Title: Too Little, Too Late
Author: TehOpheliac
Recipient: Penbrydd (FF. net)
Rating / Warnings: R, dark!fic, rape (aftereffects), drugged, angst, bittersweet ending
Pairing: Sam/Castiel (forced), General
Summary: Demons made them do it. Dean's left to pick up the pieces.

Notes: This was written for Penbrydd (FF. net) as part of my "Prompt Me" meme for Christmas on LJ. :3 He (jokingly) asked for it and gave me the option of not writing it... but I've been meaning to get around to writing Sam/Castiel anyway! I actually really like how this turned out (angst has always been my strong point) and I think everyone is pretty much in character.

I'm actually considering writing a sequel to this one too. If I did, though, it would be a Dean/Castiel/Sam fic. Dean would be the strength in their relationship. Sam would be the brains and Castiel the support. It would go really well — 3/3 of them are damaged and so they'd all need each other, you know? :3


By the time Dean shows up, it's already too late. Sam and Castiel lay side by side — a bloody, panting, naked mess. There are vivid claw marks up and down Castiel's bruised back and Sam's torso is littered with shallow stab wounds. The scent of sex and fear is heavy in the air and bodily fluids that should never be present on an angel are splattered across Castiel's chest. Around them is a ring of holy fire and behind them demons hover, smirking and self-satisfied. Their eyes flicker black at Dean as they throw back their heads and laugh.

Dean gives the demons no mercy. Pulling out the colt, he kills them all with just a few shots. The demons die with inhuman grins frozen on their faces and their eyes glitter with triumph, like they've already accomplished their main objective and are more than happy to die for the cause. Giving them no regard, Dean restrains the urge to kick their corpses and runs over to the fire alarm to pull the lever. There are more important things at hand right now — like freeing his brother and angel.

Water rains down from the ceiling and slowly begins to put out the flaming ring of fire. "Sam! Cas!" Dean shouts. He hesitates for a split second before striding over to Sam and Castiel. Both of them are splayed in awkward angles, alive, and positioned as far from each other as is possible. Dean's throat closes up as he looks at their prone, broken forms. Deep inside he knows that neither of them will be able to fully recover from this. It will taint the both of them.

Castiel has a look of shock about him. He has his back to Sam and his legs are drawn up to his chest, one arm resting awkwardly over them. His eyes are wide, unseeing, and his vessel is unmoving from it's slumped position on the bloody cement. For one heart-stopping moment, Dean is certain that he's dead. Then Castiel's eyes shift and lock onto Dean's. It's the first time Dean has seen those blue eyes look anything other than calm and reserved. They're a swirling abyss of emotions that Dean can't identify, but he can feel their intensity and it sends chills down his back. He looks away.

Sam is more painful to take in. Whereas Castiel was bruised and beaten, Sam is simply broken. He's curled in on himself, his expression anguished — shattered. Considering Sam's (albeit shaky) religious beliefs, being forced to desecrate an angel is probably one of the worst things that could happen to him. Horror sinks low into Dean's stomach and settles into an impossibly heavy stone. Dean has never seen Sam so devastated before — not even after Jessica's death. Sam has lost himself. He's lost the last bit of faith he had reserved in his own humanity and the purity of his soul. Sam doesn't realize that Castiel wasn't the only victim of rape today.

The moment the fire has dissipated, Castiel disappears with something less than his usual flutter of wings. It's almost as if he couldn't be bothered to add any cool sound effects in his rush to get the fuck out of here — a church of all places. All that he leaves behind is a single, singed feather that flutters to the ground and melts into the shadows.

Sam chokes on a sob and turns away from Dean, his eyes dry and shut tightly. Dean shoves his unhelpful feelings away and awkwardly shrugs off his jacket. He crouches down beside Sam and drapes it over his brother's shoulders. It's not much — and it certainly isn't going to hide Sam's nudity — but Sam's clothes are nowhere to be seen and it's more about comfort anyway.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says quietly, grabbing his brother by the elbow and gently pulling him to his feet. He knows it's not the right thing to say — but what is? What could he possibly say that would help? It's not as if there's a textbook full of helpful hints to reassure your brother that he's not going to Hell for violating an angel (even if it wasn't his fault). Besides, for all Dean knows, all three of them might end up in Hell when they finally kick the bucket regardless.

Sam stumbles to his feet, his steps exaggerated and unsteady. Dean immediately wraps an arm around his waist and supports him before he pauses to take a good look at his brother. Sam's eyes are glazed and dilated and there's an odd haziness about his face. His heaving body is drenched with sweat — sweat not caused by the exertion of sexual acts, but by fever and infection.

Sam's been drugged, Dean realizes. Probably by a strong aphrodisiac and a date-rape drug to knock him out of it. That's how they'd been able to force Sam into having sex with Castiel at all. He'd been too disoriented and out of it too put up much of a fight or resist — and he's only just now coming out of the drug-induced delirium.

Dean's gut tightens with rage and hatred. It takes all his strength to force away the dark, twisted side of himself that's been lurking since he escaped Hell. It's the part of Dean that makes him wish he hadn't been so quick to kill those demons — that he'd taken his time killing them and made them regret ever touching his brother or angel. It's the side of Dean that scares him the most.

As Dean leads his brother out of the abandoned building, Sam begins to speak. His voice is ragged and he sounds defeated as he tries to explain himself to Dean. "I didn't — they made me take — and Castiel was... I—"

"It's not your fault, Sammy," Dean interrupts. It's too painful to listen to this, he can't do it. He just can't. Reaching into his jean pocket, Dean fishes out the keys to the Impala and helps position Sam so he's leaning against the car.

Sam pushes off from the Impala and stumbles away from Dean. He looks furious and wobbly, as if he might fall face first into the cement. "It's all my fault!" he shouts, expression tortured. "I raped an angel, Dean. I... I raped Cas!" Sam breaks off with a strangled cry and punches the trunk of the Impala. If circumstances had been different, Dean would have broken his foot off in Sam's ass for that.

As it is, Dean still rears back and punches Sam in the face. He uses just enough force to snap Sam out of it and make him listen — really listen. "Sammy," he says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls his brother up from the gravel and clasps his shoulders in his hands. "It's not your fault. Cas isn't going to hold this against you — no one is. You're not at fault here — you're as much a victim as Cas is. It's okay."

It's not okay. It's not going to be okay for a long time. It may never be okay — but that's irrelevant. To get through this, Sam needs to be told that everything's fine. He needs something to hope for and Dean's going to give it to him.