was reasoning, there was a banked but still burning ember of anger, but all that came out of his choked-up throat was a small, petulant, “Are you lying to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Cas said.

It wasn’t an answer. They went back to the hunt.

When Dean had been missing for three months Jody made them drop in for dinner. Alex and Claire, and a couple of bottles of wine with dinner, and it was domestic in a way Sam had never had. He’d pretended to, with Amelia, when Dean and Cas had both been gone. The reminder felt bitter. The house, the conversation, the rapport, it was all warm, and it felt like there was glass around Sam keeping that warmth from reaching him.

He washed the dishes, focussed on the hot water and the suds, got lost in it for a while until Jody came over and started to dry.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I was going to once I finished.”

“Maybe I don’t trust you to know where to put things,” Jody said. He managed a laugh, and they worked in silence for a little while, before she asked softly, “How are you really going?”

“I’m going,” he said. “It’s-“ He looked at his hands in the water. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll find him,” she said, sure and steady. “If he’s out there, you’ll find him.”

If he was out there. Sam nodded, made an attempt at a smile. Scrubbed at a stubborn scrap of food burnt onto the side of a casserole dish.

“That angel of yours is taking care of you?” she asked.

“He’s trying,” Sam said. “I’m not that easy to take care of.”

He got the distinct impression she was seeing through all the bravado when she said, “You let me know if there’s anything I can help with, ok?”

“Of course,” he said, knowing he was never going to take her up on it.

Sam still felt sober, but he’d had enough of the wine that Cas drove. He dozed in the passenger seat. Woke up as the car pulled over. Blinked to see a stretch of road in the headlights - turned to see Cas leaning forward, braced on the steering wheel, digging his hands into his eyes. Turned away to cough into his elbow.

He reached out to brush his fingers against Cas’ arm. “You ok?”

Cas looked at him. Apologetic. Maybe ashamed. “Tired,” he admitted.

Sam nodded, rubbed a hand over his face, sat up further. “I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

Cas clearly wanted to protest, but he didn’t. They got back to the bunker. To their bed, and Sam pulled Cas against him, arms wrapped around him, face pressed firmly into his hair.

“Will you tell me yet?” he whispered, into the back of Cas’ neck.

Cas took his hands, pulled them more firmly together. He didn’t say a word.

Month five.

Cas tried to hide but the cough was getting worse. He was sleeping more often. Leads for Dean would come in a rush, all of sudden, and then all turn out to be useless. They got some hunting done, when they could. A werewolf in Nebraska. A nest of vampires in Texas.

They were in Seattle.

A rumour that could’ve been Dean turned into a rumour about kelpies turned into a very real water hag, and they had the damn birch stakes blessed with salt and the blood of a fresh slain calf - and that had been a bitch and a half to get - but that didn’t make fighting it any easier. They were both exhausted, both running on empty but still running, and Sam-

Sam saw Cas go down and go down hard. Saw him lying still while the hag raised two spindly but heavy fists over it’s head and he- and he.

He gave up all pretence of strategy and just charged - got the stake up underneath the hag’s ribs, even as one of it’s claws stabbed solidly through the underside of his arm. The hag dropped, the stake pulled out of his hand, but the claw in his arm was stuck fast and it wrenched and-

His vision went white for a moment, cleared with him on his knees in the filthy water. Dead hag. Arm useless - caught. Cas still not moving.

The claw came out with a rush of blood, black spots in his vision, he blinked them away, scrambled over to where Cas was lying, his name falling out of Sam’s mouth in a desperate sob. He was breathing, Sam realised, and even as he slid his fingers to check his pulse, his eyes were opening.

“Sam,” he gasped, reaching - his fingers dug into Sam’s useless arm and Sam choked back a pained noise. Still enough for Cas to realise something was wrong - his eyes rolled wildly down to see the blood, see the arm dangling from the shoulder - within seconds he was pushing himself up, reaching out more deliberately, power cracking at his fingertips and-

“No,” Sam shook his head, “Just help me keep pressure, don’t-“

“Sam,” Cas said.

“Cas, every time you use your grace you get worse,” Sam said, and Cas flinched.

But he didn’t heal Sam.

Later, when they’d gotten to the motel, when Sam had gotten Cas to help pop his shoulder back into place, when he’d stitched up the wound from the water hag, that was when he made an ultimatum.

“I’m gonna keep looking for Dean,” he said. “But you shouldn’t.”

“Sam,” Cas protested, but he just shook his head.

“You’re not on your game,” he said. “And, I’m not- I’m not losing you.”

Cas drew him in with one hand tight in his hair, the other splayed on his back. “I’m not losing you either,” he said, fierce and hoarse.