Harmonic Convergence for morganoconner

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Title: Harmonic Convergence
Author: faunaana
Recipient: morganoconner
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Future AU, Post 6x22: Based on your third prompt - not quite a Sam, Dean, Cas curtain!fic, but they're on their way ;D
Summary: The smile that had been threatening to break out on Castiel’s face bloomed into a full grin. “Sam.” Castiel eyed Sam, the smile falling from his face. “You look different then before.”



Sam’s fingertips were numb. It seemed a decent idea to shore up the tool shed that morning by replacing the rusty nails with tempered steel ones. By noon he was slathered in sweat, his back muscles as knotted as the ancient wood he’d been attempting to salvage, and his fingertips were covered in bloody scabs that continually re-opened as he dug and wormed his fingers through the wood. His eye sight wasn’t that great, the sweat stinging his eyes made focusing around the grey spot in his right eye all the harder, but he swore there were dozens more still rusting away to dust in the redwood planks now then when he’d started.

Either he’d seriously miscalculated how many nails there were to begin with, or the damn things were multiplying. He was loathe to admit to Dean that he’d underestimated the task, but there was no way his hands or his back could take much more of the work. He’d tried to push through physical jobs around the small farm before only to be rendered completely useless for days afterward. Years spent being thrown around like a rag doll by everything from zombies and vampires to angels and demons before Sam was thirty now made mundane tasks like pulling nails reduced to practically dust a chore.

Sam let the hammer slip from his stinging hands. It landed with a soft thump, kicking up dust and debris from the earthen floor. He decided it would be a lot easier to concoct a story about more nails appearing as the wood loosened and shifted to explain to Dean why he was giving up for the day. Or he could just tell Dean he’d gotten another migraine. He’d likely get a lot less shit for that to justify shuffling into the house and collapsing onto the cool tile of the kitchen floor.

Then, again, Dean had yet to return from his supply run into town. He’d probably gotten caught up in trying to one up Tommy’s stories. Tommy, the local jack of all trades merchant – auto body, tack, clothes, feed and seed – didn’t get a lot of shoppers. Anyone straggling in from the surrounding farms expecting to quickly pick up whatever supplies they needed often found themselves waylaid for hours by Tommy’s outrageous stories regarding everything from personally birthing a white buffalo to chasing off robbers with a machete. Dean ate it up, called him “Tommy One-Uppy”. He’d plan for days which stories to tell Tommy before he went in, and the two of them had fallen into an on-going saga of one-upmanship.

That gave Sam an hour, at least, to cool off, shake some feeling back into his hands, and come up with a convincing lie. He really wished he hadn’t taken Dean’s taunting bait that he wouldn’t be able to finish the nail-replacing task today. Sam groaned when he realized that this wasn’t even his idea in the first place. It was pure Dean shit-talking that he’d fallen for. “Bet you a six-pack there’s only 10 nails holding that shit-house shed together, Sam.” Damn it, he was an adult, and he still fell for that crap.

His back muscles jolted on nearly every step as Sam hobbled over to the water hose at the side of the farmhouse. Looking down at the coiled hose, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to bring the nozzle to his mouth. Bending down would likely set off muscle spasms and his aim was for shit. Looking at a distance wasn’t a problem, his brain compensated for receiving a partial signal from his right eye to give him near enough complete vision. The world was a whole other story close up. The grey spot in his right eye tended to trick his brain, then – things disappeared if he looked straight on or from his right. Sam solved the current dilemma by leaning against the house and closing his right eye. He used his left eye to focus on the end of the hose to lift it up to his hand with his foot.

The water was blessedly frigid. The well tapped into a limestone aquifer that kept it cold and naturally filtered. After drinking his fill, Sam doused his back before letting it run over each hand to clean off some of the rust and wood debris. By the time he flopped the hose to the ground and turned off the flow, he’d decided on the migraine angle. At least Dean would leave him alone and refrain from more shit-talking for a while. Sam had the headaches enough to know how to fake the symptoms. And he was pretty much feeling like warmed over crap anyway, so it wouldn’t be that hard to play-act.

Turning towards the front of the house, Sam spied someone walking down their long, river rock-lined driveway. No one ever walked around the area if they could help it – too much distance between houses and the intense west Texas heat made it too easy to suffer heat stroke and die before anyone found you.

Sam watched through the shimmering heat waves as whoever it was harmlessly passed through the wards he and Dean had laid down. Circular protections of increasing strength encompassed the land around the farm house – some specific to particular creatures, but most were designed to protect them from any non-human entity. If any of the wards failed or was compromised, especially the final one, an alarm sounded.

The alarm was some kind of Rube Goldberg machination that Dean had constructed inside the house. It had yet to be tripped, to which Dean attributed to the “awesomeness” of the protective sigils and accompanying alarm contraption. Sam countered with how far off the radar they’d fallen, it was doubtful anything even knew they were alive, let alone gunning for them, and since there wasn’t a way to actually test the alarm until something got in, the whole thing was a ridiculous waste. They frequently clashed about it, since Dean didn’t seem to be giving up on the awesome aspect any time soon. Regardless, the alarm wasn’t sounding, and the person kept walking up the driveway with ease, so Sam figured it was likely some stranded tourist looking for help.

As the person came closer, into the sweet spot of being visible through the heat waves and Sam’s near binocular distance vision, Sam could to see the guy in more detail. An over-heated businessman, it seemed, with black pants, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a loosened tie, and a coat in the crook of his elbow. A tan coat that was too large to be a sport jacket. Combined with the shock of dark hair and his slow, purposeful stride, Sam’s stomach dropped through the ground when he realized it was Castiel.

Sam hadn’t laid eyes on him since that horrific night.

Sam had two options – try to make a run for the house where the weapons were stashed, and the phone to call Dean’s ass back to help or head back into the tool shed for cover. While the first option might protect him better, it had the issue of revealing himself, and his location, to Castiel. Heading back to the tool shed kept his whereabouts hidden. At least for longer than running in front of Castiel into the house did. No amount of weaponry, short of a hand-grenade from God, would probably stop Castiel at this point. If Dean hadn’t left Tommy’s store yet, he was a minimum of thirty minutes away. Taking refuge in the house or the tool shed were pretty much on par with each other, with the shed winning out by virtue of being easier to slip into.

Backtracking his steps to the shed, Sam kept his head turned to the left to watch Castiel, his right arm extended to know when he’d reached the small building. He walked military toe-heel style like his Marine trained father taught him to minimize the sound of his foot falls. By the time he felt the wood on his hand, he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe, and forced himself to take a deep breath.

Sam stepped inside, into the shadows, and watched as Castiel stopped in front of the house. Castiel’s toes edged the last, and strongest, of the circular protective wards. Sam tried to decipher if it was actually prohibiting Castiel from climbing the stairs towards the house or if he had simply stopped there. The answer would likely be a lot more forthcoming if Castiel didn’t appear to be stymied by the ward so much as confused by everything.

Castiel tilted his head slightly sideways, his eyes roaming over the outline of the house. He took a step back and repeated the motion. Then he began to look around, swiveling his head and appraising each horizon. Finally, he cast his eyes to the tool shed, and Sam retreated further inside. His heart thundered in his chest as Castiel walked towards him. Frantic, Sam looked around for anything he could fashion as a weapon. A bucket of rusty nails, a box of new nails, and a hammer. Sam was never calling this the fucking tool shed again unless it actually housed tools.

Sam snagged the hammer from the floor, hefted it to re-assess the weight of it, and took deep, steadying breaths. When Castiel stopped at the entryway to the shed, Sam hoped he wouldn’t leave Sam’s mangled body for Dean to find.

“Hello, Sam.”

Castiel’s voice was pitched low and carried no hint of the megalomania he’d sported at their last meeting.

“Sam, I know it’s been a while, and we didn’t part on good terms. I’m sorry for that. I just. I just came –“

Castiel paused as he dragged his forearm across his face to wipe sweat away.

Dropping his arm, Castiel sighed, “I’m not sure why I came. I just knew I had to. I can’t leave, though. Not until I tell you I’m sorry.”

The fuck, Sam thought. Something wasn’t adding up. Castiel asking for forgiveness, for one thing. The guy never apologized – at least to Sam – even before he’d gone batshit. And he’d walked up the long drive way, walked over to Sam, why hadn’t he just flown in like every other time? Then there was the sweating. Castiel was sweating. Angels, despite their human vessels, weren’t affected by earthly concerns. They felt neither hunger nor thirst, neither fatigue nor enthusiasm, and they certainly didn’t suffer from temperature extremes.

Sam turned his head to the right, all the better to focus more clearly on Castiel with his left eye. The angel’s vessel looked haggard. Chapped lips, well more than he usually had; his face was sunburned, and his shoulders slouched as if standing upright was by force of will alone. He was covered in sweat and dirt, streaks of it down his neck, smeared across his hands and forearms where he’d obviously been wiping his face.

His back against the shed’s wall, Sam inched closer to Castiel. He tightened his grip on the hammer, just in case. He stepped as near to Castiel as he dared before responding.

“Been a long time, Cas.”

Castiel perked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know. It took me a while to get here.”

“What do you want, Cas?”

On a heavy sigh, Castiel answered, “To apologize. You don’t have to forgive me. I know that. I need to do this.”

Sam had been trained by his dad, by Dean, by a lifetime of looking into the shadows to doubt everything anyone said. Hell, Sam wasn’t always sure Bobby hadn’t lied to him over the years. Dean certainly had, even if he’d had the best of intentions. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, son. John’s voice rattled around Sam’s head. It had been a cardinal rule for his dad. Although that didn’t stop John or Dean or Sam from shattering it into a million pieces.

“Fine. Say it from there, Cas. I’m not coming out.”

Castiel stepped back, his arms flung wide and hands facing open. “I’m not here to harm you, Sam. As a child of my Father, I swear I won’t. Please, let me say this to your face.”

Sam cracked his neck, jiggled the hammer, and breathed deep. Logically, he told himself, if Castiel had wanted to harm him, they wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Sam would have been dead the moment he’d laid eyes on Castiel. What would be the point of luring Sam out when Castiel could have smited Sam’s ass from hundred miles away. Shit, none of this made sense. An angel with a streak of pride and righteousness a mile long, who Sam hadn’t seen since that terrible night when Castiel had demonstrated the extent of his power, now stood disheveled, sweating, practically forlorn, and begging for Sam to let him apologize.

Jesus Christ, Sam muttered as he closed his eyes. He sent a quick prayer to something and stepped out of the shed.

The smile that had been threatening to break out on Castiel’s face bloomed into a full grin. “Sam.” Castiel eyed Sam, the smile falling from his face. “You look different then before.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s been a long time since that night in Sedona, Cas. And it wasn’t exactly wine and roses that night.”

“I remember that night, Sam. That’s partly why I’m here. But it wasn’t,” Castiel paused, once again raking his eyes over Sam, stilling on Sam’s half-blown right pupil. “Your eye. Did that happened that night?”

“If you have to ask,” Sam gritted out, “then you don’t really remember, do you.”

“I remember the sun setting as we stood on the boulder. The sun lit up the valley’s rim. It was beautiful. But I,” Castiel cradled his head in his hand, shaking it back and forth.

“Cas, how long ago was Sedona?”

Castiel dropped his hand, looked skyward for a moment. “Three months. That’s how long it’s taken to walk here from Arizona.”

Sam couldn’t help it, a bubble of disbelieving laughter burst out of him. “Three months? You think it’s been three months.”

Off Castiel’s confused nod, Sam sobered. “Cas, it’s been twenty-five years.”

If stunned could register with an angel, that would be the expression that Castiel sported. He dropped his coat, shaking his head as he muttered, “No, no. No, Sam. We were all just there. Dean called me. He said you two were watching the sunset. But I was late. I didn’t get there until it was almost over. Dean told me to forget it. That I had to leave. But I didn’t know where to go. I just.”

Sam watched as Castiel became more agitated the longer he talked. A wave of nausea roiled through Sam’s gut: it had worked.

Sam dropped the hammer, lunged towards Cas, grabbing his arms to stop his pacing. Cas was still talking, rambling on about how he’d been walking for so long to tell Sam and Dean he was sorry he’d been late. Sam gently shook him, interrupting his mutterings.

“Cas, Cas listen to me.” Castiel raised his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“No. Listen to me. You’re not sorry you were late.”

“Yes, I – “

Sam shook his head, shook Castiel. “No, that night in Sedona. You were,” a manic laugh lept from Sam’s throat, “on time. Dean called you, and you came. Which was probably a miracle itself.”

Cas squinted. “Of course I came. Dean and I, we share a bond.”

“I know, that’s what we were counting on, that you’d respond to that. It was a trap, Cas. Designed to hold you long enough to stop you. Do you not remember any of that?”

Dean had called Castiel to Sedona at sunset. To the center of the seven energy vortexes that surrounded the valley. Sam had recited an Enochian prayer, one designed to free burdened souls. They’d hoped the combined power of the vortexes, highest as the sun sank below the horizon, and the chant would release the souls Cas had consumed. Neither had particularly cared whether Cas lived – the greater good had been to disempower him.

“No, I. It was a beautiful sunset. I remember that. And then you said you had to leave, but I don’t know why. I –“ Castiel’s voice dropped off. The more he talked, the more confused he became, and if he hadn’t saved Sam and Dean’s asses from, literally, Hell before Cas took his own swan dive into crazytown, threatening to rip the world apart with a look, Sam would have left him there to wallow in his own bewilderment.

But Dean’s dangerous plan had worked. Cas was Cas. Clearly a whole lot rougher around the edges, and apparently lacking most of his angel mojo, but he wasn’t batshit, drunk on the power of millions of souls. He was just a guy lost in the desert for a generation. The Biblical overtones weren’t lost on Sam. Honestly, though, Sam would have been more surprised if God hadn’t enacted some sort of Old Testament punishment on Castiel.

Castiel had come perilously close to questioning God, to renouncing his Father. God, Dean had remarked then, could “go cram it sideways” for all he cared. Dean’s goal had been to remove the threat. That’s what he’d said, remove the threat. As if Cas was nothing more than a pesky poltergeist. Sam had known better. Known that Dean was heartbroken by the betrayal, the loss of an ally, the destruction of a friendship Dean had come to rely on more than Sam’s in those years.

Sam had been barely holding it together, then. Freshly inundated with memories of terror and pain so deep he’d doubted he’d ever be able to breath without collapsing under their weight. When Dean and Bobby hatched the Sedona plan, Sam was more or less merely along for the ride. He hadn’t felt the bitterness that Dean had, which was why the task of reciting the Enochian prayer had fallen to him. The ancient texts had been clear: the prayer had to be said by someone who cared. Despite Sam’s zombified state, he’d at least cared about the consumed souls.

“Cas, it’s alright. You’re here, now. It’s alright.”

Lifting his hand to touch Sam’s face, Castiel whispered, “I did that.”

“Yeah, you knocked us around pretty good that night. You weren’t too happy being trapped.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. I guess I don’t really remember that night. I’ve been looking for you, though. All I know, knew, was that I had to apologize to you and your brother.”

“You’re here, now. You found us. Gotta say, I’m damn glad you’re,” Sam released his hold on Castiel, waving a hand around him, “not flying high, anymore.”

Cas seemed to consider Sam’s words for several moments. “I hurt you. Both of you. I don’t understand why you’d let me come here. To accept my apology when I’m not even clear on what I’m apologizing for.”

Sam regarded Castiel. He thought back to his own paved road to hell, one he’d careened down for months before realizing what he was doing. The awful allure of demon blood, calling like a siren to him. How sure he’d been that it was the right thing to do. For Dean. For himself. For the world. It’d been a ludicrous folly. He’d never quite resigned himself to accepting Fate’s role in his actions. He had been too complicit in it all for the explanation to simply be because it was fated.

That knowledge had led him to long-ago cast amnesty on Cas’ actions. He didn’t think of it as forgiveness, just that he understood that Cas had the sense that he was right with every fiber of his being.

Of course, the distance of over two decades worth of time served as a balm on the whole fucked-up mess.

“I’ll accept your apology if it helps you, Cas. But I don’t really care about that. Just apologize to Dean. Even if you don’t know why. Especially if you don’t know why. That way you won’t, I don’t know, try to justify it.” Sam remembered when he’d tried that tack himself, only to be rebuffed by Dean, his anger becoming more savage the more Sam talked. “Just tell him you’re sorry.”

Castiel firmly nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Oh, and he’ll probably punch you. Yell at you for a while. I’m not even sure if he’ll even accept it. But it’ll be a start, okay?”

Again, Castiel nodded.

“Alright. Well, c’mon, you look like you could use a drink. I sure as hell do.”

Sam twirled Castiel by his shoulder, and headed them back to the house.

“Sam, how long have you lived here?”

“’Bout five years or so, now. Why?”

“Dean always said he’d rather die then settle down.”

Sam stopped fast and Castiel almost knocked him over. “If you’re gonna stay here, first ground rule: no talking about dying, death, or any of that crap, understood?”

“Yeah, yes.”

“Alright, good.”

Sam started off once more to the house as Castiel called after him, “’If I’m gonna stay here’?”

Sam heard the tell-tale rumble of the Impala coming down the road. He turned to face Cas as he pointed down the driveway. “That’s up to him, actually. Don’t expect me to put in a good word for you, but I’m not about to turn you away, either.”

Castiel looked towards where Sam was pointing. Dean was driving slowly so as to not upturn any of the rocks lining the driveway. It was a pain in the ass for either of them to bend down, now, and fix the divots. It was worse hearing Dean bellyache about removing the dents from the Impala.

That shy smile tugged at Cas’ lips, again, as he said back, “Thank you, Sam.”

“Just don’t break his heart, again. That’s rule number two for staying here. Cause if you do, I’ll kill you myself.”

Castiel closed the gap between them. “I promise.”

Sam gave Castiel a final approving glance before turning to watch Dean park the car.

“Good.” Sam pushed Cas towards Dean. “Go on, you’ve got some work to do.”

end.