Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1084342.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Castiel_&_Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Castiel, Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Bobby_Singer
  Additional Tags:
      Rape/Non-con_Elements, Rape_Aftermath, Past_Rape/Non-con, Torture,
      Psychological_Trauma, Psychological_Torture, Past_Abuse, Physical_Abuse,
      Sexual_Abuse, Mind/Mood_Altering_Substances, Experimentation, Graphic
      Description, Fire, Alternate_Universe_-_Angels_Are_Known, Auctions,
      Fallen_Angels, Aftermath_of_Torture, Starvation, Rehabilitation, Healing
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-15 Completed: 2014-01-04 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 93522
****** You Gave Hope to My Dying Heart ******
by fangirlsupreme
Summary
     The angels have fallen and even God could not reverse it. They are
     stuck on Earth where the hunters have spread their knowledge on how
     to control and kill them. The angels are forced to live in squalor,
     desperate to survive as they are hunted down one by one. Castiel is
     no different. One wrong decision lands him in an auction house. From
     there, it's one hell of a roller coaster on the road to recovery.
     It's said that things have to get worse before they can get better,
     but how much can Castiel handle before he just lets go?
Notes
     This story is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC. I'M SERIOUS. LIKE IT GETS REALLY
     BAD. This was written with the same person that I wrote I See You
     with, tumblr destieltheory. But yeah, she is an amazingly talented
     writer but it gets very dark and very graphic. Like, even the tags I
     put up can't stress enough how serious this story gets. Please take
     it seriously.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Castiel was yanked out of sleep by the sound of screaming. He scrambled out of
his sleeping area, wings catching briefly as he dashed out of his tent. His
eyes widened, an orange glow cast across his face as he took in the sight of
his entire camp gone up in flames. Ever since the angels had fallen out of
heaven, they had been forced to live on earth in squalid conditions, the
hunters having spread their knowledge on how to hurt and kill them. He could
hear guns and the clang of metal and he knew that the hunters had found them.
Castiel knew he should leave while he still could, but he had to try and find
the rest of his family. They had to be around somewhere. Castiel pulled his
wings in as tightly as he could. They were large for his age, much larger than
his brother’s had been when he was sixteen, and they were made completely of
silky black feathers. Every other angel Castiel had ever encountered had white,
brown, gold, or even deep red wings, but never black. After falling, rather
than needing vessels, every angel had been materialized into a body of their
own that reflected their age in human years. Castiel was sixteen years old.
None of them knew how, but none questioned it either. The only thing that
differed from normal human bodies was the pair of wings that had sprouted from
their backs. They now aged at the same rate, needed food and water, reproduced.
Everything was the same save for the grim reminder of what they once were. He
ran through the camp, angels pushing past him to get away. Suddenly, he turned
a corner to find himself staring at three hunters. “Hey! Look at this one!” one
man exclaimed, “I’ve never seen wings like that!” His friends nodded in
agreement. “He’s gonna get us a nice bundle of cash,” another one said.
Castiel’s eyes widened in fear and he turned, spreading his wings to take off.
He was still learning to fly, but he could get far enough away to run. He
wasn’t even two feet in the air when pain exploded through his stomach. He
looked down to see that one of the hunters had launched a hook at him. It
wouldn’t kill him, but it hurt like a bitch. Castiel fell to the ground, blood
pooling around him. The hunters came to stand around him, their faces shadowed
by the light of the flames. It was the last thing Castiel remembered before his
world went dark. 


Castiel woke up in a darkened cage, his wound long since healed. It took him a
moment to realize that he couldn’t move freely. Castiel’s wrists were shackled
to each side of his cage, forcing him to stand with his arms spread out. He
looked down to see that he was shirtless, wearing nothing but a thin pair of
pants that weren’t his. He tried to move his wings and a shot of pain ran
through him. He turned to see his wings pinned up behind him, forcibly
spreading them out for display. Suddenly, Castiel realized that he could hear
voices. “Now, for our next item,” someone was saying into a microphone, “A
truly rare treat. You’ve surely never seen a creature quite like this before.”
Moments later, Castiel’s cage was flooded with light as what had to have been a
sheet was ripped away. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his eyes accustomed.
“An angel with black wings!” the man exclaimed, “We’ll start with $10,000.” It
was then that Castiel realized he was at an auction and he was for sale.
The fall of the angels was something of a historic event among hunters. John
Winchester was practically world renown, and one of the first enlisted in the
fight. Dean, eighteen last year when he and Sam watched them fall, was
disgusted with the vehement way his father acted. He seemed entitled,
irrationally bent on hurting the angels under the guise of 'learning' and
'processing powers'. It was terrible that people could create such bullshit
reasons to react to other beings in callous ways. 


At least he and Sam were educated enough to respond with respect. Bobby was
responsible for that, and he gladly accepted the boys into his home after John
ran off to 'deal with the latest shitfest'. Dean practiced his shots and drank
beers with the old man, while Sam sat enveloped day after day by a wide circle
of books in Bobby's den. It was a sort of myriad experience for both of them;
simultaneously a comfort and displacement. They should have been with their
father-- their obligation was layered with duality. Of course John was their
father, but he was also their protector. How dare they sit complacent in
Bobby's century-old colonial while their dad was off putting himself in danger?



Dean finally got up the gall to go after him. While Bobby and Sam advised him
not to partake in the frivolous chase of man and extraterrestrial, Dean
insisted. They hadn't heard from John in months. So he climbed into the front
seat of a battered pick-up and drove off in the direction of the nearest 'angel
refuge', which was supposedly four states over in an expanse of forest.
However, when he arrived there the place was desecrated. It was only after he
searched the place high and low he found the business card to a warehouse
downtown in the nearest city. Foolishly, he drove in that direction.
The angels were pinned like bugs in a lab box. Dean stood breathless behind
hundreds of whooping buyers. At nineteen he was extremely desensitized, yet
currently he felt the urge to vomit. Holding his guts, he forced himself to
look on. The skinny one with the piercing blue eyes looked to be in the worst
shape. He had several scars that suggested mutilation, as well as fresh wounds
that were unable to heal because the humans had undoubtedly sapped his mojo.
That's what they were doing now, some of them. Purchasing angels as slaves,
constricting or extracting their juices to use for their own means. Bobby
invited Rufus over one night and they scoured over first-hand accounts from
hunters across the globe. This was no slight offense, and Dean was outraged.
Thankfully he had come prepared. 


The amount he paid for the angel with black wings was more than he would ever
think to see again in his life. The things he did for the money were widely
frowned upon by the majority of society; however, he could not care less. The
angel-- was it appropriate to say boy?-- was a slight waif, tragic beyond all
recollection. Dean escorted him out of the building by the shackles, hoping not
to catch more attention than he already had by being the youngest buyer in the
place. When they were outside in the parking lot he whispered into the kid's
ear, covered in a mess of black locks, "It's alright. Just lemme get us safely
outta here 'n I'll explain what's happenin’." Maybe he was wrong, but the angel
looked as terrified as a child.
Castiel jerked away on instinct, however, he couldn't get very far. He wanted
to run, he wanted to fly, but he had no idea where he would go if that were
even an option. His wings had been tied behind his back for easy transport once
he had been taken out of the cage. He couldn't have broken them with how weak
he was. Castiel stumbled after the human, his balance affected by his wings
being restrained and the lack of strength in his body. 


In his disoriented state, Castiel had just enough mind to be slightly confused.
Though he was terrified out of his mind, he had enough sense to be able to tell
that his man was being cordial with him. He had spoken without condescension
and even promised an explanation, though for what Castiel was unsure. That
didn't match at all with the picture he had in his head of how humans were
meant to act. He'd always been told that humans were cruel and violent and
cared nothing for an angel's wellbeing. Humans viewed them as less than animals
for reasons that none of them knew. Castiel supposed he should count his
blessings. He had seen more than one human in that crowd that probably would
have killed him and hacked off his wings or worse without a second thought. At
least he was alive. 


"Hey!" someone called out, "The hell are you doing?" Castiel turned to look
without thinking to see some sort of official, not remembering that many humans
would view an act such as that as rude. When angels were purchased as slaves
they were not permitted to do anything without explicit permission from their
masters and Castiel just assumed that this was the reason that he had been
bought. "Don't you know regulation?" the officer went on as he came closer,
"You need a collar around that thing." Castiel made the mistake of looking for
a second time in surprise, this made worse by the fact that he accidentally
made eye contact.
The surly guard approached, doing his best to intimidate Dean. He felt Black-
Wings flinch behind him and abruptly stopped. With feigned respect he cleared
his throat. "Y'know what? Thanks for remindin’ me. So excited to get a rarity
like this I forgot about the regulation." He laughed as if he couldn't believe
his own stupidity. Truly, he couldn't. It was a miracle he'd been able to sneak
in, let alone provide the funds necessary to take the angel out legally. "Think
you could be kind enough to show me the merch stands? Must've missed ‘em
walkin’ out." It would not pay to admit he intended not to use a collar and
leash with his-- the-- angel. 


The officer scoffed in surprise, shook his head. "Sure, follow me." His eyes
hungrily traced Black-Wings pale, sinewy body. Dean stood momentarily appalled.
Yeah, the vessel the angel landed in was of superior craft, but really? Could
the guy be any more perverse? It was a /boy/, regardless of whether or not it
was an angel, and should be treated with decency. The fact that angels were
void of all basic rights was immaterial to Dean, and he would be just as pissed
if it were a young girl's body the guard's eyes licked. 


Snapping out of it, Dean yanked so hard at the shackles he felt his own heart
stop. There was a hiss of pain from the body behind him, and he realized with
horror that the chains around Black-Wing's wrists were connected to those
binding his feathers. It must have caused him double the pain. Angry that they
were in this situation in the first place, he heard himself spit, "Don't
fuckin’ complain, you hear me? Nothin’ but a queer-ass Heaven's Reject." That
was what people were calling angels, among many other derogatory things. The
guard turned to them again, this time his eyes lingering on a large, open wound
dripping blood from Black-Wing's collarbone to his hip. He made a pleased sound
and muttered something about ‘going to be a good master, aren't you?’ before
leading them back into the warehouse.
There were several booths with collars. Dean was running low on money at this
point, and planned to use the remainder for food and a motel, and whatever
other provisions he would need for the angel. Clothes, obviously, and bandages,
too. It would take at least a few days for the Black-Wings to be back on par,
able to heal himself. Still, he needed a collar in order to get them out of the
lot safely. Dean laid out several small bills on the black-clothed table and
bought the cheapest collar available. It bore eerie similarity to a zip-cable;
thin and made of a length of plastic. He breathed against the renewed impulse
to vomit and stole a furtive glance at his new... slave.
It was choking him, clearly. The woman who rang it around Black-Wings slender
white neck snapped it into place so tightly that a line of blood trailed down
and pooled in the concave of his collarbone. There was so much blood on such an
otherwise pure canvas. Dean held his tongue. When he took hold of the plastic
hook at the end of the 'leash', the merchants and guard alike looked at him
expectantly. He hardened his gaze purposefully and steadied himself. Would the
angel ever forgive him for this? He yanked hard against the line, only snapping
it several places tighter. Too cowardly to look back for fear of what he might
see-- he could hear how difficult it was for Black-Wings to breathe now, could
imagine the heavier tap of blood-- he simply hollered back to him, "'f you dare
pass out on the way to the truck I'll skin you 'n force it down your throat."
He and Sam heard their father say that to a djinn once. It paid to have phrases
like that stored in his memory now.
It seemed Castiel had spoken too soon. This was worse than he could have
imagined. His breath caught in his throat as he struggled to take in air. He
could practically feel the bruise forming around his neck, simply another
injury to add to his list. Spots danced across his vision as he stumbled and
tripped after his master, his eyes tearing as he fought to breathe.
A memory came to Castiel in that moment, one of strange relevance. It was one
from within the first few months that the angels had fallen to earth. Castiel
had been only twelve at the time. It was of one of the archangels, holding some
sort of meeting. No one knew what to do, especially not with the humans coming
after him the way they were. They had all turned to the archangels for guidance
after God had deserted them. He remembered Michael coming out to speak with
them. “When it feels as though you can go no further,” he had said, “When it
comes to that seventh day, and you feel as though if you do not rest, you will
collapse, you must remind yourself to be strong. We are the angels of Heaven
and we have survived far worse.”
Snapping back into reality, Castiel could not see the possibility of that being
true. There in that moment, when he was weak enough to need air in his lungs to
survive, when his body was so fragile it could not heal itself, when mere loss
of blood caused him to be dizzy, Castiel could not see how he would survive. He
was no better than a mortal now. Worse, depending on whom you spoke with. How
could he call upon strength now when he had none?
Castiel tried to reach up and loosen the collar somehow, but that only pulled
the restraints around his wings tighter. They had been damaged enough already;
Castiel doubted they would heal the same way ever again. He lowered his hands,
gasping as he went on his way, following this man to his doom. Castiel wanted
to smite him, destroy him, or glare at him at the very least, but he could not
find the strength. He didn’t think he had ever felt such a strong hatred for
another being before.
The pavement scratched along Castiel’s bare feet. He could hear a few other
humans around, but not many. He didn’t dare lift his head to look. It seemed
that they walked for an eternity, the lack of air affecting him more and more
as he was forced to exert energy. Suddenly the voices faded away. He could just
barely make out the outline of one lone truck behind a building, away from all
the others. There was no one around this far away, but Castiel could barely
register that as his vision went dark and he collapsed on the ground
unconscious.
"Son of a bitch," Dean jarred to a halt, spun around to face the lump of human
flesh and feathers on the ground. He looked around to ensure no wandering
civilian's eyes were on him, extracted a switchblade from his pocket and
carefully sliced the plastic cord around Black-Wing's throat. It left behind a
circle of irritated, raw skin. Dean felt guilt tug at his diaphragm. How did he
end up in this situation? He had driven out here to see if his father was okay,
and ended up purchasing a supernatural creature before abandoning his cause
altogether.
The angel didn't come to right away. He was slight enough to easily pick up and
carry the last three yards to the truck, but the chains around his wrists and
wings would make that difficult. Dean slammed the knife shut and stuffed it
into the waistband of his boxers, then dug the key out of the breast pocket of
his father's oversize leather coat. Anyone who bought an angel received a key
to release them. Based on the research they'd done since the fall, Dean knew
that most people threw away the key, or forced the angels to swallow it. There
were rumored instances of angels carving their guts open and digging in for the
key; desperation could make induce insanity. It was unheard of that a human
would release one from its bindings, especially while said being was
unconscious. Was he insane? Black-Wings could wake up and dice him to pieces
with a look.
As he backed out of the parking space he felt the shackles beneath the tires.
Yeah, he was definitely insane.
He had laid the angel on the bench-seat beside him. The wings were incredibly
awkward to maneuver around, but Dean finally got him into the truck and covered
in a thick, scratchy blanket. They were in a city, sure, but Dean needed to get
a motel in a quiet town. Despite the crowd in the area-warehouse, most humans
were still blind to the fact that true angels walked among them. There was a
pharmacy on every corner, but he dare not go in to get first-aid supplies while
the angel was still knocked out. If he woke up while Dean was gone he might
hurt himself trying to escape the truck, and likewise get killed or worse if he
ran off.
So Dean took out his phone, figured now was good a time as any to give Bobby
the update he'd asked for. It wasn't easy to come clean with him. He knew he
was on speakerphone because fifteen-year-old Sam was laughing in the
background. "Bring him home, Dean! What's he look like? What color are his
wings?" Meanwhile Bobby grumbled something about how irresponsible this was.
"You idjit. D'you realize you've just put us all in danger? There's a reason
they got knocked outta Heaven... Judgment day's gonna come for all of us, but
it ain't gonna be pretty for those who've supported the traffickin'a angels!"
Dean smiled. "To be frank with you, Bobby, I didn't buy him cause I support it.
I bought him as a huge fuck-you to the business."
"‘N lemme guess, you think you're just gonna nurse his feathery ass back to
health? Dun' matter what you do, Dean, when he wakes up 'n heals himself, he'll
smite you for buyin’ him in the first place."
"Nah, Bobby. Angels aren't like that."
"Lemme hear you say that after you've been tied up, beaten, and sold to a
stranger."
Sam stopped giggling and cleared his throat. Even Dean felt the look Bobby was
giving him. He also felt something else-- a soft stir at his thigh. A black
feather brushed his face and he knew at once with terror and awe that Black-
Wings regained consciousness. With a dumb goodbye he hung up the phone and slid
it back into his pocket. Hands tight around the wheel he turned to stare into
the intense beautifully bruised face of his captive.
Being unconscious twice within a span of what was possibly 72 hours was not
something Castiel enjoyed. It was much less like sleeping than one would have
thought. It was like being swallowed by darkness, unable to fight it as it
grabbed hold of you, dragging you further from the light until you finally
managed enough strength to break from its hold. This was the moment that
Castiel found himself in as he came to once more. Though this time, rather than
waking up chained and beaten, he found himself freed and beaten, inside of a
vehicle.
Castiel had once heard an old human saying about predators that went “It is
more scared of you than you are of it.” He could scarcely believe this to be
true as he looked at the man who had purchased him, collared him, spoke so
cruelly to him. Without even noticing, Castiel found himself scrambling
backwards, pressing against the door of the car as his knees came up against
his chest to make himself smaller and to get as far away from this man as
possible despite how it hurt him. It would take weeks for Castiel to regain his
strength completely after what he’d been through, if he would even be able to.
He highly doubted it.
Humans had this special treatment for an angel’s immense strength and power.
Not only did they have the weapons that could cause them pain, but they knew
how to remove an angel’s grace. Many didn’t know, but an angel’s grace is very
similar to human blood. It can be lost in certain quantities and be easily
replenished by the body. However, take too much and it can be hard to ever
recover. Castiel had been drained, almost painfully so. He could feel his body
crying out for his healing grace, but he had been left with next to nothing.
Castiel wiggled himself further into the corner of the seat and the door.
Despite the pain it caused him, his wings came around to the front, encasing
his body, only the tips of his toes sticking out. They curled around him
protectively, an instinctual defense mechanism. He felt immensely more
comfortable when they were wrapped around him. All angels had wings large
enough to almost completely encase their bodies and Castiel had wings large
enough to possibly fit another person inside. His dark wings completely blocked
out everything from the outside world. If he covered his ears, Castiel could
pretend that he was back home, waiting for dinner or playing hide and seek with
some of the younger angels. He would be naïve if he let himself pretend.
He stayed in his little cocoon. Though he could not see what was coming for
him, he would rather it be that way. He honestly doubted he could even get his
wings to move if he wanted them to. Angels had adapted to their physical wings
in many ways, one of which being that in times of distress or trouble or when
an angel felt cornered, their wings would act as a barrier. A shield from
whatever was causing them harm. Castiel definitely viewed the man driving the
car to be something he should be shielded from. Part of him wanted to speak. He
wanted to know why the man had promised him an explanation before proceeding to
speak cruelly to him. He wanted to know why he had been collared to the point
of unconsciousness and yet now was freed from all his restraints. He didn’t ask
any of these questions. Instead, he sat encircled in his dark haven, forehead
resting on his knees as he tried to summon any grace he had left to heal
himself. He felt no change, but that did not stop him from trying.
The sudden momentum of Black-wings gargantuan appendages unfurling and folding
again rocked the cab of the pickup truck. Some bony edge sliced Dean's cheek,
caused him to swerve at the temporary loss of vision. He cursed loudly and
fought to regained control of the vehicle, almost knocking over a cyclist in
the process. It was dark and this city was unfamiliar to him. He further showed
his hand by barking at the still scrambling thing, louder than intended, "'s
alright, okay! 's alright! Just breathe, dammit!"
That probably wasn't the best tone of voice to use with the angel, who was
clearly terrified beyond rationale. Then again, releasing him and ditching the
chains hadn't been such a great idea, either. Dean was presently stuck in a
cramped, enclosed space with a more or less feral animal. No, Black-Wing wasn't
an animal, but Bobby had a point. Whatever he'd witnessed and experienced since
the fall was likely enough to set him on a violent bender. Like an idiot, Dean
had unintentionally placed himself in the firing line.
Accepting that reality, he forced his heart and hands to relax. While it would
be nice to exact some semblance of a response, Dean wasn't expecting one. He
wasn't entirely sure the angel could understand English. Bobby said most of
them were able to acquire the native language of their vessel without much
effort, but some of the younger angels were hard pressed to learn anything
outside of Enochian. Regardless, Dean felt a natural obligation to talk as he
drove. Aside from the fact that conversation generally came easy to him, he
remembered the deal he struck with the angel right outside the huge steel doors
of the warehouse. Maybe he couldn't understand English, but Black-Wing still
deserved an explanation.
"I was on the way to see my dad. He's a hunter." It came out casually, and only
after he said it he realized how the statement could be misconstrued. "I mean,
I was raised as a hunter, but I'm not like them, I can promise you that. 'n if
I was like them, you'd still be in chains." He chuckled, and then shuddered.
Back at the auction there had been a broad-shouldered bastard intent on
purchasing a whole gaggle of winged beasts. The thought that hunters-- and some
average civilians-- could be essentially repeating processes akin to genocide
as a result of enslavement was bile inducing. He tasted it in the back of his
throat. With pride he held his own intellectual integrity close to his chest,
along with the knowledge that Black-Wing would be safe so long as he let Dean
care for him.
A sinking feeling occupied his gut. It would be impossible to convince the
angel that he, a nineteen-year-old son of a hunter, would actually care for
him. Did Black-Wing even understand or know in his heart what the word care
meant?
"I hadda act like that to get you outta there safe. Hunters' young as me don't
go around buyin angels, y'know? I didn't want to look any more suspicious 'n
risk you bein’ dragged away from me 'n hauled back into that Hell hole." He
paused for effect. A sigh left him as he merged onto the nearest highway; the
neighboring towns would have local motels and pharmacies, where he could easily
sneak Black-Wing in and fix him up.
When he opened his mouth again it was with carefully conjured calmness. He
looked over only to see a mess of ink-like feathers. "Listen, I'm sorry. Okay?
I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to let me get near you. Unless you want your
wounds to get infected, you gotta let me. I know how to help you heal while
your mojo battery juices back up. But you gotta at least gimme a sign of
whether or not you even understand what I'm sayin’."
Castiel sat in there complete silence, wrapped up safely in his large wings.
Almost every word out of the man’s mouth simply cemented the fact that Castiel
didn’t want to be in his presence. He was a hunter and he was a liar. Today he
claims to lie for Castiel’s benefit but at the expense of causing him pain. Who
knows when he’s going to lie to Castiel? He could be right now and he would
have no idea.
Still, as he listened, Castiel could feel himself calming. After the initial
snap, the other man’s voice was rather soothing. It had a bit of a rumble to it
that reminded Castiel of thunder. He understood everything that was being said.
Unlike some of his brothers and sisters, Castiel was actually rather curious
about the human way of life despite their cruel treatment of the angels. After
the fall of the Tower of Babel, they had been granted so many different ways to
communicate and he had wanted to try and learn them all at one point.
It was maybe ten full minutes after the man last spoke that Castiel finally
responded. His wings shifted, creating a sliver of an opening in the front of
his little cocoon. Just enough so that he could see out. The light from the
windshield entered into his little haven, illuminating just the one slice of
his face that his wings had moved to reveal. His eye shined in the light as it
skittered over the man’s form, almost as though it were inspecting him, before
shooting back up and settling on his face.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Castiel said quietly, his voice weak and shaky, “Please
don’t hurt me.” It hurt to speak, his throat raw and bruised, but he had to say
something. He was terrified out of his mind that this man would retaliate in
some way. After all, Castiel was his property. No matter the reasons for his
purchase, by the law of humans, he belonged to the hunter driving the car.
Theoretically, it would be well within his human rights to punish Castiel for
even looking at him. The young angel was still trying to figure his body out
and grow into his gangly limbs. Having wings that were too large only added to
that struggle. He wasn’t all that great at controlling them, and in this moment
that could cost him his life.
He stared at the man, waiting for some kind of answer, whether it be verbal or
physical. He found himself wondering why he had been let go. Surely it would
have been easier to transport him with all his chains and such in place. Yet,
this man had chosen to remove them. Castiel couldn’t even hear them moving
anywhere in the car. He was glad his senses were still in tact at least, though
his body was not. He could still feel himself leaking blood from a few places.
He was probably creating stains in this man’s car. Castiel doubted he would get
away without punishment for that, despite the fact that it wasn’t his fault.
Incredulous, he scoffed. "You're sorry you hurt me? Buddy, I deserve a whole
lot worse 'n a nick on the cheek after what I did back there. Maybe you don't
see it that way, but I do." He fell quiet, if only to prove how serious he was
about his sentiment. It was lucky enough the angel responded at all. Past the
eighth minute, Dean assumed his theory was right-- the angel understood zero
English. The long-awaited croak was more like water than gravel, though in
honesty the voice didn't match the willowy body at all.
The shaving of fluorescent light that poured in from the streetlamps overhead
illuminated a slim portion of Black-Wing's face. Without stealth or tact he
stole several sideways glances at the angel. He seemed calmer now, that was
certain, but for how long would he remain that way? Dean still needed to park
and run into the pharmacy, still needed to go into the motel office and buy
them a room for the night. Would Black-Wings break the windshield and rip out
feathers in effort to escape?
He would have to take his chances; another night with open wounds and the angel
may lose all ability to regain strength, period.
They swung off the exit and onto the main road of the quaint, neighboring town.
Slowly he explained his next move, in hopes that the preemptive strike would
get Black-Wing on his side. "So, we got these things. Pharmacies. Not a big
deal, I'm just gonna park the truck-- that's what we're in right now, y'know-
- 'n run inside to get a few things to help you get better. Then we're gonna go
down the street-- see that building there? That's a motel. We're gonna stay in
one room together, but it's a big room. Two beds, you'll have your own. Just
don't run off on me. You gotta trust me on this, it's not gonna be pretty 'f
you run off. I can't help you 'f I don't know where you are, right?" He laughed
ineffectually at the end of his thoughts, and turned to the angel for approval.
Castiel couldn’t hide his interest when the hunter began to speak about what
they were going to do and where they were going to go, his wings opening up a
fraction more. Even in the predicament he had found himself in, he was able to
feel curious about how they lived. Pharmacies sounded interesting. Angels, of
course, could heal themselves. The most they needed was time. Humans were far
more fragile, rather like Castiel was now. They required aid. Placing it in a
convenient place for all to access was ingenious in Castiel’s eyes. He could
see how humans had survived all these years. The idea of the motel confused him
though. He knew that humans tended to have their own dwellings and didn’t need
to stay anywhere else.
“I don’t understand,” Castiel finally said when he spoke again, brows furrowed
in confusion, “Why do you want me to feel better?” This man had forced him to
the point of unconsciousness earlier and now he speaks about how he wants the
angel to feel better. Humans were not known for their kindness. That was
something Castiel knew very well. He had grown up hearing about angels that had
been purchased and killed for their wings, angels that had been forcibly worked
until they collapsed and died, angels that had been kept on the edge of life
for years as they were tortured. This hunter was giving a wide range of signals
and Castiel could not understand what approach he was trying to take.
Escaping crossed Castiel’s mind more than once, but he was nothing if not a
strategist. He was severely injured and his wings were weak. Even if he managed
to get himself out of the car, Castiel wouldn’t be able to get very far on his
own. Anyone who even saw him without a human next to him holding a leash would
go after him without a second thought. He would end up back in the auction
house or worse. No, staying with this hunter was the safest move for the time
being, even if Castiel couldn’t quite read his intentions.
"Cause I know what it feels like to be treated like you don't matter." The
honesty of his statement surprised him, served to intensify his intention. Now
fully aware of what he meant to do buy purchasing an angel, he relaxed against
the soft leather seat behind him. Oh, it was naive to think he was audacious
enough to make a difference in the life of a celestial thing. However, he felt
within him a compulsion as strong as the one that urged him to keep Sam from
hunting. He would care for the angel yet.
They lulled to a stop outside the pharmacy, in a shady spot away from the
doors. Dean turned to grab the thick blanket that had fallen to the floor in
Blackwing's terror. He held it out to the angel and said, "Can you put those
things behind you? Please. I don't want someone walkin by ‘n seein’ a roughed
up teenage kid in the car. Much less with wings." He tucked the blanket around
Blackwing's shoulders in a genuine show of kindness. "Oh, ‘n I'll be back fast.
So reconsider runnin’ out on me, okay? Yeah, I can tell you thought of it. I
woulda too." He took his wallet and locked the doors before sliding out of the
truck and walking through the sliding glass doors without looking back.
Castiel could feel himself bristle slightly at his wings being called ‘things’,
but he accepted the blanket anyway. It was hard to allow this hunter close
enough to place it around his shoulders, but Castiel managed to remain still.
The man was right, after all. It wouldn’t do to have someone see him in the car
unattended. He could still remember the way that guard had looked at him and
the thought made Castiel wanted to cleanse himself thoroughly.
He thought about the hunter while he was gone. It was almost as though he was
two different people. The man who had lead him out of the auction house by the
neck was almost nothing like the man that was currently purchasing healing aids
for him. It confused Castiel and he wasn’t really sure what to think, but he
knew that he much preferred the second man.
Castiel could see people walking from where he sat. They acted as though they
could not have a care in the world. Castiel envied them. He had always thought
highly of humans before the fall. No matter how fate or even God would beat
them down, humankind would always try to push through no matter how dismal the
chances seemed. It was something Castiel admired. Now, having been exposed to
their cruelty and their violence, he wasn’t so sure. Castiel stayed huddled in
the car, forehead resting on his knees as he waited for the hunter to return.
What he placed on the counter was a general series of items that he assumed
would help. He hadn't seen Blackwing's injuries first hand because the angel
hadn't let him get that close. However, he remembered seeing grievous things
prior to buying the angel. Several lengths of gauze, a box of large bandages,
antiseptic wash, two miniature sewing kits, some highly processed snacks and a
Cosmopolitan magazine were tossed haphazardly into a plastic bag and shoved
across the counter at the young hunter. His narrow shoulders felt heavy under
the old leather jacket, as if the weight of hiding an extraterrestrial boy in
his truck was akin to an act of murder. In some people's opinion it was.
His stride was consciously easy, and he peered through the windows of the truck
as he approached. The angel was curled up again, luckily with his wings behind
him, forehead resting on his knees. The blanket did a fair job hiding bruises
and abrasions, though Dean knew that driving around with Blackwing would still
be a risk. After they stayed the night in the hotel, they would need to make it
back to Bobby's. That would be the safest place-- a cabin on a huge expanse of
land in the back woods. Driving there would be the dangerous part; people on
the road would notice huge black feathers in the daylight. And what about when
Dean wanted to put the windows down? Some hunters looked for the sheen of
feathers, could practically catch the scent of angel musk in the air.
Whatever. He had to try.
The door swung open with a creak and he tossed the bag into the middle of the
bench seat. Some of the items slid and hit Blackwing in the hip. Dean forgot
how skittish he was, and felt a tinge of guilt at the startled reaction. "We're
goin’ to the motel now. Guy says there's one a few streets over. Gonna have to
leave you in here for a minute again so I can pay for the night. Then we're
gonna walk in." By this time the truck engine thrummed, and they swung out onto
the main road. He wanted to turn on the radio for some tunes but feared what
music might do to Blackwing. Not yet, he thought. Maybe another day, if he
stays that long.
Dean assumed that the second the angel could, he would zap himself back to...
wherever. Hopefully before that happened he could convince the kid it wasn't
worth it. He was stuck in a body about the same age as Sam's, and stuck on a
planet he didn't belong to. Zapping away would not be worth the trouble it
would bring. If Blackwing hadn't already been molested or tortured or drugged,
he sure would be if he escaped and another hunter found him. Stubbornly, he
resolved to protect the other until the angel could make healthy decisions for
himself.
Castiel gave a small nod to show the hunter that he understood but said nothing
else. He was actually rather curious as to what was in the bag but he refrained
from looking, unsure if he was allowed to. As kind as this man was currently
being, Castiel had no reason to believe that he didn’t have his own set of
rules or that something couldn’t make him change his mind. Castiel didn’t want
to give him any reason to thing that he needed to be punished in anyway.
He tried not to look as though he was looking out the windows but he was. Even
now he was letting his inner scholar get to him. Castiel had always been
interested in humans, despite the fact that they wanted very little to do with
him that didn’t involve slavery or massacre. He tried not to think about that
as he looked around. Buildings and such looked very different from this angle.
They were large and some were rather intimidating. Castiel remembered a day
when he could stand next to the tallest building in his true form and call it
tiny. Those days were long past him.
At some point, Castiel’s gaze had shifted towards the hunter. He was an
interesting man to say the least. A prime specimen though. His body was only a
few years older than Castiel’s own. It was hard to see now in the darkness, but
Castiel thought he remembered seeing green eyes in the midst of his distress
earlier and perhaps a smattering of freckles. This hunter had been rather
gifted with the aesthetics of his body, but Castiel was much more concerned
with the person inside of it. That was what would determine his fate.
The ride was a bit bumpy on the uneven road that ran through town but Castiel
managed to only let out one little hiss of pain over a particularly big bump.
He hadn’t realized how bad his injuries had become. He was now starting to feel
a little lightheaded. When they pulled into what another sign dictated to be a
parking lot, Castiel looked out the window to see a rather shabby looking
building. It looked as though it was covered in a strange smell and strange
stains. Why anyone would want to spend anytime here was beyond him, but the
hunter was getting out of the car just like he said he would. Castiel stayed
put, waiting for him to return once more.
It was dingy. When he and Sammy were children Dad dragged them all over the
country, forced his young boys to stay in countless places such as this. The
first time Dean ever saw an angel was when Dad brought one into the motel and
chained it up in the bathroom. He remembered the contrast of dark red slowly
circling around the bright white porcelain and silver drain. He thought he
would never see such anger on another being's face in his life. Still to this
day he had yet to. The first angel he and Sammy saw was shrouded in the hurt of
betrayal, grace stripped and vessel's mouth sewn shut. It was too much to try
and help-- he and his brother were aged five and nine. The guilt of
powerlessness pinched at his gut; maybe that was one reason he couldn't walk
away from the auction without trying to save even just one.
The woman behind the counter took his cash pleasantly, passed him a set of keys
and a complementary newspaper. On the front page Dean caught what looked like
Massacre in Oklahoma. Immediately his brain set to wondering what type of
massacre? One of his own species? Animals? Angels? He and Sammy were well aware
there were large numbers of other types of creatures in the Midwest and south-
- vampires and demons included. People hated things they weren't accustomed to.
Or at least, that's what Dean took from his wide range of experiences. He
thanked the woman in a warm tone and glanced at the clock above her head as he
backed out through the screen door. Sometime around midnight, and the air was a
seductive temperature.
First he moved the truck closer to their room, which was down on the farthest
end of the property. He was beyond grateful for that, because it meant less
light where his truck was parked, less of a chance they would be seen.
Instinctive, he wanted to ease the whole ordeal for Blackwing, who had clearly
never been in a motel before. He hopped out of the truck, walked to the door
and unlocked it. When it swung open he flicked on four of the seven lights,
opened the bathroom door and turned on that light, too. He made sure the blinds
were shut and dropped the pharmacy bag on one of the queen size beds, then
returned to the truck. He figured the angel would be less frightened if he
could see what he was led into.
"Come on," he said, holding the door of the truck open. His voice was gruff
with wear, seeing as he hadn't slept in what felt like more than twenty-four
hours. "Keep the blanket. You'll need as much warmth as you can get." He
watched, with strange sorrow, the angel slide from the truck cab. His bare feet
were coated with blisters and blood. Dean heard himself say, "This ain't gonna
work," and without permission he pulled Blackwing into his arms and lifted him
up. He didn't care if the touch offended or further set the angel off. His
focus was getting them both safely inside the room without the vessel passing
out again. It was obvious he was hurting, completely exhausted.
The second he placed the boy on the bed he unraveled him from the blanket to
release his wings. "See? Wasn't so bad, right? Now you can stretch out-- we got
all this space for the night, 'n after you let me fix this all up, you'll feel
much more comfortable." His smile faded as he surveyed the wounds he was about
to clean and dress. A swear, like a hiss, escaped him. It was worse than he
thought. "Who did this?" It was a stupid question, he knew, but he impulsively
needed the answer. "Who the fuck did this to you? I swear to God, Blackwing,
when I get my hands on them... I'll fuckin kill every last bastard who touched
you."
Castiel’s eyes almost popped out of his head and his entire body went tense
when the hunter scooped him into his arms. The lack of balance, along with his
wounds put him in no place to fight it. It was slightly painful, especially
with all his muscles contracting in fear, but in a strange way it felt
comforting. Castiel had no idea how long it had been between the times when he
was captured and when he woke up chained in the cage, but he knew it had been
weeks since he’d felt a gentle touch. This, though more functional than
anything else, was the kindest touch he’d experienced since being captured.
He wanted to spread his wings out once they had been freed from the blanket,
but he was honestly afraid. He wasn’t exactly sure how injured his wings were
and stretching them out too far could worsen things. All he really wanted to do
was curl up and groom them, but apparently the hunter had other plans. Castiel
had forgotten that he’d purchased healing aids for him.
The hunter’s outrage surprised Castiel, his eyes growing wide as he shrunk
away, staring at the angered man in front of him. “I-I don’t know,” he answered
honestly, his voice small, “I was unconscious for a large portion of the time.”
His brain retraced the hunter’s words, suddenly catching on something he hadn’t
noticed before. Castiel tilted his head, almost observing the hunter now.
Blackwing. It made little sense in the context of the sentence and he concluded
that it was what the hunter had decided to call him in lieu of his name. His
name was really the only thing he had at this point that at all connected him
to what he once was and he hesitated at the thought of giving it up.
Castiel was silent for a good few minutes, he and the hunter just staring at
each other before he finally opened his mouth again. “Castiel,” he said softly,
unfolding himself from the defensive position that he’d adopted when the hunter
had grown angry, “My name is Castiel.” True, the hunter had been rather cruel
upon their first meeting. It still hurt Castiel to swallow. However, he had
shown a completely different side to himself and Castiel decided that in order
to keep that side around, he had to be willing to give a little. His name was
all he had to offer, and the opportunity for the hunter to heal him, as he
seemed so desperate to do if his anger was anything to go by.
It hurt, moving. His feet were blistered and cracked, bleeding in several
places. He had large cuts and welts covering his torso. Bruises had bloomed as
well, like flowers over his skin. There was really far too much to be healed by
human means. Castiel could feel his grace slowly trickling back into himself,
ever so slowly replenishing, but it still wasn’t enough. It most likely
wouldn’t be enough for a good few more weeks. The hunters at the auction house
had drained him almost completely. If they had taken even a vial more, Castiel
would be as good as a human with wings. Lucky enough for him, they had left
enough for it to begin trying to replace itself. There may be enough by morning
for him to heal something small, but Castiel knew he would be weak for quite a
while. He was giving this hunter a chance, placing a small amount of trust in
him. The only thing he would not allow would be for him to touch his wings.
Castiel would take care of them himself, no matter how it hurt him.
He knew Blackwing wasn't lying. The voice that responded was broken, frayed.
Dean accepted the answer with a small sense of relief. At least he was
unconscious for parts of his abuse. Having endured pain and terror himself, he
knew how fortunate it was to have a brain that protected the body by blocking
certain memories out. Quietly he nodded, his head heavy, and croaked, "Right.
's better that way, but still. I promise you I'll fuckin lose it, 'n..." It
seemed awkward to say more. He wanted to ask Blackwing to tell him if they ever
ran into one of his previous captors by chance. Then, Dean didn't want to put
the idea in the angel's head that they might end up in that place again, or
anywhere near it. So he faltered and failed to finish his sentence, commenced
to cross that bridge should they ever come to it. Hopefully, with Bobby and
Sam, they wouldn't have to.
Moments later, as he sized up the cuts and tears with his eyes, he heard a
vaguely familiar word. Castiel. He returned his strong gaze to the face of the
angel before him, attempted to pool his thoughts together. Sammy read whatever
books he could get his hands on, especially when it came to angel lore. The kid
was interested in two things, it seemed-- schoolwork and Heaven. Dean
attributed his need for redemption to their mother's death. Though Dad hadn't
come out and said it to his face, he'd eavesdropped on enough conversations to
know that Mom died in his nursery, where the fire started. Even as a child,
Dean saw it in his brother. He felt unclean, tainted by what he believed he was
responsible for as an infant.
A phrase came to him. "Somethin' about Thursday, right?" He chuckled, almost
sudden. "'s weird to think that you're... y'know, like a million years old, but
stuck in this tiny kid's body. Did you ever find out who he was? Or just
crashed 'n found the nearest thing?" Bobby told the boys all about the fall.
Hell, they'd all been there to see it, but the old hunter was accustomed to
widespread panic and tragedy, even displacement. He heard from other hunters
who got the chance to spy on the newly descended beings that they were
selective about their bodies. They chose strategically in hopes of blending in
better, of retaining the vessel longer, and some in an effort to fulfill dreams
or fantasies. Dean knew that angels generally did not feel, but according to
Bobby many held an interest in human life, and upon falling sought vessels that
were of the quintessential 'human' image.
Before Castiel could respond Dean bounced over to the next bed, gathered some
of the supplies and walked towards the bathroom. He called out, "I can hear
you, so go ahead 'n talk 'f you want. But I gotta start settin' this shit up,
cause those wounds ain't gonna wait much longer." He found a few plastic cups
near the sink, unwrapped them from their plastic and filled them with warm
water. After witnessing his father force information out of that seemingly
random angel years ago, he refused to make Castiel venture into the enclosed
bathroom to be cleaned up. He returned to the bed with two cups of warm water,
a washcloth, and an open package of gauze and bandages. "This is gonna hurt. 'f
you need to, you grab my arm or jacket, or the blankets, okay?" He dipped the
cloth into the water and then touched it to one of Castiel's feet. This was
going to take forever, and he might get kicked or punched a few times, but he
couldn't care less.
Castiel hissed in pain and almost tugged his foot away from the hunter’s grasp,
but he knew he would feel better afterwards so he remained as still as he
could. He thought that maybe talking would distract him so Castiel picked a
spot on the wall to focus on as his fists clenched in the blankets and he began
to speak.
“There is a lot of confusion and falsity regarding our being cast from Heaven,”
he began softly, studying the disgusting wallpaper, “We were not cast out by
God. As absent as our father could be at times, he did not hate us so much as
to punish us in this way. There was an angel who felt Heaven and the archangels
had horribly wronged him. He hid himself on Earth in a completely human vessel,
being worshipped as a Native American deity. When he was discovered, he
suddenly grew angry at being forced to live on Earth, though no one had in fact
forced him to do so. He returned to Heaven and performed a spell that even God
could not reverse. It forced all of the angels out of Heaven and locked the
gates behind us.
“The most pure of angels, like the archangels and a few others near to their
status required bloodline vessels, meaning they could only inhabit a specific
person with blood strong enough to hold their grace. The rest of us were left
with nothing. There were far more angels than there were humans on Earth. Those
who could not find a vessel in time would have disintegrated into pure grace,
their power being absorbed back into Heaven to be recycled. In a last ditch
effort to save us, God fashioned us bodies. They were modeled after humans that
already existed, so there is someone out there who matches this face, though he
does not have wings. Knowing how we had always loved to fly, God gave us our
wings in a physical form in order to let us continue to do so.
“I know that many humans hate us for many reasons, but we did not steal bodies
like they believe we did. I mean no offense to your race, but clearly no one
thought to do any math. After giving us our new bodies, we heard nothing from
God. We do not know where he is or what he is doing, but he left us to the
mercy of humans. In the end, that did not seem to be such a good plan.” Castiel
stopped here. This was the most he had spoken at one time since the fall. Even
with his own kind, Castiel had never really been very verbose. His throat hurt
from speaking so much, though he had been correct in assuming that it would
distract him from the pain. He had become so absorbed in what he was saying
that he had barely even noticed that the hunter had finished with his feet and
was now moving on to the larger cuts.
“I found him once, my human model,” Castiel added, though he wasn’t sure why,
“We had stopped to make camp and a few of us had been sent out to survey the
area. One of my brothers pointed him out to me. A young human named James
Novak, though he commonly went by Jimmy. He seemed like a kind soul, but I kept
my distance. I did not think he would appreciate my presence.” Castiel looked
down at the hunter and found himself wondering if he was also a model for an
angel somewhere. He had never met such an angel, but the hunter was certainly
aesthetically gifted and it would not surprise Castiel in the slightest if God
had chosen him.
The bone structure of the boy was delicate. It seemed surreal that the fragile
human form currently contained one of nature's most powerful entities. While he
dabbed with the warm, wet cloth he realized that he had never been so
physically close to another male. It made him pause. His brother didn't count,
of course; there were times he got injured on a hunt with Dad, or scraped his
skin playing, and Dean cleaned him up. But they didn't have friends, and
bathing a child was vastly different from pressing gauze gently against the
vessel of an angel. At once he felt in awe and uncomfortable, like his very
touch was invasive, would corrupt. It made him all the more gentle, all the
more eager to steal glances at the drawn feathers, the cyanic eyes.
"Was he scared? When you took him, I mean? He was so young." The question came
out like rushing water. Though Dean was the legal master of this relationship,
he felt juvenile kneeling between Castiel's bare willow legs, propped on the
edge of the mattress. He was taping a bandage loosely over a palm-size abrasion
near the boy's nipple. From this close he could smell the musk of human effort
and the rust of blood.
When he was ready to move on to the raw ring around his neck, he hesitated. How
would the angel react with Dean's hands near his throat and face? He took his
time rinsing the washcloth and refilling the cups with warm water, then rolled
out the speech he threw together in his head, wishing it would provide a
semblance of comfort. "This is the last thing left, unless you got head
injuries, which you're gonna have to feel around for. So... don't bug out,
okay? 'f you feel like you're gonna panic, tell me, push me away, hit me, I
don't care. But I'll try to be quick." He stood there with the damp cloth
cradled in his hand, gazing down at the angel. In a few minutes he would need
to coax him into wearing some of the clean clothes he'd brought along, like
flannel pajama pants and a shirt. Although, how would he get the shirt over
those damn wings?
Feeling slightly disheartened by the task, he took in a heavy breath and forced
his shoulders to relax. Castiel appeared sheepish, but not so uninviting as the
other angels Dean had encountered. Even his face was unique, almost feline in
feature, though bruised as the rest of him. The angel's wings extended high
behind his head, jet black against the dark brown of his bangs. "You can do
your wings by yourself. I'm not goin near those things." Bobby told Dean about
how territorial the angels were over that last gift God had given them. Castiel
only reiterated the point. "I mean, since they're so special 'n all. Unless you
really need my help."
Castiel’s natural fight or flight instincts were beginning to kick in as the
hunter got closer and closer to his face. He flinched slightly when he reached
for his neck with the damp cloth, remembering the last time a human had gotten
close to his neck only hours ago. He tried to calm himself down and allow the
man to treat him. He pulled away as soon as he was done, feeling much better
when there was a bit of distance between them.
“Thank you,” he said softly, not really feeling up for talking anymore. He did
honestly feel a great deal better even though pain still thrummed dully through
him. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed now so he could begin working
on his wings whilst the hunter got on with whatever else he needed to do.
Slowly, Castiel stretched them out to their full wingspan, feeling for any pain
or aches or pulls. Luckily, they seemed completely in tact, just matted and
dirty. The hunters must have wanted to keep them in as good condition as they
could. Castiel began to gently comb through the feathers, taking out clumps of
dirt and blood as he straightened out his feathers.
It took him almost a full hour to finish ‘detangling’ his wings. He shook them
out a final time to be sure that most of the debris and such was gone. They
sent a gentle breeze through the room, ruffling the curtains and the few papers
that others had left behind. Castiel stood gingerly, biting his lip against the
shot of pain he felt when he placed his weight on his feet. He balled up the
bedspread around the mess he had made. He shot a quick glance towards the
hunter, just so he knew where he was before pulling his wings in tightly so he
would fit in the small bathroom. Castiel shook the bedspread out into the
bathtub so it could be washed down the drain. He had managed to gain enough
knowledge about humans to know what the shower was used for. Castiel threw the
bedspread back out the door before closing the door behind him. He stuck as
much of his wings as would fit into the shower compartment before turning the
water on. He let the warm water cascade over his feathers, relaxing even more
as his muscles became less tense.
Castiel had no idea how long he stayed in there but by the time he turned the
water off, steam was billowing around the small bathroom. He shook his wings
out, getting rid of the spall droplets of water. He took one of the
complimentary towels to dry them off the rest of the way before finally coming
out of the bathroom. He felt better than he had in a long time. Wing grooming
was a necessity for every angel, but he could not remember the last time they
had felt this clean and well cared for.
Thankfully the rest of dressing went well, and the ring around the kid's neck
looked less irritated once it was washed of dirt, blood and lint. It was still
haunting, and maybe always would be, to think that he had put that mark there.
With fascination and disgust he watched Castiel clean himself, crust and
cracked mire dropping onto the bed in chunks. The wingspan was nearly ten feet
across, and Dean was shocked that the angel managed to fit inside the bathroom,
let alone lean into the shower to wash off. He heard and tried to ignore the
clatter of hollow bones against the plastic shower wall.
The water ran for longer than he imagined was necessary, and in that time Dean
remade the bed. He wondered if that whole nesting theory a few of Bobby's
friends rumored about was true. Would Castiel slide in and create a mess of
tufts to sleep in? Would he perform the act of sleeping much like his human
counterpart? Or would he need not sleep at all? Fatigue hit Dean like a
telephone pole as he tucked the last corner in and suddenly all questions
stopped. He stripped down to his boxers, left the jeans and layered shirts
balled up on the floor where he tossed them. Then he opened a bag of chips he'd
bought at the pharmacy-- they sold nothing like fresh pie-- and lay over the
covers. The remote was beside him on the small table between the beds. With a
heavy arm he reached over, clicked on the TV and tried to find a show
entertaining enough to numb his brain.
The bag of chips was nearly empty when Blackwi-- Castiel came out of the
bathroom, steam rolling up against the ceiling. The first word to fall out of
Dean's mouth was, "Dude." The bandages still looked dry and in tact, which was
lucky, because he was not about to change them again.
He sat up slowly, as if three times his actual age, and pointed to the clothes
he laid out on the bed. "These are yours until we get to Bobby's. They'll be
too big for you, 'specially seein as you're anorexic 'n all, but you look about
Sam's size, so tomorrow you can borrow his shit. I mean, we'll buy you clothes,
but money ain't exactly easy for us to come by. Might be a few days, y'know?"
He chuckled nervously, afraid the angel would read his mind and discover the
ways in which Dean earned the money to buy him in the first place. If he knew,
he made no sign. Dean gave a staged smile and added, "Oh, I cut slits in the
back of the shirt. 'f your wings don't fit, I'll make em longer, but... D'you
need to eat? I got some more crap in here." He motioned to the plastic pharmacy
bag on the edge of the bed. "'f you don't want it I'll order take out. I'm sure
there's a pizza place or somethin' still open."
Castiel found himself staring at the man, head tilted as he looked over the
hunter critically. His physical form was much better than Castiel’s own, though
he had admittedly been subjected to much different conditions. If given the
opportunity, Castiel decided that he would try to take better care of the body
he had been given.
“Whatever you have available will be fine,” Castiel said softly as he moved
towards the bed where the large clothes lay. He did not want to make a nuisance
of himself by asking for something that would inconvenience the hunter. The
only food Castiel had ever had was whatever the scouts brought back. More often
than not, it was an animal that had been hunted down, or produced taken from
someone’s backyard. He had never been given the chance to try the processed
foods that humans found so much enjoyment in.
Castiel stripped himself of the thin pants that the auction house had provided
for him. Pulling on the new pants was easy enough, but they were quite large
like the hunter said they would be and hung low on his hips. The shirt would be
more difficult to maneuver. Castiel picked it up and examined the slits, trying
to figure out the best way to try and get it on. They would fit around the base
of his wings once they shirt was on no problem, but he had to get it around the
larger portions of his wings first. The shirt was a button up flannel, so the
open front would hopefully make it easier. Castiel shifted his wings until they
pointed straight down. He reached back as far as he could and just managed to
slip the tips of his wings through the holes the hunter had cut for him. They
were smooth and sleek now, so the shirt slid upwards rather easily, only
getting tight in a few spots until finally the fabric rest against his back.
Castiel tested his range of movement in the shirt, but it was more or less the
same as without. He pushed the sleeves up to his elbows since they were too
long anyway and buttoned the front to keep the collar from sliding around.
“Thank you, for everything,” Castiel said, looking at the hunter with genuine
gratefulness in his eyes as he walked over and plucked a random food item from
the pharmacy bag. He walked back over to the bed that had been deemed as his
and sat down in the middle, cross-legged with his wings spread out behind him,
dangling over the sides. He enjoyed allowing them to relax instead of forcing
them to fold in tight. He looked up at the television curiously. He had heard
much about them but had never seen one in person before. They seemed quite
entertaining, but he did not really understand what was going on. It was silent
for a few moments before Castiel suddenly turned towards the hunter, something
occurring to him. “I do not know your name,” he stated, meeting the man’s eyes
for only a fleeting moment. He said nothing else, afraid to actually request
it.
Dean turned away when the angel stripped and slid into his oversize clothes. He
had already done enough today to intrude, and it would be weird if he looked.
They were strangers; one trying to erase the stigma on his name by doing
something good, the other trying to recover. He focused on the television
opposite the room, pretended to be engrossed in the program he had found while
Castiel washed his wings. It was the newest episode of a generic sitcom he,
Bobby and Sam watched. Still, it couldn't compare to the ethereal creature
standing a yard away.
His eyes traced the angel's movements as he grabbed a snack and sat, legs
folded, in the center of the bed. Dean stared incredulously. The freshly
cleaned wings were immaculate, with no words to do them justice. If this was
his reaction, Sam would totally freak tomorrow. All the studying led him to
expect intimidating celestial figures, larger than life. Castiel-- right now at
least-- was a normal looking kid... with huge, bird-like extremities and a
thousand bruises. Absorbed to the point of unconsciousness, he wondered if
Castiel would reveal a more intimidating, powerful side once he regained
health. He truly did look like a self-abusive teen at present. It would be
difficult to ever forget the way he collapsed with the plastic collar around
his throat, or the horror show image of ribs, hip and collarbones, in addition
to the sharp shoulders and knotted spine. A miracle he wasn't shriveled up in a
corner somewhere. Then, maybe he was before they dragged him, shackled, on
stage.
He shivered at the memory of how he obtained his new companion in the first
place. No, whom was he trying to fool? Castiel was not his companion. Dean told
himself sternly that this was just a favor, and if he had enough money to buy,
nurse and release all the damn angels, he would. There was nothing friendly
about this one, and there likely would never be. He needed to accept that as a
precursor to their relationship. Strictly doing his business as a hunter in his
right mind. Even so, he reveled in the presence, watched the angel chew,
swallow, and stare at the television with a dumb expression on his princess
face. Suddenly Castiel spun towards him, which nearly caused him to jump,
caught in voyeurism. He was about to utter an apology for gaping, but the other
spoke first.
"Um, yeah, totally forgot about that." He scooped the remaining potato chips
into his mouth and chewed obnoxiously, too tangled in his own emotions to care.
"Name's Dean. Dean Winchester."
It occurred to him then, with a kick in his gut, that saying his last name
aloud might ruin everything he spent the night working for. When his father
left several months ago on his 'mission trip' it was to help other hunters
perform experiments on angels, which Dean was appalled his father would ever
support. Additionally it meant his dad was responsible for the continuing
capture and torture of Castiel's own family. Before the fall the name
Winchester was renowned. Now many people were disgusted by Dad's behavior,
swore they would never work another hunt with him, and evidently assumed his
boys were just as bad.
“Dean Winchester?” Castiel repeated, shoulders suddenly tense as he folded his
wings back in and made himself smaller. He had heard of the Winchesters, or
more accurately of the father, John Winchester. Every angel had. He was the
reason they never stayed in one place for more than two weeks. He was the
reason they ran. He was the reason Castiel was afraid to sleep at night.
Admittedly, not much was known about his two sons, Sam and Dean, but what did
it matter. Castiel was probably on his way to the notorious man right now.
John Winchester was the horror story told to the younger angels to make them
understand why we couldn’t just go charging after the humans. Even when they
angels had a normal amount of grace, the bodies God had created for them were
not suitable for battle. They needed rest and food and water and had a much
lower pain tolerance than the angels were used to. They had simply wanted to
stay quiet and get used to the new life that had been forced onto them, but men
like John Winchester hadn’t allowed that.
Imaginative torture. That was what Castiel had heard all about. Things that he
had never even seen in all his time watching the Earth learn and grow as
humankind spread. The humans had had their barbaric moments, but there was
always reason behind it. Human sacrifice, for example, was seen as a gift to
placate the gods. What John Winchester did had no rhyme or reason. Castiel
heard that he claimed he did it for the benefits of science and other such
nonsense, but everyone knew it was not true. What he did was for his own
sadistic pleasure. Angels dissected while they were still alive. Conscious wing
removal. He had even heard of one instance where the angel’s mouth had been
sewn shut before being cut into. Castiel shuddered at the thought of what could
possibly be coming for him. This was coming from a place that even Lucifer
himself could not sanction. What the angels had done to deserve it, no one was
completely sure.
Now Castiel sat here, more or less trapped with the son of the most feared man
in the angel community. He could almost feel his body shutting down around him.
His breathing became quick and desperate, the sound of wind rushing filled his
ears though he knew there was no such wind, and his vision was tunneling in.
Castiel had heard of these. Panic attack. He tried to calm himself down. There
was a chance that he was not being brought to John Winchester. Dean had
mentioned a man named Bobby once or twice. There was also a chance that Dean
was not like his father. After all, barring the first few minutes that they had
met, Dean had been exceedingly kind to Castiel. Dean had done his best to heal
his wounds, had allowed him to groom his wings, and had even provided him with
food, shelter, and clothes. An idiotic voice in the back of his head reminded
Castiel that this could simply be cruel psychological torture.
"Can you stop fuckin’ lookin' at me like that?!" Dean stood abruptly, the empty
chips bag abandoned on the bed. He saw the way the angel's wings curled around
him protectively at the echo of his name. It angered him to think that one word
could cause such disarray in the lives of humans and creatures alike. The fact
that Castiel remained silent worsened the build inside his chest. He would
rather a verbal response, a fight. The silence was pressing and unpredictable.
Once on his feet he grew aware of his naked skin, the thin clothe of his boxers
barely enough. He dove hastily for the tee shirt he dropped on the floor
earlier, yanked it down against his hips in a rough manner. "I'm not like him,
okay? I'm not fuckin’ like him, 'n I'm not takin' you to him! So don't look at
me like I'm some kinda demon, cause all I've done since I was at that damn
auction was what I fuckin’ could! 'n so what 'f I headed out here to make sure
he was alright? I didn't know the truth of it til I got to that stinkin'
warehouse, 'n once I saw it I knew it wasn't right!" His hands flew around him,
cut through the air at harsh angles. Castiel was clearly short of breath and
panicking, but Dean was, too, in his own way. The mix of reactions-- physical,
mental and emotional-- playing out in the two teenage bodies created a deadly
mix.
He stepped back to grab the keys and cell phone off the dresser. "I'm goin’
outside 'fore I do any more damage to your goddamn traumatized psyche! Let me
know if you want me to drive you back to that dump, since you prob'ly think
bein’ chained up with your starvin' angel friends is less dangerous than bein’
with the son of the sadistic bastard who helped do this to you!" Bile hit the
back of his throat and he spun on his heel. Barefoot, he lunged for the door,
slammed it behind him and nearly fell out into the now crisp early morning air.
It was still black outside, the sun having yet to crack the horizon. He dialed
Bobby's house number and got a response on the fourth ring. Pacing, he unloaded
the entire story to his father figure, voice still loud with outrageous shame
and anger. When he was finished recounting the way he lost it minutes ago,
Bobby was as silent as Castiel. Then a sudden growl. "You idjit, I told you it
was dumb to buy him in the first place, but this has gotta be a whole new level
a naive for you. Of course he's traumatized, jackass! You would be too if you
watched your brother be starved, raped and mutilated by complete strangers from
a different plane of existence!" He scoffed.
After a moment so drawn Dean began to sweat the old man continued. "Your only
choice is to go back in there 'n make things right. That's 'f he ain't
scrambled out through the damn air vents by now, since you scared the daylights
outta him by yellin'! Call me back 'f he's missin', otherwise I don't wanna
hear from you til tomorrow when you get him safely here!" With vehemence he
hung up.
Startled by the reality of the situation, the word rape floundering through his
head, Dean stood still. It was several minutes before his breathing returned to
a normal pace and he felt calm enough to go back into the motel room and
apologize. He slowly opened the door, so afraid that the room would be empty,
the TV eerily playing it's sad sitcom jingle to no one.
Castiel had scrambled under the bed almost as soon as Dean had gone, his wings
wrapping around him, encasing his body tightly. He closed his eyes, adding to
the darkness that now surrounded him. Being surrounded by his wings was a
common feeling for Castiel, and being hidden made it much easier for him to
calm down. Of course, Castiel didn’t know that his feathers were peeking out
from the bottom of the bed, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
It took almost a full twenty minutes for Castiel to come out of his panic
attack and begin to think clearly again. Though he had not been able to hear
them correctly at the time, Dean’s words came rushing through his head. There
was no way Castiel could have known any of what the hunter had been yelling
about and he felt wronged for expecting to know them. Of course, always being
assumed to be like someone like John Winchester had to be hard for Dean as
well.
Castiel didn’t know what to do. He could leave. There was a window at the back
of the room that he could always smash his way out of. However, he was still
incredibly weak. He had no idea where he was or where the closest angel
settlement might be. His chances out there were slim to none. At least here he
had food and a place to sleep. Well, he did. Castiel had no idea if Dean would
still extend the same kindnesses after what had happened. He suddenly found
himself wishing for home.
Now, every angel wished they could return to Heaven, but that was not the home
Castiel was thinking of. No, as much as he would like it, he was not stupid
enough to dwell on the impossible. Or so he’d thought. Castiel thought back to
the very first settlement, right after the fall. The archangels had acquired
vessels and were trying to spread strength and hope throughout the ranks.
Castiel remembered Gabriel.
Gabriel had always been different. A carefree, go-with-the-flow kind of angel.
No one had a sense of humor like him. Castiel remembered how he had taken all
the younger angels, the ones with the bodies of children and toddlers that
reflected their celestial age. He remembered how Gabriel had spoken with them
plainly rather than leaving them out of the loop, managing to wrangle a few
smiles out of them in the process. He remembered how the very next day,
Gabriel’s body was hanging in the closest town square, spread out like the
crucifix. He had been one of the first to be taken.
Countless other images suddenly streamed through Castiel’s head. Uriel, Anael,
Balthazar, Naomi, and so many others. Without even realizing it, Castiel had
begun to cry. What had started as muffled tears soon dissolved into choking
sobs. Castiel curled in on himself even more if that were possible, his body
shaking under the bed with the force of his crying. Never had he so vehemently
wished for things to be back to the way they were. Angels were not meant to be
on Earth. Dean could have all the good intentions in the world, but even if he
wanted to protect Castiel, he could not protect him from everything. He could
not protect Castiel from his father. One way or another, Castiel would end up
like his brothers and sisters, but today was not that day. This was why he
cried. Not to mourn them or to mourn himself, but to plead for his fate to come
sooner rather than later. He was almost jealous that they did not have to watch
the decline of their people.
"Castiel. Please come out."
The words were soft. He knelt near the end of the bed, palms on the carpet,
positioned to stop the angel from running. Yes, the possibility flooded his
mind that the angel might be acting in order to barrage Dean and escape.
Though, he hadn't broken through the window or air vent. Maybe his harsh sobs
were honest, borne of the terror and agony he undoubtedly survived since the
fall.
But angels weren't supposed to feel. That was one of the things hunters, like
his father, were supposedly researching. They desperately sought to answer the
age-old question of whether or not supernatural creatures could possess human
emotions and characteristics. Judging by the jagged breaths Castiel was failing
to suck in, Dean guessed they could. Or maybe the young angel was simply more
perceptive, more sensitive to the ebb and flow of the mortal heart and mind.
A tip of wing peeked out from under the mattress. Dean frowned, knowing he
would have to wash and re-dress a few of the wounds. There would be lint, dirt,
and immeasurable amounts of miscellaneous crap rolled up like tumble weeds in
the narrow space. It was phenomenal Castiel managed to fit. That thought served
only to push Dean to the edge. It had to have hurt him, his wings scraping
against the metal frame of the bed. The raw skin around his neck attracting
flecks of dust. The broken ribs searing with pain as his thin body convulsed
with sobs. Had he ever sobbed before? Was he unable to stop crying because the
physical manifestation itself frightened him?
"Please," he heard again. This time weaker, gentler. Was that really his own
voice? Even when Sam was a baby in need of comfort he was not so sweet. "I'm
sorry I went off like that, you don't gotta cry about it. I'm just... I'm an
asshole, okay? People are right about me. But there's one thing they're not
right about." He inhaled, exhaled. The angel was still suffocating. Dean
repressed the parental urge to drag him from under the bed and hold him until
he submitted. He imagined what it might be like to have feathers pressed
against his skin, his arms wrapped tight around a boy his brother’s age, a
young angel completely out of his mind with sorrow.
To touch him would be awful. Especially after triggering this violent response.
"I'm sorry," he repeated faintly. "Come out. I'm not gonna yell or... or hurt
you." He already had hurt the angel. Hadn't he? Physically and otherwise. Dean
hung his head, gritted his teeth against the hot tears that caused his jaw to
tingle. He would not dare cry with Castiel as witness. It would be too
audacious, even for him, to undermine the tragedy of a friggen angel. His
mother's death and father's insanity couldn't compare to being locked out of
Heaven and stolen by another species. No, he wouldn't cry here.
Resigned, exhausted, pathetic, he pleaded one more time. "I'm sorry, okay? It's
safe, you can come out now. You don't have to cry anymore."
Dean’s voice was soft and gentle, completely unlike how he had yelled before.
It almost made him cry harder to hear how the hunter was trying to coax him out
of hiding. Slowly, Castiel tried to calm himself down. It was slow going. He
would almost get there sometimes only to be waylaid by another image that only
set him off once more. He wanted to tell Dean that he was not necessarily
crying because of him, but Castiel could not find the words.
It was maybe a full half hour before Castiel managed to quiet himself down, now
reduced to small hiccups and sniffles. That had been the first time he had ever
cried in his life and it was not really all that enjoyable of an experience.
His chest ached and his throat hurt. His head pulsed and his eyes felt worn
out. In short, he felt pathetic. A simple act such as crying as reduced him, a
celestial being, to a state of pain and exhaustion. He never would have dreamed
that he could have fallen so low.
Castiel finally decided to pull himself out from under the bed. Part of him had
no idea how he’d gotten under in the first place, having shoved himself beneath
it in a fit of panic. He wiggled away from Dean’s voice, trying to emerge on
the other side of the bed. It took some maneuvering and no small amounts of
pain to squeeze himself back out. His eyes were ringed with red, his face was
blotchy, and he was covered in dust as he stood there, staring at the ground.
Castiel had never felt so small.
He did not trust himself to speak. He feared that his voice would crack or
waver and after exhibiting such weakness in front of his captor, Castiel would
not allow such a thing to happen. He couldn’t afford to. Dean was still someone
that Castiel had to be wary of, no matter his kind words or actions. For the
past few grueling years, it had been drilled into Castiel not to trust humans
and he couldn’t let himself slip up now. Even though he so badly wanted to.
Even though he so desperately wanted some kind of comfort, he would not seek
it. He would not allow it.
He wings suddenly shook themselves out, breaking the unsure silence of the room
with the heavy sound of fluttering feathers as dust fell off them in puffs.
Castiel lifted a hesitant hand and did the same to his hair, rubbing at it to
get the dust out. He did not look at Dean.
“I think it would be best if we went to sleep,” Castiel said quietly. He did
not want to dwell on his embarrassing and weak outburst, nor did he want to
think about what had caused it in the first place. He was stuck here if he
wanted to survive. Though that was currently under a bit of debate, Castiel
knew that staying here for the time being was best. There was nothing he could
do about who Dean was or what had happened to him. He would still be going to a
man named Bobby tomorrow and Dean would still be John Winchester’s son. No
amount of words would change that and the fatigue of the day was finally
catching up with Castiel. He just wanted to sleep and forget for a few hours.
He was shaken, jarred. Sitting on his heels, hands pressed into sticky carpet,
he craned his neck to look up at Castiel. "You're right," he managed. Then he
stood up to find, in his renewed sense of awareness, that he was several inches
taller than the angel, who stood remarkably slight and red-eyed across the
room.
Before he folded beneath the covers he shifted the deadbolt on the door, shut
off the bathroom and overhead lights, leaving only the dim lamp by the bed and
the quiet blue TV. Dean forgot the program was on because Castiel's sobs were
so loud. His face remained gaunt with guilt, pulled into a frown with eyes
glassed over. They did need sleep, both the human and angel. The following day
would be an entirely different type of struggle. They would be in the car all
day, possibly hungry and bored. How would the angel act when Dean turned on the
radio, or tried to push the truck past ninety miles an hour to lose time? How
would his wings possibly be comfortable in the cab of a truck?
The sheets were scratchy against his bare legs. He wanted to ask Castiel if he
preferred to sleep with noise, light, or silence, but it was obvious the angel
was finished talking for the night. Additionally, he likely wouldn't have a
preference, seeing as for the past several weeks, months or years he had been a
slave. His choice was not considered in anything up until now. Perhaps that was
one reason he seemed so quiet. He didn't know how to read Dean's incessant
offers. That made the weight upon him heavier. He needed to lay down.
On the other side of the blinds the sun began to rise, but neither boy noticed.
Their room was shrouded in static white light once the bedside lamp was off.
Only the television was left on; it was the fairest compromise Dean could think
of. Hopefully the angel would not be bothered.
"Hey, Castiel?" He was too stupid to keep his mouth shut longer than a few
minutes. Despite being ready to collapse, his brain buzzed. "You don't have to
say nothin', I just wanna say thank you. 'n if you're still here when I get up
I'd like to buy us breakfast. Diner down the street I can order from, we'll eat
here outta Styrofoam containers. Watch the news. You ever seen the news?" When
he heard no response he remembered that this was a creature several centuries
old. He wasn't interested in the news; he was interested in getting better so
he could zap himself back home. Just because he looked like a young kid didn't
mean he was interested in doing stuff like eating, watching TV and listening to
classic rock.
There was a reason Dean didn't have friends-- or didn't keep them. He always
snuffed things out before they could begin. Just as Sam believed he was in some
way unclean, Dean believed he was inherently destructive. Castiel was not his
friend, could not be his friend. Again, he told himself, it would be incredibly
foolish to entertain that thought. Still it spun him in circles, and in an
effort to ward off imminent nightmares he quipped against the stiff pillow.
"Night, angel 'f Thursday. Wake me 'f you get scared."
Castiel moved awkwardly, unsure how to act now. While Dean went around
preparing the room for sleep, Castiel set to preparing his bed. He removed the
pillows and placed the neatly on the floor. He folded down the top blanket and
the sheet underneath all the way to the foot of the bed. He wouldn’t need any
of those things. Castiel climbed onto the bed gingerly, getting himself more or
less settled before having his wings cocoon him once more. It was a defensive
way of sleeping that all angels had developed. A shield against danger. It
blocked out any light left in the room and shrouded Castiel in familiarity,
calming him down a great deal as the room became silent.
Once again Castiel considered leaving. Dean had more or less left it open to
him by saying he would purchase them food if he was still here in the morning.
It almost seemed as though Dean expected him to leave. He could. Though he was
not yet a strong flyer, it was possible that he could escape somehow, against
all odds. It would be much easier if he knew where he was. Castiel was well
aware that his previous settlement would no longer be in the same place if
anyone was left, but he knew their travel patterns. He knew what direction they
would head in and if Castiel could get his bearings, it was possible that he
could make it home. And yet, he made no move to get up. Dean’s words had
surprised him. He seemed genuinely repentant for the pain he had caused
Castiel. It was for that reason that the angel stayed. Not only was Dean a
definite source of food and shelter, but he seemed to only grow kinder as time
went on. He was a human like Castiel had never experienced. He waited until it
sounded as though the hunter was asleep to respond. “Goodnight Dean.”
Nightmares plagued Castiel, as they always did, but now they seemed worse than
ever. There was a new star to his dreams. A green eyed, freckled face. Horrible
things happened, things Castiel would never remember in the morning. His wings
being slowly cut into pieces. Being skinned slowly as his grace leaked out of
him, followed by human blood. The collar made a reappearance, choking Castiel
even tighter than it had been in reality, but this time it was not removed. He
tossed and turned within his cocoon of feathers, whimpering as the nightmares
played on. Castiel was unable to awake, like he always was, but never so loud
as to wake anyone else. Sleeping in close quarters with others for many years
had taught him that much at least. When he finally surged awake, it was well
into morning, the light coming through the windows hurting his eyes.
He rubbed the sleep from his tired eyes, stretching out as much as his injured
body would allow. He did not look over towards Dean’s bed. He did not remember
much of his dreams. He never did. However, green eyes stuck out in his mind.
Though Dean had shown no tendencies towards that particular brand of cruelty,
Castiel could never allow himself to assume. Not yet. Too much heart had always
been Castiel’s problem. Too trusting. He could not allow that to be his
downfall once more.
Sleep came like a hammer, hard and uneasy. He heard Castiel bid him goodnight,
which felt like an honor, and began to drift off. Noises roused him frequently,
one being the ruffle of feathers, which was foreign to him. The first few times
he woke with a racing heart, afraid a monster was in the room. It wouldn't be
the first time. Slowly he began to familiarize himself with the noise. He lay
there listening to Castiel whimper, twist and shout, committing the sounds to
memory. It would be easier to live with him, and to help him should he ever be
in trouble, if he knew the angel's personal intricacies.
The thought of waking him from his nightmares tempted Dean more than once, but
he knew it would likely cause the angel to panic. Instead he got up, groggy but
unable to return to sleep, and opened the blinds enough to let in a bar of
bright light. He flicked the TV to one of the news stations, saw that it was
around ten in the morning on a weekday. It would be risky to leave Castiel
alone to go get food, though he seemed engulfed, cocooned and slightly vocal.
Still, they needed a hearty meal before the long drive. Making a judgment call,
he grabbed the complementary newspaper from the day before and wrote a note on
one of the pages. Went to pick up food, be back soon.
--
It was cheap, hot food, and he winked at the waitress before leaving. Outside,
peering into the cab of his truck, was a man he recognized only vaguely from
some hunt with Dad years ago. Friendly, with a face of leather and grey hair,
he turned and called out Dean's name. Without reason, the teen's heart began to
beat heavy and quick. Though there was no sign of immediate threat, the fact
that this hunter was suspiciously peeking at his belongings was a bad sign.
"How's it goin, Chet?" He did his best to appear relaxed, confident.
"It's well, thanks. In town working with your father on a project... Hey,
listen, I'm just giving you a heads up, he and some of the people on his team
think you purchased an angel illegally last night at the auction. I doubted you
were there, but now that you're in front of me, I'm... I'm not so sure." His
face was kind, the sun in his eyes, despite the horrible reality of his words.
Shaking his head and supplying a cover, Dean said, "Came into town to check on
Dad, but didn't buy anythin'." There was no way anyone would know. The name he
bought Castiel under was Luther Vandross, and not many people would recognize
the elder son on sight.
He saw the man's eyes flick to the three Styrofoam containers in the plastic
bag. "Really? Then what, you just have the appetite of a horse?"
"Always have. Breakfast and lunch in here, drivin' back home in a little
while." His body was tense with worry, which he hoped the other hunter couldn't
see.
Finally the man said, "At any rate, Dean, he's looking for you. So if you do
have a secret to hide, you better hide it quick, get out of town, or both." He
raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Have a good one."
"You, too, Andy. And thanks." The man gave a little wave as he walked off and
up the steps to the diner. Dean sighed, kicked himself back into motion and
climbed into the truck.
--
"Castiel? Hey, buddy, wake up. We gotta eat and run." He continued to talk as
he opened up the containers on the tiny table by the window. His leather jacket
was hung over the back of one chair, his cell phone set next to the steaming
pile of food. "I wasn't sure what to get you, 'f you eat meat or not, so I just
got eggs and toast. But, hey, I've got extra, extra bacon and cheese, so you
want some you have some of mine. Got it? Oh, and there's coffee here. You ever
had coffee?" He sat down, picked up some plastic silverware and shoveled food
into his mouth like a sin.
Castiel rolled out of bed gently. Today there was less pain and it had devolved
into a full body ache instead. There was something frantic and worried in the
air around Dean. It worried Castiel by extension. That made him a little
nervous. He hadn't expected to become sensitive to the hunter's emotions so
quickly. He didn't like it. Rather than press Dean for what was bothering him,
Castiel stayed quiet and simply cooperated instead. He sat himself down at the
table and awkwardly picked up one of the forks. He had watched humans for
thousands of years and he knew exactly what it was used for but it felt strange
and foreign in his fingers. Castiel watched Dean silently for a moment before
trying to copy his movements, albeit at a much slower pace. The food was like
nothing he had ever tasted before and he was sure that it was reflected on his
face. He tried a little bit if everything, discovering that bacon was something
he thoroughly enjoyed. He tried to eat quickly, sensing Dean's urgency though
he was not very eager to get back in the car. It was hard to settle his wings
comfortably and he still sensed some awkwardness between him and Dean after
what had happened last night.
"Thank you for providing breakfast," Castiel finally said quietly, chancing a
glance up at Dean. He could not remember the last time he ate so much food in
one sitting. He was used to maybe four mouthfuls before passing the plate to
the next hungry mouth. "If you're eager to leave, I will require just a moment
to relieve myself." Castiel gave Dean a quick nod before he stood and holed
himself up in the bathroom. He used the toilet and made sure to wash his hands
and face. He tried to go as quickly as possible and reemerged into the room
soon after leaving. He had no possessions to back or take so he was immediately
ready to leave whenever Dean was.
With the same fervor and awe as last night he watched the angel eat. It was
awkward and endearing, seeing as the hot food required some type of dinnerware.
Eggs and bacon slid off the fork several times before Castiel began to get used
to balancing it on the way to his mouth. He seemed to enjoy the meal, although
there was a tense expression on his face. Had Dean let anything slip about
seeing Chet at the diner? Was he still feeling the gravity of his nightmares
from hours ago? It could be anything, he decided, and continued to gaze
contentedly across the table.
"You don't gotta thank me, dude. I'm here to help, 'n I'm not gonna let you
starve any more than you already have. When Bobby sees you he's gonna flip
shit. You gotta be 5'9 'n less than 110. That's scary." Dean stood up,
confident in his weight and stature, gathered their empty containers and tossed
them in the garbage. While Castiel was in the bathroom he slid the oversize
leather coat around his shoulders, made sure he had his wallet, phone and keys.
His only other belonging was the small bag of clothes and toiletries, some of
which were now on Castiel.
As soon as he reached down for the bag he realized his error. "Shit," he
hissed, then called loudly, "Hey, Cas? Castiel?" The shortened version of his
name came out unconsciously, he meant nothing by it. The thin wooden door
opened to reveal the angel. Dean looked at him with what he hoped was a
sympathetic expression. "I gotta check your shit before we leave. Forgot cause
you got the shirt on, 'n the wings, 'n it just covered everythin' up. Well,
'cept that." He pointed to his own neck in reference to the other's. "I know
you don't wanna, but it's for your own benefit. Unbutton the shirt so I can
check those gashes 'n ribs."
Castiel's hand instinctively went to brush over his neck. His mind flashed back
to the plastic biting into his skin, the harsh words, and the ache in his
lungs. He knew that he had gone very tense and that Dean could see it. Castiel
was still very hesitant about letting the hunter close enough to treat him, now
even more so after the problems they'd had last night. However, he knew that
for whatever reason, they were pressed for time. After a minute or two, Castiel
finally reached up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt to let Dean do whatever it
was he wanted to do. His wings were pulled against his back, almost trying to
comfort himself and feel them against his back. He was still greatly
apprehensive about what sounded like a long car ride, especially during the day
when anyone could look in and see him. He looked down at Dean who was now re-
treating his wounds.
"Is there perhaps a large blanket in your possession?" he asked quietly, "I
feel it would be better if my wings were not on display." He didn't mention how
it would make him anxious, to have his wings even slightly restrained in such a
small space or how there was very little chance that he would be comfortable.
That wasn't important. At least not to Castiel.
He began to press his fingertips gently against Castiel's pale-- and in some
places vividly discolored-- skin. Irrational shame washed over him when he had
to press delicately against the broken ribs. They could be counted, like the
knots Dean noticed in his spine the night before. His chest, abdomen and pelvis
were tightly laced with muscle striations, only proving the strain and terror
his vessel was put under. With a few hiss-like curses and, "C'mere, c'mere," he
managed to redress the wound above the nipple and the one near his hip. The
ring around his neck needed only a quick dabbing down with a saturated cotton
ball.
Finally he pulled away, straightened to his full height. It was now the
question registered. "Oh, right... Yeah, dude, here," he reached onto the floor
where the blanket brought in from the truck was left. Castiel, strange as it
was, slept within his wings. Last night was a production on several levels, one
of which being Dean's first encounter of a teenage body resting wrapped up in
enormous, ink-slick wings. He stole one last guilty glance at the gap between
the boy's legs, the straight fall of flannel against his purpled skin, before
he turned to finish gathering the woolen material in his arms.
One more time he said, "C'mere." His voice was barely audible. There was
something about the tension he felt seconds ago in Castiel's muscles that
furthered the guilt he felt. His hands were poised with the blanket held up in
the air, but before he would wrap it around his travel buddy he needed to make
his intention clear. The look on the angel's face, the way his muscles vibrated
with effort involuntarily sent a message to Dean that he refused to ignore. "I
know this gonna be tough. 'n I'm gonna be real with you now. We'll be in the
truck drivin' for about seven hours." He shut his eyes against the look on the
other's face. "I know, okay? I know. But Bobby's place is the safest place we
could possibly go, so we gotta get there. 'n I'm gonna have to drive the speed
limit, cause I ain't takin' any chances, alright?"
In a swift motion slow enough to be predictable he swung the blanket high up
over the rounded arch of Castiel's wings. He tried to lay it evenly, so it
might be less uncomfortable, then placed the bunched folds in the two-- were
they trembling?-- hands. He felt sick with guilt. Maybe he shouldn't have
bought him at all. Had he left him there the angel would eventually be drained,
killed, put out of his misery. This whole attempt at rehabilitation was as
futile as it was dangerous; Dean was quickly beginning to regret his decision
to do the things he did for the cash, to drive out to the angel settlement in
the first place.
His hands fell to his sides, his entire body sequestered by the illness that
took him then. It was something like numbness, his mind shut down from the
gravity of his choices. In a matter of fact way he locked eyes with Castiel.
They were dark blue in this lighting, though at the auction they appeared as
vapor. "'f it gets to be too much, tell me. 'f you don't like the music I'm
playin', 'f you gotta piss, 'f you get hungry or need to stop and stretch out,
tell me. The only way we'll get there without you self-combustin' outta agony
is 'f you communicate with me." He emphasized the point because Castiel barely
spoke since last night. Aside from the one description of his past, which Dean
assumed was the most he would ever hear.
"Promise me you'll talk?"
Castiel buttoned his shirt back up as soon as possible. Though Dean's touch was
soft and gentle, Castiel still could not bring himself to be completely
comfortable with the proximity or the way that Dean looked at him with guilt
and pity in his eyes. It made Castiel feel worse than he already did if that
were possible. To have a human look down on him with pity was degrading and he
found himself preferring scorn and contempt. They, at least, were feelings one
could have towards an equal, but pity was an emotion saved for those viewed as
below.
His hands did shake as he took the blanket from Dean. It took work to simply
stand there and allow himself to be touched and prodded. A large portion of him
still expected Dean to treat him with violence despite much evidence to the
contrary. The thought of seven hours in a car borderline terrified him. Stuck
in an enclosed space for an extended amount of time was not Castiel's idea of
comfort. Still, Dean's request surprised him and had Castiel taking a step back
from his eye contact and serious tone. Of course, it was very unlikely that he
would voice any kind of complaint. Castiel had never been put in a position
where his opinion or voice had been desired. Any time he had spoken any such
thoughts had not been met with a welcoming air, so he'd learned very quickly to
stay as quiet as physically possible and take it. This would likely be no
different.
Of course, Dean didn't have to know that.
"I promise," Castiel answered quietly, eyes a little wide with surprise, "If it
is what you would prefer." Pleasing others had become Castiel's main goal in
almost all situations because that was often met with the least cruelty.
Regardless of how numb touching the trembling vessel's mortal wounds made him,
the implication that Castiel felt compelled to please him registered. And it
pissed him the fuck off.
Before he spoke he checked himself, nothing more than a bitter chuckle
emanating from his chest. A few steadying breaths later he said through gritted
teeth, "'s not about what I prefer. Don't make this about me, dude, cause it's
not. It 's about gettin' you somewhere safe, where you can get healthy. Maybe
we can figure out a damn way to get you guys back home." He realized that the
angel, who had yet to meet Bobby or other agents of service, doubted completely
that humans could find a way to reverse that spell and send the species home.
Hopefully the old man would school the winged baby. That is, if they ever made
it to his house alive. The apprehensive look on Chet's face when he said that
Dad was looking for him was still fresh in his mind.
Another suck of air and he repeated it. "'s not about what I prefer. I need to
know what makes you feel happy 'n comfortable 'n... 'n friggen angely, okay? So
promise me cause you're promisin' me you'll talk, not 'cause you're tryina
appease me." At that point he stooped to pick up the tote bag, double-checked
for his keys and turned to the door. He held it open for Castiel, who moved
slowly as not to catch his wings on the grungy metal frame. The truck was
merely two yards away, and they passed that distance within seconds. There were
no onlookers in sight. He held the truck door open, too, though he refrained
from putting a firm hand against his arm when he faltered climbing in. It was
instinctive, a gesture he'd adopted from nineteen years of raising his own
child, Sam. However, this was not a human child. It was a member of another
realm, traumatized to the point of potential psychosis.
When he turned the ignition he thought he saw Castiel start. He looked over and
reassured him. "Ain't gonna be as bad as you think it is. I mean, it's gonna be
bad. But you promised you'd tell me when you need me to stop, when you're
hungry. So it ain't gonna be that bad. Here, we'll listen to some tunes. You
ever heard Black Sabbath?" He noticed then that his travel buddy had yet to
answer any of his offhand questions. They were all casual, the type of
questions designed to subtly build relationship. By ignoring him, Castiel was
passively denying anything like a relationship, be it travel buddies or
friends. He sighed, resigned, and turned the volume knob just so before
plugging the truck into reverse.
Dean was a very curious human. Castiel did not understand his constant attempts
at conversation. It was most likely a social cue that Castiel was not picking
up on, but he honestly he couldn't make himself care all that much. The
intricacies of human societal culture were not his main concern. Castiel was
much more focused on what was making Dean anxious and finding more information
on the unfounded claim that Dean had made towards undoing the spell. Dean's
initial reaction towards Castiel's promise had been strange as well. The angel
had picked up on his anger but did not understand it.
After maybe a half hour of complete silence, save for the music, Castiel spoke
again.
"Mankind's music has a far greater range than the songs of Heaven," he said
softly, staring at the speakers with a tilted head as if they would tell him
why that was. He could sense Dean's unease though he could not find the source
and that worried Castiel. Filling the silence with his own voice broke the
tension slightly and actually made him feel a little better. Despite this, he
was still pressed against his side of the car with the blanket wrapped around
him as tightly as it could be like he had been since the ride began.
His wings were already itching to stretch out and move but Castiel said
nothing. The ride had barely begun and they could not afford to stop just yet.
He shifted slightly to allow them more room before casting a glance back to
ensure that they were still hidden by the blanket. He couldn't risk his wings
being seen on a busy road like this simply for his own comfort. Dean was still
the safest option out of all the others presented before Castiel and though
that didn't make him feel any better about it, it did make him think twice
about bolting.
Whether it was his chick of the week, family, or the queer-ass angel, Dean
welcomed a warm presence at the opposite end of the leather bench seat. Of
course he meant queer as in unusual. He had no idea how feathers identified
themselves, if they even possessed sexual preference. Regardless, he felt easy
now, unperturbed by whatever made him hasty to leave earlier. The fact that the
angel inadvertently validated his taste in music was also charming, and he
caught Castiel's self-conscious glance back at his shrouded wings. He chuckled,
"Got a lotta back roads comin' our way, so I'll let you know when you can take
that thing off."
His favorite part of the song came on and he tapped with fervor against the
wheel. Though he wasn't ready to belt out lyrics in front of Castiel, he still
got pretty involved. After the track ended he added further explanation. "It's
a cabin, over a hundred acres of land. He owns a junkyard, but hardly anyone
comes by 'cept the guys that run the auto shop in town, 'n they're hunters,
too. Not that type. Bobby's not like my dad, or those sick bastards that fucked
you up." A snapshot flashed through his head, vivid enough to give him pause.
Anger turned in the pit of his stomach and he remembered his promise. That he
would rip to shreds whoever laid hands on Castiel, should he ever have the
opportunity. He knew, without a doubt, that he would. In his experience the
worst things materialized at exactly the worst moments.
The thought of avenging caused him to glance over and notice how the afternoon
sun turned the angel's eyes to blue ice. More words spilled out, eager to
justify, though he knew the other would not care. "I didn't ask for this life.
When my mom died Sammy 'n I were babies, 'n Dad became totally obsessed with
findin' the thing that killed her. He's one twisted son of a bitch, I'll admit
that. But guys like Bobby taught me that just cause I was raised a hunter don't
mean I gotta live on the dark side. There's a reason behind what we do, 'n
that's to help.
"At Bobby's nobody's gonna make you hide or cover your wings or talk down to
you. Nobody's gonna make you cry." A motorcycle whizzed by. Aside from that,
the traffic was minimal. That contributed to the safe, pleasant feeling that
built like a smooth crescendo against his diaphragm. One question burned behind
his tongue, and he held it for several songs. Then, either too stupid to know
his place or too intelligent to remain ignorant to another's emotions, he
asked, "Did I really make you cry? Or was it somethin' else? I mean, that shit
was intense, 'n I definitely don't deserve that much credit for a little
yellin'. Just sayin... So what was it?"
Castiel went quiet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell Dean the reason he had
been crying. It was extremely personal. They were feelings that Castiel hadn’t
even realized he had until that moment. One thing that mankind had interpreted
somewhat correctly from the word of God was his stance on suicide. Though he
accepted everyone with equal love and would not turn away a sinless soul simply
because of how they passed, God did feel a certain sadness and almost betrayal
when someone ended the gift of life. Castiel has now come to understand the
feelings that could drive a person to that point and he understood their
choice.
“It was an accumulation of things,” Castiel finally said softly. He paused,
unsure if he wanted to go on or not. He could already tell what Dean thought of
him and he didn’t want to reinforce his feelings of pity. He glanced over at
the hunter, trying to decide what would be wiser. Dean seemed dead-set on
making him comfortable. Castiel reasoned that the more information he had, the
easier that would be. That didn’t stop him from pressing closer to the door and
turning his face to look out the window. “Your identity and the resulting panic
attack jumpstarted it,” Castiel continued at last, “I found myself wishing that
I were anywhere else. Angels don’t belong on Earth and I wanted to be back
home. I began remembering my brothers and sisters and how they died, something
I had never permitted myself to think of before. I found myself feeling jealous
of them, that they were taken so quickly in the beginning and did not have to
suffer as I have.”
It was a personal revelation, one that he couldn’t stop thinking about. Ending
things just sounded so simple.
There was nothing to say for quite some time. It wasn't the content that sapped
him of all ability to respond. Rather, he was startled beyond admission by the
fact that Castiel had gone out on a limb and told him something. Something
personal, private and true. As if the edge of that wasn't sharp enough to slice
his gut open, there was the way the angel worded it. Sure, his vocabulary was
immense, since he'd probably studied every language that ever existed. But the
deliberate syntax. I had never permitted myself. That any being, angel or
otherwise, could have such extreme self-control that they could decide what to
and not to think about was harrowing. What other things was Castiel hiding?
What if Bobby was right, and he'd been raped? Forced to kill his family? Used
as part of an experiment and shipped off to someone else?
Dean needed to prove his strength. His heartbeat was rushed, blood thick in his
veins. He tightened his grip around the wheel slightly, so his knuckles barely
lost color. Whatever Castiel decided to tell him he had to receive with
patience, and without shock. The worst thing to do when someone admitted to
feeling anything like suicidal was to act disgusted or surprised. It was
nothing he couldn't relate to-- family deaths and envying their being gone.
Though, as recent as last night the angel yearned for death. What terrible
thing had Dean done? When he could, he faced the angel, conscious of his
expression. Doing his best to remain casual, open, he said, "Thanks for tellin'
me. Man, I woulda just thought raised voices made you snap."
The joke was ill taken. He weakly cleared his throat. Maybe he could prove
himself by offering a comparison. They might be of two different realms, but
they were similar in at least one regard. "Sometimes I still feel like that.
Y'know, with Mom gone 'n Dad... She'd be pissed if she knew how he left me to
raise Sammy. Not like I mind, but 's not right. I've had a lot put on me. It
would be easier, I think, things would be better 'f I were dead." He swallowed
hard. "When I heard you cry like that I just thought maybe I shoulda left you
there. Not like-- I mean, fuck. I'm tryina say that I know how you feel. 'n
your sobbin' was awful, dude, I thought it mighta been better 'f I left you in
that shithole to get killed off like the rest of them. Like maybe you'd want
that more than me gettin' you better, makin' you survive with all the pain."
What felt like a considerable length of time passed, and the stereo turned to
white noise when the album played out. It smoothed his guilt like a palm over
cloth. The distance between them suddenly felt too small. "It's a curse to be
as strong as you are, isn't it?"
“At times,” Castiel admitted softly, pulling his knees up against his chest so
he could rest his chin on them, “But it is not the right kind of strength. When
healthy, we have immense physical strength, incomparable self-control, and a
desire to exist in structure in order. That is the kind of strength we possess.
We were never meant to undergo hardships as we have here.” This was a dangerous
line of conversation. There were many things that Castiel no longer allowed
himself to dwell on, but this line of conversation was slowly bringing them to
the forefront. All the struggles he’d been through, all the pain he’d suffered,
all the horrors he’d seen.
“I’d prefer if we didn’t talk about this anymore,” Castiel said after a moment.
Dean wanted him to tell him when he was uncomfortable, and now he was. He
doubted he would talk much for the remaining six and a half hours of the trip.
Castiel had been pulled out of his comfort zone in more ways than one within
the past few days and now he just wanted to curl up on his own for a while. He
wished he could wrap himself within his wings. They made him feel safe and
protected, even if it was just an illusion.
Castiel had always found solace in his wings. They shrouded him in comforting
darkness. No one had wings colored like his and it had always isolated him a
bit, even amongst his own kind. Even at a young age, Castiel had been a bit of
a loner. In Heaven, he had always had a different thought process. His interest
in humans was seen as unnatural. All other angels viewed humans as one of God’s
great works and nothing more. Nothing to get excited about. Castiel was
different. He loved watching them grow and learn and evolve. It was like
nothing else in the universe. He would often spend time alone, enjoying on
particular man’s Heaven where it was always springtime in a meadow and he was
flying a kite. Once they had been forced to Earth, Castiel had nowhere to run
to and so his wings had become his safe haven. No matter what had happened to
him, Castiel had always been able to find comfort in his wings. It was one
thing that had never been taken away from him.
He watched the scenery pass by in the window. Everyone else in the passing
vehicles looked so happy and carefree. Families on road trips, friends having a
day out. They seemingly had no idea what was happening in the world around
them. The pain that was most likely mere miles away. Castiel couldn’t decide
what was worse; being invisible or having all of his pain invalidated by that
invisibility.
They stopped once at a thruway rest stop. Dean went to the bathroom and bought
them both food. It was generic fried chicken with little side dishes of mac'
and cheese and mashed potatoes. Again, he wasn't sure if Castiel would like it,
but what choice did they have? It wasn't like he could bring the angel in and
say, Here, look at the friggen menus. Judging by the kid's stature and
expression, he'd probably decide to order a lemon cake and coffee from
Starbucks. With a sigh, he promised himself he would give the angel more
freedom of choice when they arrived at Bobby's, where they could order takeout
or even cook.
The only other stop they made was for Castiel to relieve himself and stretch
his wings. Dean pulled the truck off some random exit, went down a back road
and pulled over in a clearing. They walked several paces in, away from the
road, before he gave the angel an okay signal. He stood with his palm wrapped
around the blade handle in his pocket, which clearly made the angel squirm.
Then, wasn't he used to having little privacy, and some crazy human beside him
with a weapon? He would do what he needed to, to keep them both safe on the
road. At least, that's how he rationalized it to his tired travel buddy.
Later, when the sun was low in the sky and they were about an hour from Bobby's
place, he cleared his throat and said, "Hey, you're good now. Say goodbye to
the damn blanket, unless you're cold. Should be the last time you ever wear
that thing." He spoke with sincerity, genuinely hoping that this whole ass-
fucking situation he'd gotten himself-- and Castiel-- into would resolve itself
for the best.
The road was familiar to him at this point. They were off the highway, and Dean
actually put on a mix tape that belonged to Sammy. It was labeled with red
Sharpie, Rainy Day. Shaking his head he said, "I wonder 'f you'll like this
better. My brother's more of a fruit cake, likes some a this soft crap." The
first track was some shitty remix of Sia's Breathe Me, followed by Lana Del
Rey's Video Games. Whatever. They needed something other than AC/DC, and
Castiel had expressed his interest in human melodies. Maybe he would identify
with some depressing, nasally female vocals.
At least Dean could now trust that if the angel didn't like the music, he would
say so.
Castiel uttered maybe ten syllables for the rest of the ride. He felt as though
he had revealed far too much and had begun to close off completely again,
shutting down as he mentally isolated himself. Two steps forward and five steps
back. He had always been chided for being too open and it had gotten the best
of him again. Castiel’s mental wall had gone up about twenty feet higher.
Eating had been another awkward experience. Castiel still fumbled a bit with
utensils, but he’d managed not to make any messes just like the first time. All
the food Dean had brought him had been relatively new so far. In this case,
Castiel had eaten some of it before but never cooked in this way. He now knew
that the way an item is cooked could greatly change the way it tasted. It was
interesting, but he still did not speak.
Castiel hadn’t asked to pull the car over. Dean had taken notice of his slight
squirming and shifting and pulled over himself. Of course, Castiel wasn’t going
to say no to the opportunity to stretch his wings, but he was uneasy the entire
time. He knew that Dean had some sort of weapon on him and though he was more
than used to humans using weapons on and around him, Castiel hated having his
back turned.
It was another twenty minutes after Dean’s all clear that Castiel finally slid
the blanket from his shoulders. This gave his wings a miniscule amount of more
room, but he took complete advantage of it. They bumped the roof of the truck,
as well as his side of the car. He didn’t really take up any of the space
between him and Dean, sensing some kind of invisible wall whether it was
actually there or not.
The outside whizzed passed as the truck rumbled down the road and Castiel grew
increasingly worried with each passing minute. He had no idea what was waiting
for him at the end of this journey. For all he knew, Dean had been lying the
entire time just to get him to cooperate and he would be thrown into another
torture dungeon or experiment room or worse. Dean’s behavior completely messed
with Castiel’s head and he would not be all that surprised if it had turned out
to be a trick. At the very least, it would make the gray area that had begun to
emerge disappear.
Dean called, said he was in line for fried chicken. Spilled the beans about
Castiel hiding under the bed, sobbing, admitting to suicidal ideation and
missing his family. He described the way the angel slept, wrapped up as if his
feathers would protect him. Well, that made sense. And with some level of pride
the boy described how his new purchase ate a full breakfast, actually told him
when he was through with talking, and had yet to bug out about his constricted
wings. Even though it sounded like there was a piece of the puzzle missing,
Bobby listened intently and offered only a few words before hanging up.
"They'll be here 'n less than three hours!" He walked from the den to the base
of the dusty wooden steps. "Hey, sorry to do this to ya, but you gotta strip
the bed. Dean says he ain't gonna sleep with anythin' other than his damn
wings. Just fold it up 'n set it on the floor nearby in case he changes his
mind, will ya?... Thanks, kid." Together he and the youngest decided to give
Castiel the middle guest room, as per something they'd read about the way
angels structured their settlements to promote safety. Unlike a normal fifteen
year old, Sam was beyond willing to give up his room and share with his smelly
brother for the comfort of somebody else. On top of that, he'd never met an
angel before, and was absolutely out of his wits with excitement. Like Bobby,
he wanted everything to be perfect upon arrival.
Back in the den Bobby noticed how cluttered his place was. Generally it didn't
bother him, but he'd stayed up all night talking with hunters he knew who had
met and attempted to work with traumatized angels. He needed to know what type
of behavior to expect. If he could predict, he might be able to prevent. The
better for Castiel to get on with his healing. Following in suit with that line
of thought he considered the way the cabin might appear to somebody incredibly
wounded. Frankly, from the windows to the sofas, it was stressful; every wall
was stripped wood, the oriental throw rugs were torn and frayed, the
bookshelves emanated the scent of vanillin, and the spread of conglomerate
notes on The Fall, seals, and Ezekiel laid precariously on display before them.
Sam and Dean were used to what he called his Read this 'n you die journals.
There were maps, photographs, flagged pages, scribbles in other languages and
yes, Bobby was partially fluent in Enochian. He hadn't dedicated four years of
studying one subject to have nothing to show. In fact, in the early hours of
the morning when he solidified his approach, he decided to refrain from using
any of the common celestial greetings. Though tempting, he believed it would
only freak the angel out more to know that some humans were aware of the
intricacies of their interactions. He might eventually share his knowledge and
intentions with Castiel, as he inevitably would with the boys, but he hoped to
do it when the time was right. Reluctantly he scooped up the spread, stacked
papers and leather-bounds, and dropped them into a cardboard box tucked under
the desk.
--
The truck approached painfully slow, a trail of airborne dirt drifted behind it
and landed on the sprawl of junked metal frames. Sam was all but tittering on
tiptoes in the gravel nearby. With a firm hand of warning on one bony shoulder
Bobby said, "We gotta be good about this, boy. No second chances with an angel
rare as this'n." An absent nod of confirmation was tossed his way, but the man
wasn't so sure they'd get through this first encounter scot-free. If anything
it would be like going from parenting one damaged child to three. Hell, Castiel
would probably account for a whole bus full of cracked chips.
Like the gentlemen he so desperately pretended to be, Dean walked around the
cab and opened the passenger's side. All he saw for a flash was jet black. A
few feathers swiped freckles gently in the face and he spit comically, careful
not to slam the door behind him. He turned toward the angel and said something
so soft that Bobby couldn't hear. After a pause he stepped forward. "Bobby, do
a little wave or somethin'. There's Bobby, okay? He's a father to me, like I
told you. 'n Sam, please don't wet your pants over him. Yea, that one's my
brother. Sorry bout his face..."
He had almost forgotten the kid was next to him. The wings were, admittedly,
stunning. They reflected the red and purple of the evening sunset, with a
shimmering shade of green thrown in. Seeing them made Sam's silence
understandable, and when he peeked down he saw a precious expression on the
narrow, glowing face. If Castiel didn't look and feel like such shit he might
appreciate the human's reverent reaction. Instead of being cheerful, he looked
stricken by a fatal illness. Bobby genuinely hoped that if he passed out, Dean
would catch him before his head hit the ground.
It was only when prompted that he found his voice. "'s nice to meet you,
Castiel. You wanna come in, or stay out here'n look around?"
Castiel almost had a heart attack as they pulled into the driveway. He was
staring down at his hands, too scared to look up and take a glance out the
window. He barely even registered when Dean climbed out of the car, only
noticing when his door opened and he almost toppled out. Castiel stepped out of
the car against his better judgment and finally looked on the place where he
had been taken.
It was modest in some ways. A simple, but beautiful looking house. It seemed to
be in various states of minor disrepair, but it added a sort of lived-in charm.
The land surrounding the house seemed to be extremely vast. It was filled with
vehicles that looked a lot like the one he and Dean had been traveling in, but
they seemed much worse off. Some were missing doors, some were crushed and
mangled in places. Other seemed perfectly fine, but it was possible they had
some sort of internal problems. The ground beneath his feet was packed dirt,
hard after having been driven over in the same pattern for so many years. Only
after his eyes had darted nervously over every part of the property that he
could see did Castiel risk a glance at the humans who stood before him.
He looked at the younger first, who had been introduced as Sam. Sam nearly
matched the body that had been given to him in age, save for the obvious
physical difference. Sam was human and he was healthy, while Castiel was
neither. His face seemed to be filled with an innocent sense of awe, though for
what Castiel was unsure. He was anything but impressive at the moment and there
was nothing about him now that was capable of striking awe into anybody. There
had once been a time where his name could bring fear to the eyes of sinners.
That was a long time ago.
The older man, Bobby, was much more intimidating. An experienced hunter no
doubt. He looked gruff and a bit rough around the edges, though his words had
been rather kind. He had asked Castiel for a preference, as Dean tended to,
which honestly only served to alarm him further. For all of Castiel’s life
there had been angels and there had been humans. After that fall those lines
had remained crystal clear, though the labels had shifted to friends and
enemies. It was black and white. There was no overlap and no confusion. Now,
Castiel was not so sure. Dean did not fit into either of these categories, not
completely, and it seemed that Bobby would not either. That thought scared
Castiel beyond all reason. He liked knowing exactly what was what, and blurry
gray areas were not things he enjoyed.
All of this was done in a matter of seconds as Castiel stood there next to
Dean. He looked at the three humans in turn and suddenly found himself feeling
threatened and outnumbered, despite the fact that there seemed to be no
immediate danger. Moments later, Castiel was off like a shot. If there was one
thing he had become good at in his time on Earth, it was running. His weakness
and injuries seemed to have no affect on him as he ran, not down the drive
where he and Dean had come from, but further into the junkyard. His wings were
pulled in tightly behind him to avoid getting caught on anything as he ran. He
didn’t dare look back. Looking back only made you slow down. He turned at
random corners, needing to get away, even if only for a minute before they
found him again.
Castiel spotted a pickup truck, similar to the one he had spent the past two
days in, but this one had a canvas cover over the trunk. He skidded to a stop,
almost falling over as he sprinted towards it. He quickly climbed inside and
wrapped himself in his wings. His lungs were on fire and his entire body ached.
If he had been able to fly properly, he would have done that instead, but he
was stuck with this. Castiel scrunched his body together, his head against his
knees as he struggled to calm himself down and breathe normally. There had been
no reason for him to run, but he felt better now that he was alone. He didn’t
cry this time, simply laying there curled in on himself as he tried to wrap his
head around the fact that this was going to be his new life until he was
healthy again, for better or for worse.
Bobby tactfully threw his weight to block Dean from lunging after the angel
like an idiot. He hissed, "Don't you dare, boy! Don't you dare chase him down
after what he's been through!"
Forcibly halted, he stumbled back a step. His eyes were dark green in this
light, visibly torn. "He could hurt himself, Bobby! He's got two fuckin cracked
ribs 'n gashes bigger 'n my palm! He's gonna catch his wings on those goddamn
metal scraps, 'n you're tellin' me to let him do it?"
About ready to slap him silly, he took a deep breath. "Yes. Your brother'n I
went around earlier 'n moved a lot of the scraps, put blankets, towels 'n rags
over the ones that still stuck out. He's likely not injurin' himself, he's just
scared."
"What?" He spat the word, incredulous. Still looked stupid enough to engage in
a chase, which is why Bobby's hand remained carefully poised between their
chests. It would shoot out and clasp Dean's bicep at the slightest motion.
From a few feet away, Sam nodded. "We thought he might escape."
"Watch your language," he corrected lovingly. "He ain't ours, 'n he ain't
Dean's, either. Therefore, he can't technically 'escape'. Say he took off."
"Right, we thought he might take off. So we did what we could to angel-proof
the place. Like child-proof, but for... well."
"Yea, I get the idea," Dean replied gruffly, as if he couldn't believe the
thought his family put into it. He probably couldn't, which is why his
shoulders stayed tensed up. "Whaddyou suggest we do, then? Cause I'm not okay
to just sit here 'n wait for his feathery ass to come back, 'f he ever does."
If he were being honest, he was surprised Castiel hadn't booked it straight out
of the car. Rather, he'd waited a minute, trembling like a lamb, only set off
by the option of staying put or coming inside. Figured, and it gave the man
enough information to go on. He settled on the option he and Sam had reviewed
earlier. The kid enjoyed being involved in the planning, and his decisions
showed Bobby how ready he was to be included in the plan.
He shrugged. "We leave the door open 'n the lights on 'n wait. Dinner's in the
oven. Go help your brother set the table."
"For four?" Sam looked all excited again.
"Yeah, for four." He watched the younger skip the steps and dart through the
door. Dean stood, jaw set, before him. "He's outta his mind cause I gave him an
option. 'n lemme guess, you been doin' it, too." Of course he received a
confirming nod from his son. "Exactly. He don't know what to do with that. Just
relax, 'f you can. Angel like him ain't dumb enough to get himself into
trouble. Prob'ly holed up in a car until he calms down. When he comes back you
need to be ready. Don't bug out, don't act worried or angry. Just... be you, 'f
that's possible." He clapped Dean on the shoulder and led him inside.
--
It was pure agony. The outside light was on, an eerie orange glow attracting
late fall bugs. Tonight the air chilled him where he sat on the couch. He
wanted to sit on the damn front steps and look for signs of movement, but Bobby
said if Castiel saw someone waiting for him at the door it might feel like a
guard, and inadvertently scare him away again. There had yet to be a time when
the old man's suggestions proved wrong. So Dean took another deep breath and
flipped open the cover of the lore book Sam was most recently obsessed with.
The kid went to bed about an hour ago, and Bobby was in the other room at his
desk, out of sight.
Dean's eyes continually flicked towards the open front door, thinking more and
more that buying this stupid angel was the shittiest idea he'd ever had.
Castiel didn't want help, certainly not from humans, and it was exhausting both
his funds and his body to keep up a facade that was quickly going to die out
anyway. He slammed the cover of the book shut, tossed it onto the leather sofa
next to him, and hung his head in his hands.
Castiel stayed holed up the way he was for a long time, just breathing deeply.
He was genuinely surprised that he hadn’t been found yet. He hadn’t even heard
footsteps of anyone looking for him. That fact alone made it a bit easier to
relax and made him let his guard down just the slightest bit. Before Castiel
knew it, he had fallen asleep.
His dreams were strange in that, for once they were dreams, not nightmares. It
was more of a memory than anything else. It was back in the beginning, when
things weren’t as bad as they were now. He and Balthazar had been playing hide
and seek in the center of camp with some of the younger vessels. The wings made
it a little more difficult, but he and Balthazar pretended not to see feathers
sticking out from under things as they walked past. Whenever it was their turn
to hide, Castiel was always found last. He’d discovered that if he wrapped
himself up and found somewhere shadowed, he was already more difficult to see.
His dream self let out a laugh, something he had not done since that day.
Moments later, a hook launched itself through Balthazar’s head and Castiel had
been gathered up by one of the older angels and flown away. He woke up with a
scream, tears streaming down his face.
The air had grown cold, and a quick glance through the opening of his little
hideaway told him that the sun had gone down. He must’ve been in here for hours
if his body felt this cold. Castiel gave himself a few more minutes to calm
down once more. He hated this. Before Dean, it had been so easy to put
everything on lockdown and never think about it. Now this hunter was making him
question things, making him unsure, and it was dragging things out him that
Castiel hadn’t thought about for years.
Slowly, Castiel shuffled his way out of the back of the old pick up truck. He
shivered upon standing outside and feeling the cold ground against his feet and
did not stop as he tried to get his bearings. He could leave now. No one had
come after him and it was unlikely that they knew where he was. He could just
keep running and forget about the gray areas. Something gave him pause, and for
the life of him Castiel could not figure what it was. Rationally, he was still
weak. It would be unwise of him to leave somewhere that was offering him
safety. He could still only feel a tickle of his grace, not enough to survive
on. If he ran into any other hunters, it would be doubtful that he would come
out of the encounter alive.
Looking around, Castiel spotted a small light illuminating a porch. He stood
frozen for another few minutes before he finally tucked in his wings and began
walking towards it. It was slow going. He was cold and hungry, two things he
was very used to, but he was also unfamiliar with the landscape. The darkness
made it harder to see and he tripped over the ground more than once. Almost
three times Castiel stopped himself and made to turn around and leave, but he
couldn’t deny that this was the best option for now. As much as they scared him
and didn’t fit, he had yet to be hurt save for he and Dean’s initial meeting.
He tried not to think about that. Finally, he stood a few feet from the porch,
staring up at the house. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come in without
permission. There wasn’t a lot he was sure about anymore. Hesitantly, he moved
to climb up the two steps, jumping back when they creaked loudly. He had no
idea what to do and he was sure that it showed on his face as he stood there.
The steps that led up to the front door creaked and he lifted his head. "You
can come in."
It was a fight not to jump off the couch and scream Are you okay!? Then, that
would be incredibly stupid to ask. Of course he wasn't okay. He looked like he
was dehydrated, still starving, like to collapse at any second. There were
stains on the flannel that weren't there hours early. In addition, he was
shivering, whether he knew it or not. Seemed even wings weren't good enough to
keep a near-mortal vessel warm. Especially one that hadn't been given shoes
yet; Dean didn't have an extra pair when he clothed the angel last night.
"Can you c'mere please? I wanna check the bandages." He said all of this from
the sofa, hoping it would be less intimidating if he made no advance. When the
silence became a stretch he realized the threshold was as far as the angel was
willing to go for now. With a sigh, Dean stuffed his anger, guilt and sorrow,
and slowly drew to a stand. He approached the angel as delicately as possible,
his own bare feet padding against the aged wood floor. The collar of his
borrowed flannel was already loose around Castiel's neck, but he slid it over
to better see the scabbed ring, which was still in tact.
With ginger fingertips he unbuttoned the flannel once more to check and
recheck. The welts were no longer swollen, though the skin over his cracked
ribs was still raised. As he traced them a few muscles jumped reflexively. It
reminded him vaguely of treating a dog bite Sam suffered years ago. Yet somehow
this was vastly, integrally different. The narrow-hipped boy before him was not
his brother. In fact, by doing this he was exactly like the other strangers,
male or not, who had violated Castiel over the past four years. "I'm sorry," he
whispered, unsure if the sentiment was even caught.
The hip gash seemed to have reopened and scabbed over again. He rolled his eyes
and returned to full height from where he stooped. "Will you let me change
that? Not right this second, just... at some point, okay? You're probably
hungry, but that's good. I kept a dish for you, it's still warm in the oven."
He motioned for Castiel to follow him through the living room, den, and into
the kitchen, but he didn't move. Standing there with wings nearly twice his
size arched high behind him he looked more like a sculpture at some popular
modern art museum than a living thing.
Obscure but startling, one of the cell phones in Bobby's on-the-desk basket
began to vibrate. Dean's eyes were glued to the form a few feet away. Would he
bolt again? He was light on his feet, sure, but mainly because he was severely
underweight and young for his circumstances. And, yeah, traumatized. With as
steady a voice as he could manage, though still neutral, he waved again. "Let's
go into the kitchen. 'f it's more comfortable for you, I'll eat, too."
Castiel felt as though every muscle in his body had frozen over. He felt as
though he could not move even if he desired to. He didn’t move at all once he
was through the doorway, suddenly unsure of his decision. Maybe he never should
have come back. Stepping into the house made it seem far more real than it had
before when he was out in the truck. Out in the truck, he could’ve just been
passing by and needed a place to sleep for the night. Out in the truck, there
was still the option of running. Here in the house, there was less of an
escape. If he moved from this doorway, there would be no immediate connection
to the outside, save for the windows.
He registered that Dean was speaking to him, but didn’t really comprehend his
words. Castiel just stood there feeling more terrified than he ever had in his
life. Had he been able, he might of found it ironic that in the place that had
offered him the most safety since Heaven he felt the most threatened.
Air shot out of his lungs when he suddenly latched on the how close Dean was.
He could feel his warm fingers brushing over his skin, checking over his
wounds. Castiel was still extremely uncomfortable when Dean was that close.
Nothing good ever happened to Castiel when humans were this close to his body.
With a sudden mental panic, Castiel slammed a wall down on that thought quicker
than he ever had before, locking it away in a box before he traveled any
further down that road.
The vibrating noise seemed to slingshot Castiel back into awareness and
reality, jumping slightly when he heard it. He blinked a few times, looking
over at where Dean was gesturing to follow. Castiel looked between Dean and the
doorway with fear in his eyes. As far as he was concerned, this was his final
choice before he was healthy again. There would likely be little chance for him
to make it out again. Suddenly, a loud growling erupted from Castiel’s stomach.
He looked down where his shirt was still open and could almost see the
concavity of his own abdomen. He definitely needed food.
With slow, hesitant steps Castiel walked towards Dean. He glanced back at the
door more than once, as if to make sure it was still there, but he couldn’t
deny that his mortal body needed food. He’d eaten more in the past two days
than he had in weeks, but already his body had grown used to it. That was no
good. He would have to watch his portions and make sure he didn’t eat quite so
much. When the time came that he would be on his own again, food would be much
harder to come by and it wouldn’t do to be pampered.
He heard Dean's voice, gruff yet high-pitched for his age, in the other room.
Thank the powers that be he didn't show his hand. Bobby knew the kid was
pissed, worried, for several reasons. This situation required calmness, not
calamity. At least he knew he could count on Dean doing the right thing when he
was pressed for it-- most of the time.
One of his phones went off then. It was his Scott Pilgrim Verizon account.
Though it made merely a slight vibration against the other plastic devices, he
grabbed it recklessly and clicked 'accept' before it could continue. Last thing
he wanted to do was scare the damn angel off with an unknown noise that could
be perceived as a threat. In his haste he neglected to screen the call or check
the incoming number.
It was John.
"Where's Dean?"
Providing one of many generic answers that generally appeased John, "In
th'other room reciting exorcisms."
"Has he been with you all week?"
"Hasn't left 'cept for work, 'n to get Sam from school."
"Three of our hunters here were found with sliced throats and stolen wallets.
My boys think it was Dean." He went on to list a few of the obviously fake
names in their auction log. One jumped out to Bobby as being Dean's third
favorite alias. He frowned, made some half-response. John continued as if the
young man he spoke of was not his blood. "I'll be home soon to reclaim what was
lost to me."
Whether he meant the angel, the money, or the lives of his men was unclear.
Bobby placed the phone gently back into the basket and shook his head. There
would be little use in disclosing the fact that John was coming. 'Soon' in his
book could be an hour or a month from now. He was smarter than to entertain
panic when they were hoping to rehabilitate one of the angels that came from
the very auction John spoke of. Until the man burst through the door breathing
fire, Bobby would pretend he was nowhere nearby. And if it came to it, he would
whip the pistol out of his waistband and shoot that son of a bitch dead.
He saw that the boys had moved into the kitchen, and got up to prepare the tea.
Earlier that day he had crushed holy palm fronds, and was eager to make a hot
cup of healing tea for the sorry sucker. Thankfully he'd invested in a $12.00
electric kettle for exactly this reason; as he got the mug out of the overhead
cabinet he could hear the water already heating. When he glanced at the table
he noticed that Dean had served the angel a healthy portion of mac 'n cheese,
broccoli and meatballs. He also noticed that the angel looked extremely
uncomfortable in the high-backed wooden chair, and not because he was scared
out of his mind.
"Here, use this'n." He carried over the stool from beside the pantry door.
"Better for your wings, huh?" The poor thing looked about ready to stick his
head in the oven like a virgin, being addressed and asked to move at the same
time. Around that point the kettle went off. Bobby deftly poured water over the
tiny strainer full of leaf fragments, let it sit for a good minute before
lifting it out and bringing Castiel the steaming mug. "'s hot, alright? But
it'll help." He hoped that if the angel figured out what the tea was made of,
he would see it as a signal and feel safe. Contrarily, he could freak.
Once he had a set up of food and drink, Bobby signaled for Dean to follow him
into the den. They stood where the table was out of sight, to give both the
angel and themselves an illusion of privacy. He could hear silverware clumsily
clinking. Relieved, he squared his shoulders towards his surrogate son and laid
it out. "Luther Vandross mean anythin' to you?"
Dean froze. That made the old man's beard quiver with anger. "What did you do?"
It came out darkly, though in part he was upset at himself. He should have
known the lengths the kid might go to in the name of helping. He repeated the
question, more bite in his voice, afraid of the answer.
"Nothin, I just went to see him!"
"And didn't end up seein him? Cause he had no idea you'd even been there-- and
I was under the impression that we were squared away on why you drove out to
the settlement in the first place."
"Bobby, they weren't at the settlement! The place was ransacked, 'n whatever
angels were left alive were dragged off to the auction! I was lucky I found the
damn card with the address written on it. He could be dead right now!"
Sick, he turned his head. "Oh, as if that justifies it! He wants to be dead,
anyhow, 'n it ain't worth killin' three men over!"
Dean slammed his fist down against the desk beside him. A book fell over,
making another loud noise. Bobby watched for movement in the kitchen but saw
none. The boy was screaming. "Yes it was! It was worth it when I got there to
see my father 'n realized he's the one doing' this shit to them! You're damn
right I went back out to the truck, got the emergency funds from under the seat
'n the fuckin credit cards. You're damn right I went round back 'n sliced their
throats to get the money they'd just stashed away from their recent sells-- who
were Castiel's family, okay!? He shouldn't have to go the same way they did! 'n
I'd knife a thousand mother fuckers 'f it meant he could be free!"
He watched the boy pant, having exhausted himself and shown his hand. Above all
else, Dean truly intended on saving the angel. Regardless of how he acted
irritated earlier by the burden of having brought home a stray without thinking
through the consequences, the last thing he wanted was to see another being
suffer. Resigned, Bobby decided he needed to provide context. With a sharp yank
he brought Dean in at the shoulder, spoke hushed into his ear. "When I said it
wasn't worth killin' three men, I wasn't disagreein' with what you did. But now
yer daddy's after you'n that angel, so it's just put one more thing on our
plates."
When he pulled back Dean's jaw had fallen open. He held one finger up to his
lips and nodded towards Castiel. "Let's do our best to keep things... pleasant,
alright?"
Castiel had no idea how to react to Bobby’s direct addressing of him. Before
Dean, people had always talked at him, not to him. They never asked for his
opinion or gave him options or wanted to know if he was okay. They were on the
enemy line; black in his black and white world. At least it was, until two gray
blobs floated in. If these two men had raised Sam, Castiel expected that a
third blob would enter the scene once he’d been around longer.
Broccoli was something Castiel had seen many times before. Of the limited food
the angels were able to find, most of it was stolen from farm crops or little
at home gardens. Being familiar with it, he decided to eat the first. He was
still struggling with the silverware a bit, the utensils refusing to sit
comfortably in his hand. It annoyed him, that an act so simply that he had seen
done many times before eluded him. He felt like a toddler with poor motor
skills. When he felt that he’d eaten enough broccoli, Castiel poked at the
other thing on his plate. It smelled rather delicious. He had never had the
opportunity to smell human foods before, though he had seen many different
kinds when watching them grow. He tentatively placed a small portion in his
mouth, eyes going wide when flavor melted over his tongue. The taste was
glorious, but Castiel made sure not to eat too much. Not only was he nervous
enough to throw up, but he didn’t want to overload his stomach.
Steam curled up from the hot cup of tea, and Castiel was a little unsure what
to do about it. He slowly dragged the mug closer to him by the relatively cool
handle when a mesmerizing scent hit his nose. He blinked, staring down at the
cup in surprise. There was no way. He blew on it before taking a sip[,
remembering that Dean had done that during breakfast when the eggs had steam as
well. Warmth and magic filled every inner crevice in Castiel’s mind and body.
There was no mistaking what this was. How Bobby had managed to get it was
beyond Castiel. Blessed palm fronds like those that had been bestowed upon
Jesus when he rode into the city on his donkey held a special kind of magic.
They were the only things on the human world that could restore an angel’s
grace. It wasn’t an immediate affect, but Castiel could already feel the few
drops of grace he had left thrumming. He was honestly touched that Bobby had
gone out of his way to provide this for him. Castiel had no idea what to think.
This was only strengthened when he heard a thump from the next room. Castiel
didn’t move physically, but he focused more on his hearing until the words were
crystal clear. Sliced their throats to get the money. Castiel’s family. He
could be free. Castiel’s eyes were wide, lips part in surprise. Killing was
something he had never approved of. Death, of course, was a natural part of
life, but in many situations Castiel felt that killing was not. However, he’d
changed that mindset the longer he stayed on earth. He wasn’t sure if he could
bring himself to kill someone, but he would not condemn those who did. Dean had
killed people. For him. So that Castiel could be free. The thought boggled his
mind. He suddenly felt guilty for treating Dean with such mistrust and
suspicion, when the hunter had been protecting him from the beginning. Castiel
wasn’t sure how to respond. Much more of his world had suddenly become gray and
he found himself wanting to talk to Dean about it.
It was worthy of more than just a wince.
Dad was after him, and potentially Castiel, too. Bobby was right to ask what he
had done. Apparently something awful, when all he had been trying to do was
good. Why did this always happen? Every time he tried to help he ended up
hurting; years ago he and Sam were part of a hunt that involved an oracle. She
was shocked when she met them both, said that they would be the boys who broke
the world. Right now he felt like that prophecy had been fulfilled. Even if it
were just Castiel's world, he had broken it by imposing his will. That was a
terrible deed to do, and he considered himself a born sinner for it.
Yet, as he and Bobby rounded the threshold and returned to the kitchen, he
thought differently. Maybe he wasn't a bad person, but rather a human entirely
capable of repeated mistakes. Though Dad might come for them any day and rip
them to bloody shreds, Castiel's demeanor at present defied their preceding
interactions. Dean looked to the old man for reassurance, as if to ask Is he
really still sittin' here? Not only was he still perched upon the stool they'd
provided, he'd cleared half of his plate, drained the tea and seemed almost
contented.
Swiftly Bobby came around, took the mug and walked it to the counter. As he did
he smiled kindly. "This here's the kettle. You lookin, Castiel? Pour water from
the sink into it, flip this switch. When it's red that means it's on. Wait for
it to ding 'n pour it in." He demonstrated. "Just watch so you don't burn
yourself. Use it whenever you want, alright?" He returned the mug to the table,
surveyed the amount of food the angel had taken in. The flannel was still
unbuttoned, hung long and open on either side of his matchstick thighs. Bobby
saw with pain in his eyes what was under there. "Try 'n eat a little more, will
ya? 's not like we got a shortage of food, 'n you'll need to put on weight
quick 'f you wanna get anywhere fast." He didn't say exactly what he meant by
that.
Dean could not shake the awe pulsing through his veins. A minute ago he was
shouting; his heart was still pounding in his throat and the side of his hand
hurt from where he'd slammed it. But Castiel had stayed. It was undeniable-
- the dynamics changed as soon as they arrived at the cabin seven hours ago.
Their first twelve hours were spent in solitude, Dean haphazardly pushing them
towards the safe house. Now that they were here and Bobby's presence was
strongly felt, they hadn't spoken significant words. Not like they'd engaged in
meaningful conversation before, but at least they'd done a few honest
exchanges.
He sat down across from Castiel at the table, daringly locked eyes and held on.
His voice was stunned, face a flawless tired spread of freckles, sparkling
green. "What made you change your mind?"
Castiel almost physically curled around the warm mug when it was returned to
him, sipping at it carefully. Without even realizing, a small smile tugged at
the corners of his lips. It was barely even a twitch, but it was more than he’d
done in years. He took another sip, the smile disappearing as soon as it had
come. He picked up his fork and pushed the remainder of food on his plate
around. He wasn’t really sure what he should say to Dean, so he kept it simple.
“You protected me,” he said softly, looking into Dean’s eyes for what was most
likely the first time.
That probably wouldn’t mean as much to Dean as it meant to Castiel. Angels had
always only really had each other. God was often not around and they had to
rely on each other in order to survive and keep going, even before the fall.
Granted, there were groups and factions that held similar beliefs and there
were disagreements among them, but within a garrison protection was valued
above all else. Those feelings had only intensified when they’d been trapped on
earth. To find that before they’d ever even really met, Dean had gone out of
his way to ensure his safety and that justice had come to his captors made
Castiel completely unsure of how to feel.
“You owed me less than nothing,” Castiel continued quietly, “You didn’t even
know my name. I was terrified and distrustful. I judged you based on my prior
experiences rather than on what was happening right in front of me. Truthfully,
I am still scared. There are some things that are hard to unlearn, but it is
easier to see now that you have my best interests in mind.” He was silent after
speaking, looking down at his plate as he selected a single noodle and place it
on his fork and into his mouth. He wasn’t sure what Dean’s reaction would be
and he was a little scared to find out. He made no promises as towards his
behavior or mannerisms, but even admitting this out loud to someone beside
himself was big for him. This was more than a huge revelation for Castiel. This
was life changing. He was making the conscious decision not only to trust Dean,
and Bobby by extension, but to also allow whatever care he couldn’t give
himself to be placed in the hands of humans. He prayed that he wouldn’t regret
his decision.
The easy grin grew wider until it broke into a chuckle. "Damn, Castiel, 'f
yellin' gets you to trust me, maybe I should do it more often!" The look he
received from Bobby was enough to silence him momentarily. "Alright, I'm
playin', but seriously. I wasn't tryina... You know. Like I said, I didn't
choose this life. Least I can do is make somethin' good of it." That would be a
continually difficult feat. He'd grown accustomed to that reality years ago,
but the reality had never involved a living creature before. Protecting Sam was
one thing, and saving civilians another. To be forced to live this life and
feel like he successfully plucked one out of the dusts of doom was an
enthralling feeling.
He was so preoccupied by that small happiness that he forgot about the
impending return of his father.
Still beaming, "Hey, Bobby! You still got the pie I left here th'other night?
And that beer?"
"Yer not plannin' on givin' him a beer this soon, are ya?"
"Beer's for me, pie's for both of us. Castiel, you ever had pie before? Or any
dessert, for that matter?"
"'s his favorite since he was a wee one." The man slid a glass dish across the
counter towards belly, carried it with both hands over to the table. There was
already a silver pie-cutter set inside the dish. He uncovered the plastic
wrapping to reveal a semi-structured cherry pie with one-third missing.
At that moment Sam walked into the room, tucked in baggy clothing, five foot
five and yawning. "I heard you screaming." His shaggy bangs were in his eyes,
which looked dark grey in the faulty florescent light of the kitchen. Without
hesitation he pulled up a seat beside the angel, two down to avoid his wings.
"Those are really big, Castiel. Do they mean anything?"
Dean understood the question, but he wondered if Castiel would. A stack of
plates and forks were set before him, along with a cold beer. He absently set
four places and doled out healthy servings of the gold-crusted goodness. Bobby
had cleared the original dish, but left the angel's tea mug. In addition, he
refilled the kettle to boil and brought a half-empty container of vanilla ice
cream. His only warning was, "This might feel real cold on your teeth, boy. Be
aware of that."
He cracked the beer, tossed his head back and drank half the thing in one swig.
When he slammed it onto the table he exclaimed, "Boy? Bobby, have you seen him?
He's a friggen angel!"
The old man sat beside him, scooped a large spoonful of ice cream onto the
angel's plate before anyone else's. Despite that the comment was issued by
Dean, he addressed Castiel with his eyes and all the love of full acceptance in
his voice. "'f you're a bed to fill 'n a mouth to feed yer a boy to me, ain't
nothin' wrong with that."
Castiel looked down at his plate before looking at each man in turn. By all
conventional terms, they were strange. They were not what society often
considered a family and yet the way they interacted said otherwise. Castiel had
observed earth for a very long time, but he could say with much confidence that
no family was stronger than one that was chosen. Bobby, Dean, and Sam had
clearly chosen each other and there was more love between the three of them
than seemed possible.
Castiel tilted his head and looked over at Sam strangely. “I am afraid I do not
understand what you mean,” he said, brows furrowed in confusion. His wings were
a physical representation of one of his previous abilities. God’s gift to the
angels in their tragedy. There was no hidden meaning that he believed Sam to be
looking for, nor does size have any correlation with importance. The number of
wings one had dictated power. Had the archangels not required blood vessels
rather than the empty bodies God had sculpted for the rest of them, they would
have had five sets of wings, resulting in ten total.
He looked down at his plate to see that there was a small puddle beginning to
surround the lump that Bobby had scooped onto his plate. He awkwardly picked up
the spoon he’d been provided with and looked up at the others. Bobby was taking
both things on the plate onto his spoon at once. Sam was eating the lump and
then the pie. Dean was doing the opposite. Castiel mimicked Dean, his eyes
widening when flavor burst over his tongue. “This is quite delicious,” he said
before scooping more into his mouth.
If there was one thing about the entire experience that would stick with Dean,
it was the look he caught on the angel's face when he tasted dessert for the
first time. In a rush of pleasure he kicked the beer back and downed the rest,
then continued to watch Castiel scoop pie and then ice cream into his mouth bit
by bit. Innocent awe washed over his entire demeanor, and he absorbed the new
presence with the same fervor as he had last night, when they were positioned
on beds in the same room, eating shit for snacks.
"'s good, right? Even better when it's fresh outta the oven. We'll get it like
that sometime." He got up to grab another beer from the fridge, set the empty
one in the shallow porcelain sink. "Oh, 'n what Sam meant about your wings was
'f they have a purpose. Like, why are yours black? Why are they like eighty
times your damn size?" Taking generous sips he returned to his seat, heavy with
happiness.
His brother nodded in agreement, then mentioned something even Dean was unaware
of. "I mean, I know they were God's last gift to you guys, but he said you were
being auctioned off for way more than the rest of them-- I mean, your family.
I'm sorry about your family, by the way." It seemed he was audacious when woken
from sleep on a school night. Surprisingly, he quipped another bold item before
lifting his last piece of crust to his mouth. "Do you know why you're worth so
much?"
Bobby looked about ready to croak, or send Sam back to bed, where Dean felt
genuinely confused. He continued to eat and drink, hoping to avoid showing how
out of the loop he truly was. Castiel had just consciously decided to trust
him. There was no way he would risk that by looking like an idiot. Instead, he
listened intently, eyes flickering between dessert and the thin red line of the
mouth directly opposite him. How would he possibly react to that?
For a moment, Castiel was transported back to that night. The tight shackles
around his wrists, the pins that painfully forced his wings out for display,
the jeering laughter of the crowd as his price quickly shot up. Castiel put his
spoon down gently and put his hands in his lap, looking down at them for a
moment as his wings reflexively curled around him slightly. It was definitely a
subject he would prefer not to dwell on. On that same note, he could somehow
tell that Sam was asking out of pure curiosity and not maliciousness.
There were two choices here. Castiel could speak, and explain what he knew, or
he could retreat back into himself and ignore the questions. He looked up at
Dean, who’s face revealed nothing. He had told the other man even more personal
things on the very first night he’d been taken when Dean was treating him.
Castiel supposed that he could provide Sam with the same courtesy, at least
once.
“In Heaven, we were all multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent,”
Castiel finally said after about five minutes of complete silence around the
table, “Our wings were metaphorical at best. When God fashioned us bodies after
the fall, he wanted us to retain something of value from our old lives. There
was general uniformity among them. A range of about four colors; white, gold,
brown, and auburn. They also tended to fit the size of the body he’d given to
them. Mine fit neither of these specifications. I have never encountered
another angel with wings like mine, and I suppose your kind has not either.
I’ve noticed among humans that rarity tends to increase value. As far as any of
us know, there is no hidden meaning. I am simply different. Though some would
have me believe that God does nothing by accident.”
Another memory popped into Castiel’s head in that moment. Balthazar had been
his best friend, both on earth and in Heaven. They were the closest in age even
though their personalities were vastly different. Balthazar was actually very
similar to Gabriel and Castiel found it funny that they never really got along.
A few days after falling to earth and becoming accustomed to their new bodies,
Balthazar had begun to tease him about his wings. It was playful, of course,
but Castiel remembered how he would scowl anyway. It was one of his only happy
memories since the fall.
Castiel’s eyes grew red around the edges as tears began to build up. He came
back into reality, blinking quickly to try and make them go away. He’d already
cried in front of Dean and he would not let himself do it again. He averted his
gaze, looking down at his hands so it would be harder for them to see his face.
“I… I would like to rest… if that is okay,” Castiel said, his voice near a
whisper as he feared speaking too loudly would cause it to waver.
Sam was enraptured. It was clear the response did more than suffice his
curiosity. For the moment he was star struck, his face caught at celestial
intent and simply different. He clearly wasted no time in finding a point by
which to relate to Castiel, and nodded as he spoke. Evidently he wished to hear
more, but respectfully apologized when the angel asked to rest. The apology
likely wasn't needed. Though Dean shot his brother a look anyway, he knew the
kid had done nothing wrong. Despite being uncomfortable, personal questions
were well needed, and a general practice in this house. At the very least it
would help them get to know their new friend.
Bobby answered almost immediately, in an assertive, hushed tone. "'f course
it's okay. In the future, you don't needa ask." He leaned across the table ever
slightly, looked into his eyes. "Hey, Castiel? I wanna be clear bout somethin'-
- 's your house, too. You can get up 'n go rest whenever you feel you need to,
especially right now when you're sicker'n a kitten in a pool hose." He eyed the
angel up and down, like a parent. His eyebrows raised and he sat back to
continue. "The room we set up for you's yours. Bed, windows, space Sam made in
the closet 'n dresser."
"Yeah," the boy jumped in, "And any of my clothes that fit, you can wear. I'm
totally fine sharing." He pulled his shimmering bangs out of his eyes and
smiled.
The thought crossed his mind that the angel might not want a bedroom, that he
might feel more comfortable outside or on the floor or... somewhere weird and
impractical. Yet he nodded, stood slowly and motioned for Castiel to follow,
surprised when he heard tentative footsteps behind him. The sound of his
calloused bare feet scuffling the floor made Dean turn and add, "Oh, 'n we'll
get you shoes tomorrow. Nice ones. Sorry I didn't have anythin' extra when you
came. I mean, I didn't exactly think I was gonna walk outta there with you..."
The chuckle he let out reflected the alcohol buzz.
Upstairs he turned on the lights in the tiny room. There was space to walk
around, and Sam had done a great job tidying it, but it still wouldn't give
Castiel space to flap his wings if he for some reason desired to do so. A
mirror hung on the wall, both kids’ profiles visible. Dean wondered with vague
concern if that would be a problem, seeing as the angel was so friggen
depressed. Would he hate the fact that his reflection stood some five feet
away?
The first thing he mentioned was the sheets and blankets. "So, I told Bobby how
you slept last night... 's why it's like this. 'f you wanna put the shit back
on the bed, 's fine. Clothes are here, 'n here. Boxers. You're gonna wanna
change em once a day, unless you're like me 'n you don't give a shit." He
shrugged in a swanky way, unable to bring himself to care. There were more
pressing items on his to do list than shower and do laundry.
He noticed the journal and pen on the bedside table. It had a different cover
from Sam's, so he inspected it. "Huh, this must be yours. Bobby's big on us
keepin' journals. Not only for huntin', but just... I dunno." Handing it to
Castiel, who was endearingly startled by the whole ordeal, he said, "Doesn't
matter 'f you know English, you can write in Enochian. Oh, 'n here's your
toothbrush, but you gotta go into the bathroom. D'you want me to show you all
that now, or?" It was silly, but nothing he hadn't done with Sam when they were
younger. He was completely at ease showing a sixteen-year-old boy how to brush
his teeth or wipe his own ass. They were just facets of life that had to be
handled.
Similar to the act of eating with utensils, Castiel had seen all the human acts
of hygiene many times before. It was the actual doing of them that he would
have to get used to. The mechanics were relatively simple. He told Dean as much
, though in less words. It seemed that each great sharing moment would be
followed by radio silence, as if to make up for how much he had spoken at one
time.
Castiel looked around the room, slowly becoming overwhelmed with the situation.
All this was his? He had never owned so many physical materials in his life. He
still couldn’t truly believe that they were his. He squeezed the journal in his
hands tightly, trying to keep himself calm, at least while Dean was still in
the room. He waited for the other to finish before refusing his request at
demonstration, an act that had him almost vibrating with fear. Never in his
physical life had he ever told a human no to anything, and here he was denying
the man that had given him the most. There was no punishment, however, just a
nod of acceptance.
As soon as Dean left and closed the door behind him, Castiel sagged and slid
down to the floor. He had never felt so physically and emotionally exhausted.
He looked down at the journal again, intrigued by the idea. Humans, he’d
noticed, had a very large obsession with recording. Information, history,
personal revelations, all of it had to be permanently written somewhere.
Castiel had to admit, he liked the idea of something being immortalized.
Castiel picked himself up and picked up the pen, settling himself on his
stomach on the bed, his wings fanned out as far as they could be behind him. He
opened to the first page of the journal and looked down, unsure of what to do.
Apparently, his hand had other ideas. Castiel uncapped his pen and suddenly,
pictures began pouring out. Moments later, a hyper realistic drawing of his
favorite place in Heaven covered the page. He turned to the next one, one of
the encampments came flowing out. After came various cages and holes he’d spent
his life in. Each picture was accurate down to the smallest detail. Faces began
to flow out next. Gabriel laughing, Balthazar smirking, Anael smiling, Michael
looking stern, Samandriel, even younger than Castiel, Naomi, Inias, Uriel,
Hester, Hael, every angel he had ever considered his family even if only for a
brief moment. Without his permission, the next thing that came out were death
scenes; whatever he knew about each angel’s demise. Following that pattern,
events in his own existence that he hadn’t dared think about rushed out. Dark
pictures, some of them barely discernable. Castiel was surprised to see that
the next picture he began was one of the auction house, quickly followed by the
motel room, the pickup truck, and Bobby’s home. Bobby’s face came next, Sam’s
quickly after, until Castiel found himself putting the final circle in Dean’s
eyes. Almost a third of the journal had been taken up, each picture receiving
its own page. He found he felt better, as though it had been therapeutic.
Castiel closed the journal, the pen stuck inside to mark his page, before
replacing it on the bedside table. He turned himself the right way on the bed
and wrapped his wings around himself, not bothering to change his clothes for
tonight. Within minutes, Castiel was asleep.
It was nearly four in the morning when the kitchen was cleaned up. Four beers
deep, he saw Sam climb back into bed and Bobby retire. A few lights were left
strategically on; the old man suggested those at the top and bottom of the
steps, over the stove, and outside each entry point of the house. If for some
reason Castiel woke in the night or dawn and got to walking around, he would at
best be able to see where he was going and what or who was in the room. Dean
marveled at the idea, and at the sheer amount of thought each of them was
putting in to accommodate the angel. People had done way less for trauma
victims they'd known and loved for years. What made this such a special case?
Then, as a rule, they were all used to daily sacrifice. Even Sam, recently
fifteen, was accustomed to catering to the whims of others. He knew when he was
being called upon for strength, wits, company. Dean admired that his brother
was so well adjusted. It wasn't a secret that Sam wanted out of the life as
soon as possible, though it was incredibly unrealistic. He doubted the boy
would escape, not because he wasn't capable, but because that just wasn't the
deal. Once in the life, the only way out was through death. Still, the kid was
resilient, had proven himself in a variety of situations as a person willing to
go to great lengths to help strangers. And he could still squeal excitedly over
the appearance of an angel at the kitchen table.
Carefully he opened the door of Castiel's new room. After he showed the angel
in and was denied the privilege of demonstrating a nighttime routine for him,
he hadn't seen or heard anything. He wasn't worried-- Bobby's house was set up
so that movement around the windows and doors could send off particular
signals. So the angel hadn't jumped ship. Hopefully he hadn't committed,
either, but Dean figured they would have felt the energy in the house change if
that were the case.
When he peeked in he saw that the bedside lamp was still on. Black wings nearly
as long as the bed-- halved in length, amazingly, not fanned-- were wrapped in
a familiar fashion around the emaciated form of a sixteen-year-old boy. How did
he end up here? In their lives, collectively? What damage had Dean done? Those
questions came to mind as he watched the feather rise and fall slowly with the
force of each breath. There was an innocence in him that many had clearly
overlooked. Dean watched for some time with the same expression he wore at the
motel, and again at the table. It was the closest he had ever come to something
so intangible, so powerfully delicate and recklessly beautiful.
A pen stuck out of the journal, almost a third of the way through already. The
temptation to look at what Castiel had so hastily filled it with was
overwhelming. Sam and Bobby would likely kill him if they knew he was about to
invade privacy, but he figured it was only going to be Enochian anyway, so what
did it matter if he was curious about brand-new-human handwriting? One flick
and the cover would fall open, reveal the likely messy scrawl, and he'd be
done. Retreat to the other bedroom and be cradled to sleep by the drunken
feeling that warmed his chest.
His smug grin faded immediately when he saw the drawings. Illustrations far
more vivid than any he'd seen even a practiced professional accomplish. It took
him nearly a half hour, but he scoured each one, pursued it deeply and
considered the significance. There was obviously a story behind each setting,
each face. Who were these angels? Where were these places he had been? The only
other place he'd seen Castiel apart from his side was in the arena, and that
was a thing he'd rather forget. It was paradoxically difficult to imagine him
anywhere else and to fathom him here. With a gasp he saw that he and his tiny
family were also included in the spread.
At five in the morning he curled into the sinking mattress against the string
bean shape of his brother. The bed smelled of Sam now, and less of himself.
That could have been a metaphor for the nature of their lives, if he hadn't
been so entirely buzzed and burnt. The angel in the room next door was a
myriad, and the possibility of being let in on that was terrifying.
He'd never wanted anything more.
--
The alarm went off as it usually did, and failed to wake Dean, who smelled of
hops and sweat. Sam pushed him off and stood slowly, stumbling like a colt and
stretching upwards. The curtains in the room were frail, yellowed with age. He
walked to one of the two windows facing the front yard and gravel drive, pushed
aside the thin drape and peered out. It was a relief to see the same sight
every morning for once in his life. Especially if it meant Dad wasn't around.
Once showered and dressed for school, he skipped down the steps singing a soft
tune. Something he'd heard on the radio recently-- that whiney girl Dean hated.
He couldn't help but like her style. In fact, he liked a ton of different
music. If someone had asked, he would have told them the older one was stuck in
another time with his close-minded view on rock. Even as he flicked off the
lights left on and pulled open curtains, the lyrics swirled lightly in his
mind. all along it was a fever, a cold sweat hotheaded believer. Her
descriptions were careless, and he desperately needed that.
The cereal was a little stale, but he wouldn't ever issue complaint about
anything Bobby bought him. He poured himself a huge bowl and sat at the table.
When he noticed the stool across from him he remembered there was an angel
sleeping upstairs and broke into laughter. He was so thankful that one of his
wishes had come true. Ever since he could talk he prayed, despite Dean
constantly telling him that it was all bullshit. Not only had the angels
fallen, but he finally had the opportunity to pay retribution. Sam could have
been more unlucky than he was; an only child, no uncle Bobby, no one to teach
him how to read or sing to him when the nightmares came. The fact that he'd
made it this far solidified his belief in the beyond, made him eager to repay
in any way allowed.
Halfway through his cherished morning routine-- the bowl of cereal and second
page of the paper-- he saw it. A shadow out of the corner of his eyes. His back
was facing the entry point that connected the den and kitchen, and when he
turned around he saw Castiel's wings filling the threshold. That was all he saw
for a brief flash, and his initial greeting was, "Whoa."
Finding his bearings, he set the spoon down and carefully stood. "Bobby said
you might want more of that tea." The presence was beyond stiff, but he didn't
mind. Besides, the man had left the set up on the counter for him, so it was
smooth sailing. He flicked on the water kettle and began to shake some of the
ground leaves into the tiny tea civ. "How did you sleep? I know that mattress
can be rough sometimes, but it's better than the floor!" As soon as he said it
he realized the angel had slept in far worse conditions than on a rough
mattress or on a floor. His strength surpassed anything Sam could ever dream to
ascertain.
"There's some cereals and stuff in here. Dean said you guys ate diner food
yesterday." He laughed again, completely gracious with one-sided conversation.
Dean had modeled enough for him. "I'm alright with that, but it's kind of
garbage. I like granola cereal better. Fruit, too. We've got apples over here.
They're organic. Do you know what that means?" He pointed out several different
things the angel was more than welcome to eat, and began to show him where
plates, pots and silverware were. When the kettle went off he poured Castiel a
large mug and walked it to the table, where he resumed his own breakfast.
Checking his watch he mentioned casually, "I've gotta go to school in a few
minutes. And I wanted to say I'm sorry you're so far from your family and your
home. But I'm glad my brother got you here safe. Are you okay with it? I mean,
all this change? It's okay if you don't like it here. None of us are ever
offended by honesty." His grin was almost as easy as Dean's, but fresher. Like
he had yet to get crushed by gravity. Like he was praying right that moment for
a lengthy response.
Castiel woke up early like he always did, unable to sleep. Sleeping too late
was never good in any situation that he had ever been in. He had to be ready to
move at any time and the less time spent sleeping, the better. He took in his
surroundings briefly, the events of the previous day coming back to him in a
rush. Without really realizing it, Castiel reached for the journal on his
bedside table and opened to a fresh page where the bedroom he was in erupted
onto the page. He was finding it much more cathartic than he expected. He
recapped the pen and placed the journal back onto the table before standing. He
picked up the clothes that Dean had taken out to show him the previous night
and changed into them. He had to go to the bathroom as well, but he wasn’t sure
where it was and didn’t want to poke around. He figured he could wait for a
little bit and wandered downstairs carefully, making his way towards the
kitchen where he could get some more tea. He could feel his grace refilling
him, but he wanted to expedite the process.
Castiel would be lying if he said that he was a little surprised that anyone
else was up, even more so when it was Sam. His previous observation was the
teenagers tended to not want to wake up in the mornings and preferred to wake
up in the afternoons. What struck him most was Sam’s comment about school. It
seemed such a normal, mundane activity. It was almost a slap in the face that
reminded Castiel, just because the angels were experiencing their own personal
Armageddon, did not mean that the human world had to change at all. It was
sobering to see how little the horrors he’d experienced affected the humans at
all.
In all honesty, Castiel still wasn’t sure how to act around Sam. He was very
different from his older brother. Less jaded, less world-weary. It was
refreshing in a way and depressing in others. Sam seemed so naïve even though
Castiel knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t be, not with the lifestyle he had lived. He
feared the day when reality would crash down on the young boy. Hesitantly and
cautiously, Castiel walked over to the kitchen table and sat down at the stool
that he had used last night where Sam had placed the steaming mug. He picked it
up and blew on the hot liquid before taking a sip. Warmth ran through him just
like it had the night before, filling every crevice of his body as his grace
reacted. He drained half the mug easily before placing it down again and
looking over at Sam, almost examining him.
He got the same feeling last night from the boy. This burning curiosity, a
strong desire to know and learn. It wasn’t often Castiel encountered something
like that. It was silent as Sam waited for him to respond rather than
continuing the conversation on his own as he had done previously. “Change is
the only constant in the whole of the universe,” Castiel said quietly, looking
at Sam with searching eyes, “And of all the change I have experience in my
physical life, this has been the least painful so far. I hope it continues to
become better from here.” He felt something he hadn’t felt in many years as he
looked at Sam. Hope. If there were more youths like this out in the human
world, maybe Castiel’s brothers and sisters stood a chance. He could only hope.
He stared at Sam for a moment longer before rising from his seat, wings tucked
in behind him to prevent them from hitting into anything as he moved. He moved
over to the bowl that Sam had pointed to when he mentioned the apples. Castiel
remembered a brief stay that he and his brothers and sisters had in a wild
orchard. They only remained for two days because it had turned out to be far
too close to the humans, but the food had been plentiful and delicious. He
remembered eating so much that he’d gotten sick. The picture he’d drawn the
night before of the orchard flashed through his mind and a small smile tugged
at the corners of his lips as he picked up the red fruit and returned to the
table with it. He nibbled at it slowly, reveling in the taste on his tongue.
It was silent for a moment as the two of them ate before Castiel spoke again.
“I do not want to be a burden,” he began softly, glancing up at Sam, “But I’m
afraid I am not sure where the bathroom is.” Sam got a strange look on his face
before he began laughing softly.
“There’s one down that hallway and to the right,” he answered with a kind
smile. Castiel thanked him with a nod and placed his apple on the table before
moving to follow his directions. He found the bathroom easily and used the
toilet and washed his face. He looked at his reflection for a moment, more
observational than critical. It was interesting to see how he had changed
already. He was wearing clothes, he was clean. Castiel even thought that he saw
some color in his cheeks. He grabbed a few tissues and gave his wings a quick
dry wipe, just to rid them of the small amount of dust and dirt that had
collected. He returned to the kitchen afterwards to continue his breakfast with
Sam.
The words spoken trailed round and round his head. They held a nice ring in the
early hours of day. I hope it continues to become better. He genuinely hoped
so, too, as he cleared away dishes and refilled Castiel's mug. Over his
shoulder he consoled, "You're not a burden, by the way. Any new person staying
here would need to ask where the bathroom is. It doesn't matter to us that
angels are supposed to be used as slaves now. We just want you to be healthy
and help you get home.
"I'd show you the rest of the house but right now I need to get to the bus. Ask
Dean, he'll be happy to show you... I'm just gonna let Bobby know I'm going."
Before he backed out of the room he added, "Please, Castiel, help yourself to
whatever you want." He smiled again, gave the wings a broad sweep with his
eyes, and trotted off.
Upstairs he cracked the door of Bobby's room. "I'm going now." The old man
coughed, rolled towards him and grumbled irritably upon opening his eyes.
Defending himself, Sam reminded, "Last night you told me we can't leave him
alone right now. Or, unguarded, I guess."
"Dean's 'sleep?"
"Yeah."
"Dammit." It seemed he at least considered that Dean might have needed the
extra sleep more than him. He was completely drained after both the long drives
and adrenaline rush of taking Castiel with him. There was also the initial
running away situation, too, which scared Sam a little. He could only imagine
what his brother must have felt, having put so much effort into helping one
being and watching him dart off through the junkyard like an injured bird.
He watched Bobby swing his legs over the side of the bed. All he wore were
flannel pajamas and a white wife beater. When the man stood and stretched he
waved Sam off, mumbled about, "Do your best with the day." Internally, he knew
he would. School held a certain solace for him because he could pretend to be
just like everyone else. Not in terms of popularity or fitting in-- he couldn't
care less about that. He felt comfortable at school because there wasn't the
added pressure of his father's obsession, of the obligation his family had
taken on themselves to save people and kill monsters. At school he didn't have
to talk about how to clean guns or use enough force to decapitate a vampire.
That was a relief.
The breaks he gave himself during the day were why he found it so easy to bear
the weight of the life. It worked for him to spend all day immersed in a
different world, even if he hated keeping secrets. The only friend he'd made
since he started at Memorial High a few months ago was a boy named Josh, and
though at times he wanted to tell Josh the truth about what he and his brother
had done in their short lives, but he couldn't. There were times when that felt
strange.
Studying Heaven was not like reading lore on other things. It wasn't dark and
grizzly like dealing with Djinns or Wendigos. Bobby seemed to know so much more
than he could ever expect the man to know, and for the first time ever, Sam was
readily included in something that didn't scare him. Angels weren't supposed to
be on Earth; their presence wasn't malicious, it was just sad. His heart hurt
for Castiel, even as he sat slouched against the window on the long yellow bus.
The headphones in his ears played one of his favorite albums-- Manchester
Orchestra, Everything to Nothing. He felt holy when he listened to their music,
despite it being written by a poetic drug user. There was honesty in the
lyrics, and it helped him to clear his head.
How would he focus today when there was an angel at home?
---
The old man found him in the kitchen. "Tea's helpin', huh?" Words weren't
always his thing.
As he moved about and fixed his coffee, he rethought his decision. Before he'd
gone to bed maybe only four hours before, he decided to do it. There was a
chance that Castiel might resist it, be angry that he brought it up, or
completely black out and bolt. Then, he knew he couldn't wait. Especially with
John's imminent arrival, he knew they didn't have a lot of time left to get the
ball rolling. If he could hook the angel onto his side, the possibilities were
endless. Their combined brainpower could solve more problems than he alone ever
would. Especially if he and the boys were able to treat him well enough for his
grace to fully restore.
Finally he sat across from Castiel with a mug of steaming black. There was one
question to ask, and the way the other answered it would sway his decision to
push or completely lay off. He tried to inflict a bit of kindness in his own
eyes, because he knew he had the gruff Singer-business look about him. Itching
his beard absently it came along. "'f the pearly gates were opened, 'n you 'n
all the angels that survived this atrocity got to float back up to Heaven,
you'd be goin up to a damn mess. Ezekiel alone thinkin' the whole thing's his,
actin' like God himself... There would be some type a war, 'n it might take
centuries to pan out. Thousands more might die. So I gotta ask you-- cause I
got a bunch a ideas floatin' round my head-- 'f you could, Castiel, would you
wanna go home?"
Castiel looked up at Bobby, surprise clear on his face. How did he know about
Ezekiel? As far as he knew, the only knowledge source that the humans had on
heaven was the Bible in all its variations, which was technically written by
man. True, it would be easy enough to locate the names of the most prominent
angels, but there should be nowhere to indicate that Ezekiel was the angel who
had betrayed them all and cast them down to Earth to be treated like slaves. He
had probably cast them out with the intention of having them suffered how he
had, but this was a much different time. They were not revered as Native
American deities, or any kind of heavenly being. They were seen as monsters and
were treated accordingly.
He sipped at his tea, wanting his grace to refill his body as quickly as
possible. He considered Bobby’s question seriously, though he did not know the
reason for it. “If you were given a choice,” Castiel finally said, “Would you
rather die in Hell, hungry and weak, a shell of what you once were, or would
you rather die in your homeland, fighting to protect it?” He believed that this
was what Bobby was essentially asking him, and to Castiel there was no
competition. Angels were warriors of God. They were meant to fight great wars.
Castiel would much rather fight a war for his home and die than to stay on
Earth and die for nothing as a disgrace. He knew that his brothers and sisters
would agree with him.
“Centuries to you are a blink of an eye to me,” Castiel went on, “Even if some
of us did change our minds, it is not like we must choose one or another.
Angels have walked on Earth for many millennia. We simply must find true
vessels. Borrowed bodies. No one has ever been able to tell the difference
seeing as a true vessel would not have the wings that God fashioned for us.” He
finished up his tea and continued to nibble on the apple in front of him,
thinking more.
“Back in Heaven, you say thousands more may die,” Castiel said seriously, “If
we stay here, there will be no escape for any of us. We will all perish. God’s
angels will cease to exist.” It was like choosing the lesser of two evils.
Either they all die, or only some of them die. Besides, they knew Ezekiel. He
was one of them. The angels, for all their infinite knowledge, knew very little
about humans, though now it was clear that they had very little morality
regarding things that they viewed as below them. Castiel knew that he would
much rather fight against the devil he knew, rather than facing an entirely new
enemy against which he had no chance of survival.
A grave air settled between them, far too heavy for the early morning. Bobby
already found waking up a challenge; he didn't regret bringing up the subject,
but it was clear that it would take more energy than previously expected to
unfold. In the silence he lifted his mug and slurped loudly, drank long, set it
down with a thud. When he finally spoke, all the acceptance of Castiel's
perspective followed his words. "I admire you havin' the audacity to return
home. You must really consider yourself a bein of purpose-- 'n by all means,
you are. Like you said, centuries are nothin' to you. Bein here with us, 'f it
plays out like I hope, ain't gonna seem like more'n a day to the farm. So
thanks for sharin' that with me."
Another obnoxiously drawn drink of black coffee. What he was about to do would
risk everything, yet he took it as a sign that Dean had fallen into this
angel's path. There would never be an ideal time, so he launched in.
"Right after the fall I set out to find hunters who wanted to see the angels
home. There was an immediate divide, Castiel, I'm talkin' hours within the damn
event, grown men 'n women turned savage with power-lust. A handful of us
committed to sharin' the responsibility of doin' what you guys weren't able to.
Some of em got murdered by people who wanna keep it how it is now. A bunch of
us are still at bat, 'n close. Three work undercover at labs 'n the others do
surveillance around settlements. They catch whatever they can, 'n I piece the
information together like a damn puzzle." It was true that he was seen as the
brains of the operation. While he felt undeserving of the title, he did
enjoying having a sway in how things were carried out. Over the years he'd
grown extremely confident in his ability to turn details into plans.
He noticed the angel's face caught at the word labs. Maybe it bore explanation.
"Auctions 'n slavery ain't the only horrors goin on. Government's involved now.
Not wide scale, no, they'll never let on to even knowin' angels exist cause
they don't want their gold stolen away. 'f people knew they existed they'd want
in, then there'd be the whole rights issue 'n I'll be a pig's rear 'f they
wanna treat angels like anythin' other'n animals. But they got enormous plants
out in Detroit 'n one over in Chicago 'n they're doin' experiments. Breedin',
testin' medicine, pain tolerance, resistance to the elements. Some angels have
been force fed until their insides ruptured 'n then shot up with some other
angel's grace to see 'f they'd heal. 's genocide, essentially. Government
officials doin' fuckin genocide on God's warriors. 's sick, I know.
"Part of livin' together under one roof is comin' clean about things. I'm in a
position now to start what I believe is gonna be the reversal of Ezekiel's
spell, there's just a couple things I'm still workin' out. Like how to locate
the suckers destined to retract the seals. I'm sorry to say it all so frank,
Castiel, but you need to know what I really intend to do."
He purposely refrained from asking Castiel outright to help him. Regardless of
how it was framed, the admission that the very human he was currently sheltered
by could be the key in his getting home was a tough pill to swallow. He could
easily consider the entire thing a trap, assume Dean brought him home for this
very reason. Of course, Sam and Dean had no idea what Bobby was working on. The
younger knew sporadic information, and was studying up on angels for his own
enjoyment-- he didn't know the old man was only steps away from launching the
plan. Hopefully his self-disclosure seemed more like an invitation to the angel
than anything else. It was simply information, and he could do with it what he
desired.
A thousand questions ran through Castiel’s head at once. Did Dean know about
this? Does Ezekiel know that there is a reversal? Would they return to Heaven
in their current state, or would they be restored? Even with their greater
numbers, if they returned to Heaven as weak as they were now, Ezekiel would
easily slaughter them all. Of course, the most important question of all:
Should Castiel help? He knew without Bobby saying that Castiel’s knowledge
could be invaluable to this undertaking, as well as his very existence if he
was able to fully heal himself.
Castiel was in a position that he had never experienced before. In a very small
way, Castiel was in a position of power. If he decided to help Bobby, he could
save everyone else, even if most of his family was dead. If he didn’t, their
time on Earth would almost definitely be prolonged. That is, if Bobby was
speaking the truth. It had crossed Castiel’s mind that all of this was an
intricate ruse to gain his trust and work information out of him without
causing him permanent damage. For all Castiel knew, this could be a secret lab
where they wanted to study a healthy angel in generally normal circumstances to
see how one would react. But then, why tell him all this?
“I… I do not know,” Castiel said quietly, answering the unasked question, his
hands clutching the now empty mug tightly, “I do not think… I shouldn’t… I
cannot…” He couldn’t figure out how to finish any of these desperate sentences,
his head slowly shaking from side to side, growing more frantic the more he
thought about it. He didn’t know how to deal with this sort of situation.
Suddenly, he dashed out of the room, wings pulled in tightly as he made for the
front door. The morning air was chilly, but not nearly as cold as it had been
the previous night. In a similar fashion, Castiel ran into the auto yard,
retracing his steps until he found the same pickup truck that he had hid in
last night and climbed inside. He curled in on himself, wrapping his wings
around his body. He had been betrayed by so many humans before and whether
Bobby knew it or not, he was really asking Castiel for the only thing he had
left. Barring the wings, after what he had been through, Castiel’s knowledge
was the only thing that distinguished him from humanity. Bobby wanted him to
give that up and share it in favor of an undertaking that may not work or may
not exist. Castiel couldn’t do that lightly and he needed to calm himself down.
It was well past one in the afternoon when he got out of bed. When he
remembered the sight of Castiel's wings wrapped around him, expanding with each
restful breath, a surge of adrenaline ran through him. He wore just boxers and
a tee shirt, smelled worse than he had the night before and was desperate with
thirst. Careless, he had no sense of what time it was, and paced a few steps
down the hallway only to find Castiel's bedroom door ajar, the room completely
empty.
He rushed down the steps and called out the angel's name. Bobby's returned,
"He's gone again."
The adrenaline rush that had flushed the hangover moments ago surged anew,
anger behind it like the force of natural disaster. "You gotta be fuckin
kiddin', Bobby, don't say that shit. He ran?"
"No, I packed him lunch 'n sent him on the damn bus with your brother." His
face was flat. "Of course he ran! Would I lie to you, boy?"
As far as he knew, the man never had. Then, it would be foolish to trust any
hunter one hundred percent. Dean was naive, but not so much that he would think
Bobby hadn't omitted at least one or two truths over the years. Walking into
the den where he heard the rogue voice, he scrubbed his hands. "This is too
much. He can't just run off every time someone does somethin' nice for him!
What'd you even do, offer to make him pancakes?"
"No, he bolted 'fore I could." His defensive tone at once became playful. "But
I still made 'em, with nanners how you like. Leftovers on the stove."
"Bobby..."
"What?"
"He can't friggen take off every time we offer him somethin'! I'm serious!"
"So am I! You think just cause it's stressin' you out he's obligated to stay?
He ain't gotta do a damn thing to appease you." He was evidently agitated now.
Dean began to wonder what it really was that the man had said to exact such a
response from the angel.
He steadied himself with uncharacteristically slow breaths. Each pull pained
him, nothing like the soft fall of Castiel's ribs last night. Ribs! Ribs that
were still broken, bandages the angel hadn't allowed him to change. Pacing, his
heartbeat spiked again and he found an amalgam of emotional responses choking
up out of his throat like a lamppost. The killer light at the end was something
like, "... shoulda left that damn son of a bitch where I found him!"
The slam of a heavy book against the frail desk made him jump. Bobby was
standing, his grey chest hairs poking out over the neck of the wife beater. He
had a flannel on, unbuttoned. Steam practically poured from his nose as he
enacted his parental right to reprimand. "'f you're gonna talk that way about a
higher bein you better get your crap 'n haul ass back to your Daddy! I ain't
gonna tolerate that type of shit-attitude in here, 'specially from the one who
said last night that he'd slice a thousand bastard's throats to let Castiel go
free!"
They faced each other. Dean eventually deflated. "I meant what I said. I'm just
worried."
"'f you were that worried, you woulda been up this mornin' to make him tea 'n
talk his pretty head off." The edge was out of his voice, but it still sounded
personal.
"Come on, Bobby. I needed rest. Figured he did, too. 'n what's with the friggen
tea? You feedin' him some type of mojo-restorer?"
He shrugged. "Holy palm fronds. Figured I'd try it out, 'n he liked it."
Dean rolled his eyes, his shoulders hunched forward involuntarily. Though he'd
be twenty within the year, he looked the bratty teen he was. Bobby didn't even
have to hear his next line. He cut the kid off with a gesture. "I get it.
You're stressed he's gone again 'n you feel like you put in work for nothin'.
But you gotta be realistic here. Two nights with you ain't gonna do miracles.
It sure as Hell ain't gonna make an angel who's been brutalized by humans for
four years take down all his walls. 'f you really meant what you said last
night, you gotta prove it. Not to me, not Sam, not even yourself-- you gotta
prove it to him."
He felt defeated, listless. The pulse of anger passed and he was left with a
feeling somewhere on the spectrum of delirium. In honesty, he wanted to drink
again, but he might hate himself for it. Dad was the one who came back from a
hunt and drank for weeks on end, who beat him within an inch of consciousness
when he did something stupid. Dean always vowed to be above that behavior, to
remain constant and predictable for his brother. Although, now that his memory
was jogged, Dad was probably on his way over now. The beating would be
especially heinous considering he believed his son had illegally purchased an
angel from his auction. Which, he had.
Darkly he spoke. "I always knew Dad was nuts, but I never thought he'd do
somethin' so incredibly... wrong."
No, he definitely wasn't above it. And he would hate himself either way.
---
Sam sat down to do his homework at the kitchen table, made himself a snack of
snap peas and carrots. Judging by the stillness, Dean and Castiel weren't here.
Maybe they'd taken a walk around the property-- it was cold, but sunny and nice
enough for walking. It comforted him to think that the two were warming up to
each other. His brother was capable of being extremely supportive-- when in a
healthy enough mindset to do so. He assumed they'd already reached that stage,
which fulfilled the excited daydreams that caused him to look out the window
nearly all day at school.
Bobby was in the den, on a long phone conference with another hunter. The man
dropped phrases like high-profile bastards, swap positions for intel, and
harvesting. The latter word was used more than twice, with an eerie tone
attached to it. Sam could only imagine the connotation, and it gave him an
awful feeling. He couldn't help but eavesdrop, wonder what type of hunt it was,
what they needed intel for. He wished one day he would be as useful from a
stationary location as his father figure was. How many people had he saved
second-handed by simply answering a call?
A third of the way through his math assignment, when he was finally feeling
less sticky from listening in, Bobby hung up the phone and plopped down
opposite him at the table. "Castiel disappeared a couple hours ago. I take it
he's in the junkyard again, but I haven't gone out there 'n I'm not gonna. He
came back once, I've got no reason to think he won't come back again."
There was confidence in his voice. That reassured Sam, who nodded along.
However, it broke the mental picture of what he had walked into. "Dean?"
"Bar."
The frown made his face feel heavy. "Did they fight?" He hoped his brother
hadn't done anything to jeopardize the safety of their new friend. And yes, Sam
counted Castiel as one of their friends, even if he was spastic and had
disappeared twice in less than twenty-four hours. When Bobby shook his head,
Sam winced. "So if they didn't have a fight, what's he acting dumb for? Like
you said, Castiel will come back. He knows it's safe here."
"Let him be an ass. I need you to put away your homework so I can tell you
about the phone conversation I just had."
Immediately Sam's hands began to elegantly wrap up his books. "Everything
okay?"
"No, 'n it has to do with why the angel flew the coop, so stay sittin' down,
wouldya?"
There were a lot of things to be considered as Castiel lay there in his small
haven. As far as he knew, at the current moment, he was the only angel on the
entire planet that had even an inkling of a shot towards returning to Heaven.
Morally, he felt obligated to accept. God had always taught them not to be
selfish and to act for others, even if it did not benefit you. However, the
fall had changed things. Plenty of angels acted selfishly now. It was every man
for himself, so to speak.
On the other hand, giving over information, no matter how insignificant it may
seem, was a huge risk. The more humans knew about angels, the more they could
hurt them. Castiel did not want to be remembered as the angel that sealed their
fates. He would feel much better if there was something Bobby could give him in
return, but he knew there wasn’t. He had fought and planned the wars of God for
billions of years and he knew a lost cause when he saw one. The angels were at
such a tactical disadvantage at this point, nothing could save them except for
escape.
Castiel slowly felt himself falling asleep in the back of the truck. He was
noticing that effect after an hour or two of drinking the tea. He knew it was
because his body healed faster while sleeping, seeing as it didn’t have to
worry about doing much else. He decided that there was nothing wrong with a
small nap, especially if it would help his grace restore itself, so he fell
asleep deciding that he would choose when he woke up.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that Castiel’s eyes finally blinked open
again. The first thing that he noticed was his feet. Almost all the time, they
throbbed with a dull ache because he had to walk on them even though the were
blistered and cut. He didn’t feel it anymore. Castiel wiggled himself out of
the pickup truck so he could see better and picked up one of his feet, turning
the bottom towards his face. Smooth skin looked back at him. He had healed
himself. That meant that his grace truly was returning and it wasn’t just a
phantom feeling. Of course, they were really only minor injuries. The small
amount of grace that he felt inside him could easily handle that, but it wasn’t
enough to make him any kind of threat. Another few weeks and Castiel would be
as strong as he had ever been. That changed things.
He took his time walking back to the house, a strange sense of guilt washing
over him for running. Bobby truly hadn’t done anything wrong. Not that he was
aware of, anyway. The old man had been nothing but kind to Castiel since he
first stepped out of Dean’s truck and he had repaid him with rudeness. Castiel
knew it wasn’t going to be easy to change, if he ever could, but perhaps he
would. He found himself outside the house again, unsure of simply walking back
in. He could leave with no issue, but reentering always felt stressful. What if
he was no longer welcome? He wasn’t a very good guest. It took Castiel nearly
ten minutes to make himself walk up the steps to the porch and through the
front door. He could hear voices in the kitchen and surmised that Sam was home,
so he moved towards them, intent on telling Bobby what he had decided.
His book bag lay abandoned at the base of his chair. While Bobby cooked, Sam
went through the motions of setting the table in a sequestered hush, arranging
the plates, napkins and silverware how he liked. There was the mug on the
counter by the electric kettle, the tiny sieve filled appropriately with
crushed leaves. They would flick the switch and boil water the minute the angel
walked back through the door, which the man was certain he would. Sam felt
somewhat soothed by that certainty, at least temporarily. Though, with the
sensation in his gut, he couldn't tell what he really wanted himself.
He halted when he heard the door open. There were potatoes boiling on the stove
and a roast chicken in the oven, so Bobby seemed too preoccupied to address
Castiel right away. He looked slightly flushed from the cold when he
tentatively entered the kitchen. The color looked healthy on his otherwise
pale, partially bruised face. He noticed now what he failed to notice that
morning; the angel had changed into clean clothes-- borrowed ones of his. The
strangest feeling filled his gut. It was a tincture of warm tingle and swollen
numbness.
He caressed the wings with his eyes and thought that it made sense why Bobby
had kept him in the dark for the past four years. When the angels fell he was
eleven-- not exactly a prime time to aide in the discovery of seals and other
information that could unlock the gates of Heaven or explain the mystery of how
they closed in the first place. Nevertheless, the spread of truth that
interrupted his homework was more than hampering. How could he have not caught
on? And how could he possibly be expected to help now that he was being asked?
Sam thrived when presented with a good challenge. Those that required his
intellectual prowess were a blessing. But locating the addresses of the people
who could dis-enact the seals? That would require talking with angels,
monitoring activity all over the country. He wanted to prove himself and have a
shot at redemption, but he was only fifteen, and Castiel still looked slightly
harassed.
More than anything, he felt afraid of what the angel would say now that he had
come home. It could be a resounding no, I cannot help, based on the need to
survive quietly as a demi-mortal. Or, crazier yet, he could accept the
challenge the same way Sam had. With self-deprecation and quiet strength. But
Bobby was his family, he had to say yes. Castiel, as the man reminded him, did
not have to answer to any of them.
Without even looking over his shoulder Bobby said, "I'm gonna guess your
presence means you decided to join the cause. 'f it don't, 's alright. You can
stay as long as you want." He hit the kettle switch and shut the dial on the
stove, straining potatoes as he calmly awaited an answer.
Sam stood stiff by the chair he'd been beside for the extended moment, his hand
hovering over a glass of milk. Everything in him wanted Castiel to accept, to
truly absorb and accept their acts of solidarity. If Sam was going to fall in
with Bobby and try to help fix this whole mess, he'd rather do it for someone
he knew, and might someday claim to love like family.
Castiel could feel Sam’s eyes on him but he could not bring himself to look
back. His shoulders were hunched, wings following suit as he stood there,
staring at the ground. He was still very unsure of what he was about to do, but
once he did there would be no backing down. Warriors of God did not retract
from a fight. Castiel could almost laugh, because that is exactly what he was
trying to do. He wanted to fight to run away. Part of him had wondered if it
was even worth it. There were no doubt angels that were mentally and physically
damaged like him, or worse. Was there really anything left to save? Castiel had
to hope so.
“I cannot promise much,” he said slowly, his voice soft, “There are likely to
be more times that I will run or shut down. Doing so has become an instinct
that is hard to fight. However, I will help in the ways that I can handle.” The
words made everything seem suddenly more real than they had before. They really
had a shot. Castiel was healing, his grace was returning. If things continued
on the path they were on now, the angels truly would be able to return to
Heaven. It was more than Castiel had ever let himself hope for in over three
and a half years.
Without waiting from a response from either of them, Castiel moved to help Sam
arrange the table in his preferred fashion. He modeled after the two places
that were already set. Bobby’s words had completely surprised him, and almost
made him change his answer. He did not even consider staying if he had chosen
not to participate, but Bobby gave him that option. Castiel had stuck with his
decision in the end, not for himself but for his brothers and sisters. Even
still, the offer to stay while giving them nothing of value was astonishing to
Castiel and he was honestly touched.
It was strange, to think that he was welcome somewhere that he so obviously did
not fit. Bobby, Sam, and Dean were an extremely tight-knit family. Castiel did
not see how anyone else could possibly find room in their lives. Yet here he
was, eating their food and wearing their clothes. It was dizzying how much had
changed for him in just a few days. Castiel wasn’t really sure how to cope with
that. It seemed unfair that he be in this situation when there are others that
have had it far worse than he. Castiel shuddered to think about them,
considering what he had been through, but he knew it was true.
“Where is Dean?” he asked, suddenly noticing that the man was nowhere in the
kitchen. It was not possible that he was still sleeping. Even if he needed a
larger amount of rest, it had been twelve hours by now. Castiel should think
that something is wrong if Dean has not yet awoken. He was a little worried by
the growing… preoccupation he seemed to have with Dean. Castiel couldn’t let
himself call it worry or concern. No, those words were far too alarming and
intimate. However, Castiel could not deny that he seemed to be more aware of
Dean than any other person in the house.
The potatoes were strained, tossed back into the pot and placed on the still-
warm burner. Bobby nodded in accordance to Castiel's self-disclosure as he
diced butter, leveled a cup of milk and poured those in along with mild spices.
He mashed the vegetables naturally with a utensil and said, "Not all of us have
perfect timin'." The silence in return told him that neither registered his
joke. Castiel had come home in time for dinner, which was well needed even if
his grace was clearly starting to return. It would be a week or two yet before
he could thrive without food and sleep like a healthy angel should.
His reply was thought through and placed with caution. The brief interactions
he'd seen between the angel and his eldest were strange to say the least. One
seemed unnaturally stiff, the other tried way too damn hard. Still, Dean was
and always would be the first human to show Castiel initial warmth-- though the
image of him being warm was difficult to invoke. Upon hearing why the kid drove
off to the bar he might feel upset, or guilty. Trauma victims often took on
blame where none was necessary. To avoid that, Bobby could lie, but their new
relationship must be predicated by honesty.
He left the utensil in the pot and faced the two. "When he woke up round one
you were gone. Got real upset, felt more worried bout you than he could handle.
When I reminded him not to go after you we got into it." The latter was only a
partial lie. Leaving certain things out, including halves instead of wholes,
was all part of the process. "Ended up goin out drinkin', prob'ly to get you
off his mind. 'n that ain't nothin' but his fault, that he ain't willin' to
wait calmly for things to unfold.
"He don't know what we know, about the plan. Stormed out fore I could get that
far." Realizing that would likely confuse things more, he paused. "I didn't
plan on tellin' either of the boys about it til it was completely necessary.
Which, since now you're here 'n willin', it is." He noticed only now that
Castiel had helped Sam set the table, which flooded him with the sense that his
decision to divulge was the right one. Meeting the piercing blue eyes unlike
any he'd seen on a child, he shook his head. "I've got no idea how he's gonna
be when he comes back or 'f he will. You guys aren't so different in that
respect. Sometimes life just seems a bit more than we can chew."
Like bringing home an angel on a whim and offering him freedom.
Castiel nodded silently. That was most definitely something he understood.
Despite what Bobby had said, he could still feel guilt swelling in his chest.
If he had been here, than Dean never would have gotten into a fight with his
father figure and he never would have gone out to drink. Castiel had not
realized that his running to hide would affect the man so much. He knew that
Dean desired his health and his freedom enough to kill three men, but having
someone actively caring about him was completely foreign to Castiel. Even in
Heaven, there was never this level of care. Mild concern at the most. After
all, there was not much to be worried about. They had been in a time of peace
before Ezekiel.
Castiel tried to push those thoughts away as Bobby finished up cooking dinner
and brought the food over to the table, along with another mug of tea for
Castiel. He accepted it gratefully, taking his seat at the stool. Food was
loaded onto his plate, far more than on Bobby’s own or Sam’s plate. He supposed
they wanted him to eat more so that he would gain a healthy amount of weight.
That was one thing that had remained the same in his days with the Winchesters.
Under his borrowed clothes, Castiel was still scarily thin for his physical age
and height, though he sensed that it bothered the humans far more than it
bother him. In reality, it was normal for him. Each time he looked in a
reflected surface, bruised skin and bones looked back at him.
Bobby and Sam talked through dinner about trivial things, like what Sam had
gotten up to at school that day, but Castiel stayed quiet. He enjoyed observing
their interactions. He had always liked watching humans. He only managed to
finish half of the food on his plate, but he could see the happiness in Sam’s
eyes when he did so. He helped clear up after dinner, mostly handing things to
Sam from across the table. He was still wary of getting too close despite all
the kindness they have showed him. Call it a learned trait.
“Do you want to sit in the living room with us?” Sam asked when dinner had been
cleared away, save for a plate for Dean that was being kept warm in the oven.
“I do not know,” Castiel said slowly, eyes flickering between Bobby and Sam.
“We’ll each have our own thing to do,” Sam tried, “I’ve still got homework left
and Bobby always has stuff to do.” Castiel remembered his journal up on his
bedside table and supposed that he could maintain his distance and fill a few
more pages. Perhaps doing so would make him feel more comfortable.
“Alright,” Castiel finally agreed after a few moments of silence. He could see
the excitement on Sam’s face and the small smile on Bobby’s, though he could
not fathom why they would be happy. He retreated out of the kitchen, going to
the bathroom quickly to relieve himself before going upstairs to grab his
journal. When he came back down, Sam had settled on the couch with enough space
for Castiel if he chose to sit there and Bobby was at his desk, the TV
murmuring in the background. Castiel looked around for a moment before settling
a little ways away on the floor, his wings comfortably fanned out behind him as
he opened to a fresh page, letting his mind wander as he pen danced over the
paper.
There was dried come on the lower part of his stomach. He'd pulled out, but
both of them being plastered drunk in a cramped bathroom stall made for
difficult maneuvering. It was early Saturday morning and he'd managed to get
into two fights and fuck maybe three different people since two o'clock when
he'd shown up. Okay, so he'd done a little coke, too, which gave him the energy
to keep going so long. The anger helped. So did the fact that he was in the
nearest city, as opposed to the piss-ant bar in town. Still, no matter how many
songs he thrashed to or black eyes he gave, his concern over Castiel's second
disappearance never deserted him.
The truck screeched to a halt, knocking over at least two garbage cans in the
process. Gravel was tossed up behind him, his music blaring as he fumbled
around with the gears. When he was finally in park he fell out of the driver's
seat, kicked the door shut behind him. Up the steps and into the house,
belching as he careened through the dark. What if he wasn't back yet? What if
he never came back, went suicido out there alone? And what had Bobby really
said to him? Because if there's anything a full liter of whiskey and five bumps
taught him, it was that Castiel hadn't run over nothing.
He slammed into the foyer, shook his coat off and threw it haphazardly onto a
hook. When he stalked into the living room the first thing he saw were ten feet
of feathers fanned across the floor horizontally. His gut sunk, and he felt
like vomiting. In the center was a boy, simple and pale in his brother's clean
clothes. His hair shone with grease from lack of cleanliness, though both his
skin and feet looked healthier than he remembered. There was something wrong
with them before. The feet, they had... blisters. Gone. What was is Bobby had
fed the kid? Tea? Or had Dean really been out so long that the half-mortal body
began to heal?
By the time he hiccupped the words, his presence bore down on Castiel,
intimidating close without even realizing. Bobby gently set his book down and
came to the threshold of the living room and den. Sam, who was asleep on the
couch seconds ago when he tore in like a hurricane, was now sitting up rubbing
his face. "Why'd you leave?" His own eyes were frighteningly bleary, all shades
of blood red and green. His hair was mussed and still wet in places, split lips
tainted crimson from several shades of women's gloss and blood. The scabbed
slice on his cheek where Castiel's feather cut him nights ago was now
complimented by a fresh gash above his eyebrow. He was even missing an over
shirt; his Henley clung to his ribs, which beat in and out with each
overwhelmed breath.
The subject of his turmoil and fascination was neatly folded on the floor below
him, hands preciously clutching the leather-bound journal to his chest. His
eyes struck like lightning, and Dean suddenly felt stupid for talking. He
swayed dangerously, caught himself and repeated the question with a heavy
stomp. "Huh? The fuck d'you leave?"
Castiel found that he actually enjoyed sitting quietly with the two humans,
together and yet separate. He had placed himself close enough to the door and
far enough away from both Bobby and Sam to feel comfortable. It was nice. Sam
worked on his homework before putting it away to watch television and
eventually falling asleep. Bobby worked continuously, only stopping once to get
Sam a blanket and to bring out more tea for Castiel. Castiel drew, now almost
halfway filling the small journal. In an effort to forget his earlier pages,
Bobby, Sam and Dean had become the new stars, along with the various rooms in
Bobby’s home.
Then he heard the truck and he knew Dean was home. The guilt swelled in his
chest again and he suddenly felt nervous. The feeling only grew when he
listened to how the truck pulled into the drive, music blasting. It hurt
Castiel’s ears. He listened to uneven steps as they clomped towards the house
and remembered where Dean had been in sharp clarity. Drinking. Castiel had
plenty of experience with drunken humans. More than he would ever care to think
about again. His head snapped towards the door when Dean crushed through it,
stinking with too many smells to name.
Without warning, the man was standing over Castiel, his words loud and his mood
dangerous. This was all feeling too familiar for comfort. His mind transported
him to the last time he’d been in contact with a drunken human. It had been a
man like Dean, though he was closer to Bobby’s age. He’d been large and smelly.
Castiel had been fourteen at the time. He didn’t let himself remember any
further, shooting himself back into the present. His wings had gone tense,
curling around Castiel’s body protectively as much as they could from their
position, which honestly wasn’t all that much. Castiel’s thin body shook with
fear as he stared up at Dean with wide eyes. He suddenly realized that Dean was
standing between him and the door and he flew into a panic. Castiel’s breaths
were short and rough and all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.
He clutched his head between his hands, bringing his knees up to his chest as
he began to rock. He fell back on reflex all too easily. “I’m sorry,” he said
blindly, voice weak and fragile, eyes squeezed shut, “I’m sorry. I’ll listen,
I’ll obey. I swear I’ll listen. Please, master, I’m sorry.” Castiel didn’t know
what he was saying, having gone into survival mode, his body reacting for him
in ways that had previously kept him alive.
He shook his head violently, teeth clenched with rage. Steps away from slamming
his head against the wall for his own stupidity he yelled, "I ain't you're
fuckin master, I just wanna know why you left!" It didn't occur to him that he
was screaming into the other's face. Only that he'd fucked everything up,
again. Crashing to his knees before the angel, who made himself tinier than he
was -- if that was possible considering how emaciated the humans had left him-
- he repeated with urgency, "Ain't your fuckin master, so stop apologizin'!
Castiel, I'm not upset with you! I'm not upset, what the fuck!"
The shouting continued to work its way out of his gut and he beat the floor
with his palms, inches from the angel's feet. Sam stepped between them, knelt
and strategically threw his weight against his brother. He was light, but the
elder was beyond inebriated. He fell back onto the floor so hard the room shook
and Sam said firmly, "Back off, Dean! It was Bobby, alright!" He stood swiftly,
ready to fight if it meant keeping Castiel safe. "Bobby's been researching for
years, and he's got a plan to get the angels back into Heaven! He asked Castiel
to help and he got scared. But he came back and offered to do it. That's all!
He's okay, Dean, so lay off." His hands dropped to his sides, adrenaline
shaking them. Though the secret was bound to be told at some point, he had no
idea if this was the best or worst time.
The pause lasted seconds before Dean's voice was booming again. “You gotta be
fuckin kiddin' me!" His chest reverberated with the sound and he scrambled up
from the floor. "Where the fuck would you even get that from, Bobby! And why in
God's forsaken name would you dare put him under that typa pressure!? He's
gonna think we're usin' him! 'n he already wants to hurt himself, why give him
more steam!?" He shoved Sam out of the way with such force that he floundered
backwards into the den, knocking several books from a shelf.
Bobby stood firmly between Castiel and Dean, retorted with velvet force, "Cause
we ain't exactly got a lot of time left! Government labs have got em now, 'n on
top a that you're Daddy's got a warrant out for both your blood! Figured you
bein stupid enough to bring an angel home was good a chance as any to get some
work done!"
There was a hush. Sam was beside them the next time he blinked, and quipped
brokenly as Dean looked at him with double vision. "What? Dean, I thought you
saw him. I thought he's trying to help?"
Exhaustion filtered through his veins like lead. He swayed on his heels, fought
the urge to vomit. "'s workin' for em." He hiccupped before continuing, the
truth snaking out in a slur. "I killed three 'f his men 'n stole their cash,
bought Castiel w'blood money. 's after us both."
His little head craned sideways and he inhaled nice and slow. "Oh, God. Oh,
Bobby, is--"
Dean laughed, bitter. "C'mon, Sammy, you've known for years how twisted that
son'f bitch is. We shoulda seen it comin'."
"Is he on his way now?" Panic took over, his slight body suddenly tense. "We
have to protect him! We're not just gonna let Dad come in here and take him
back. Castiel's not his!"
"He ain't ours either," Bobby interjected. "We need to get to work. That's all
we can do. I've got some details on the first seal, think I found the guy. We
can start there, get as far as we can. 'n I'm sure we can count on Dean here to
be the pit bull that fights back 'f it becomes necessary."
Already he'd been forgiven by his family for his insane behavior. Would he ever
be forgiven by Castiel? He swallowed heavily, throat raw from screaming. His
only honest value lied in how violent he could be. That much was clear from
what both Dad and Bobby seemed to believe about him. What if he really did hurt
Castiel one day? What if he only amounted to the worst parts of his father?
After all, he'd spent the entire day in sin and came back revved up enough to
ruin the fragment of relationship he had with the angel in minutes, without
consciously trying. If that wasn't the ability to corrupt, he didn't know what
was.
He reversed his path and walked up the stairs, taking a sobering last look at
the wreck Castiel was reduced to as he passed. Guilt had never held his insides
they way it did that night. In the upstairs bathroom he wrenched on the shower,
vomited layers up into the toilet as hot water steamed the air. Trembling, he
stripped and stepped into the stream, which caused his lips and forehead to
sting. Pink rivets ran down his chest and he began what was a lengthy process
of cleaning himself of the mire he'd tripped into.
Maybe an hour later he wrapped a towel around his waist, shuffled bleary-eyed
into his bedroom. If he had cried in the shower or not, he wouldn't have been
able to tell. Already the memory of the fight seemed like a dream, his head
pounding with what would become the greatest hangover of his young life.
All he put on were boxers. He struggled under the covers in the dark and fell
into an ever darker sleep.
Castiel didn't move from his defensive position, not really registering what
was happening. He just protected himself in the only way he knew how. He could
still everyone screaming, Sam and Bibb having come into the fray, but he didn't
really process what they were saying. No, that always came later when he was
all too aware of what had happened. His mind may protect him during what was
happening, but it took all of Castiel's self discipline to refuse to think
about it after.
It was at least an hour later before he finally uncurled. His joints were stuff
and he was still trembling slightly. He could hear Sam and Bobby murmuring in
the kitchen. He didn't understand what had happened. He had no idea that Dean
would react like that simply because Castiel had taken a small run for it. His
throat closed up a little when he realized that he couldn't do it anymore. Not
if Dean became that violent. Castiel would have to find some other way to take
a respite from whatever was happening. Eventually he stood up, picking up the
mug and his journal, the event running through his head. That's when a specific
drunken sentence hit him. " 's after us both." Castiel froze. The mug dropped
from his hand, crashing to the floor and breaking into tiny pieces. John
Winchester was coming.
Sam dashed into the room when he heard the glass shatter, staring between the
mess on the floor and Castiel.
“What is it?” he asked worriedly, “What happened?” Castiel stared back at him,
fear filling his bright blue eyes.
“John,” he whispered, as if even speaking the name would make the man appear
behind him. Sam looked confused for a moment before it seemed to dawn on him.
“You know his name?” he asked softly.
“We all do,” Castiel answered, a vacant look in his eyes. The atrocities that
had happened to him seemed almost tame compared to the stories he had heard
about angels who were caught by John Winchester. His entire body began to shake
once more, fear coursing through him. “I can’t,” he said, shaking his head, “I
can’t stay here. I can’t let him find me. He can’t find me.” He repeated this
almost deliriously, completely lost in his fear. Sam took a hesitant step
towards the angel, which only made Castiel take three steps back.
“Bobby!” Sam called, completely unsure of what to do. He could see Castiel
tunneling down into another panic attack.
His body pulsed with fear. For his brother, sure, for the angel, of course, but
also for himself. Dean was right when he said they always knew what a twisted
person Dad was. Ever since Mom's death when he was a baby-- or so he was told,
and the evidence proved it-- Dad had gone off the handle in every way
imaginable. Not only was he obsessed with finding her killer, but he neglected
the boys he claimed he only had because she wanted them. Leaving Dean to pick
up the pieces and raise them both, they managed to survive off of what little
he provided them with. In spite of the facts, Sam always trusted that his
father was, deep down, somebody who tried his best considering the
circumstances. Presently that vision was shattered, and where before he had
imagined his father helping angels in settlements find resources, he now saw
pain and ignorance at the hands of a man he had always loved.
Dean would never become that, would he? Dad had beat them each multiple times,
for various things. And yeah, his brother got scary sometimes. He'd seen a lot.
He'd experienced a lot, too, things Bobby and Dad would never even let Sam
near. Yet he always treated the younger with respect, reverence. He knew that
in some ways Dean considered him his child, and that was okay. He seemed
equally intent on taking care of Castiel, though there was no such bond there.
His getting drunk and messing everything up was just a side effect of his
worry. Sam and Bobby were well aware of that, but how could they transfer that
assurance to the angel, who was clearly petrified not only of John, but now his
son, too?
Together he and Bobby picked up the pieces of the mug and dried the floor while
Castiel stood shaking above them. They moved hesitantly, got rid of the ceramic
shards so the angel wouldn't accidentally hurt himself. When that was through
Sam heard the man's gruff voice, worn from all that had transpired. "'f you
wanna bolt, you can. I'm sure you got some hideaway spot that makes you feel
calmer, so go 'f you need to. 'n don't worry bout him. Like he said, he ain't
your damn master. Nobody is." They could hear the shower running, and Sam knew
that afterwards his brother would end up in bed.
The angel didn't move right away, so Bobby urged Sam gently, "Talk to him while
I fix a thing, will ya?" He knew the man had a sedative that, if Castiel drank
as a tea, would put him out for the night. They'd talked about it the day of
the angel's arrival, when they figured anything could happen. Currently they
needed to give him a chance to emotionally recover while they dealt with Dean
privately, and figured out a way to reverse the damage done by letting it slip
that Dad was potentially on his way.
Sam stuttered, "Okay." There was nothing he could say. Nothing would fix this.
Tomorrow when his brother woke up, if Castiel was still here, he would probably
brood like an idiot, full of self-hate. That wouldn't help. And there would
still be the storm cloud of Dad's impending arrival. Again the question crossed
his mind, how could they assure him he was safe here, especially now?
He stood beside the angel, rather than in front of him, and left a clear path
to the door. Hopefully the stance would diffuse some of the terror. He had
never engaged with any being so entirely compromised. It was sad, and he felt
the gravity of that drain down his throat and hit his hips. There was a warrior
of God in his house-- his dream come true-- and yet he had nothing like comfort
to give. Castiel was reduced to his barest substance, borne in a completely
unnatural form.
Words began to pebble out of his mouth quietly, before he could rehearse them.
"Dean says before Mom died Dad was really loving. Then he started to hunt, try
to get what killed her. He went crazy, but we understood. All along he taught
us that our main priority was to help people. That was always our goal, and he
raised us as hunters. I'm shocked to think that he would ever hurt an angel. I
had no idea, and I'm sorry. I know the words don't mean anything to you,
because how could sorry ever turn back what's happened to your family? It
can't. But still, I'm sorry that my Dad is responsible for your hurt. And that
you had to hear Bobby and Dean say that stuff-- I didn't know until tonight
either. They probably didn't want us to worry."
As he continued to speak he felt the weight within him grow, resulting in hot
tears. They began to slide down his cheeks silently, and since Castiel wouldn't
make eye contact with him, he likely wouldn't see. He was locked in his own
mental cage, built from years of unfathomable reality. Sam pushed on because
the old man had told him to, and prayed that maybe there was a chance. "They're
a lot alike, Bobby and Dean. They'll do whatever they can to keep us safe and
happy. Healthy, too. Even at the expense of themselves. And you know? He's done
it to me, too. Scared me, I mean. When I was nine Dad took me on my first hunt.
Dean was thirteen, already like he is now... It's because he cares so much, I
think. He wants to save everyone, but it's just not possible. Anything that
goes wrong he blames himself for. He gets kind of dark sometimes.
"So I was nine and I got lost. The hunt was in the woods, somewhere out in
Wyoming. He freaked when he found me, and Dad beat the shit out of him, said he
was the reason I went off track. But that's not true, I was just a kid. I
walked off. Anyway, I know what it's like when my brother gets upset. His voice
in your ears, all loud and charged. The way his eyes look, like you total broke
him by making a mistake. Like his life depends on you... Castiel, my brother's
never hurt me. Never, not even when I purposely ran away last year. He was so
upset, he even cried. I'm not saying it's right for him to yell, but I promise
you-- he's never touched me in an unloving way.
Sam doubted the angel was listening. On the small chance that he was, there was
one last point he wanted to make. "I bet when he killed those guys and took you
out of there that he already loved you. He just doesn't know that's why he did
it. That's how he is. Intense. He'll protect you at any cost, even if our dad
does come. You don't have to believe that, okay? But I do. In my heart, I do."
At that time Bobby came to his side with a strong smelling tea. "Looks like you
ain't in the mood to canter off. At least try this 'n get some sleep."
Castiel felt weak. He felt pathetic. The mere mention if a mortal's name has
reduced him to nothing more than a shaking, fearful mess. He was a disgrace.
Every molecule was telling him to run, but this time not to come back. Castiel
would rather risk being caught by hunters again and sent off somewhere else,
another dark page for his journal. He would rather that than to find himself at
the hands of John Winchester. Yet, Castiel didn't move. He was completely
frozen and that scared him. He couldn't freeze. Castiel was meant to run and
never look back. Something kept him firmly in place and he had no idea what.
He could hear Sam's soft voice filtering through his ears. He didn't really
focus on the words, more on how his voice sounded. It was soft, careful, and
clear, completely unlike how Dean's voice had been when he'd dropped the
horrific piece of information. Castiel couldn't decide if he would have rather
remakes blissfully ignorant or not.
He had never felt so unsure of anything in his life. Dean, Bobby, and Sam had
created gray areas in his life where it had been black and white before.
Castiel believed that was what gave him pause. They had shown him kindness that
he had never experienced before and have promised up and down that they would
protect him. It was almost sad, Castiel standing here depending on humans for
protection. He felt a want mug pressing against his shaking hands and
instinctively his fingers wrapped around it. He could hear Bobby's voice now,
gruff and yet comforting as he spoke words that Castiel paid no attention to.
Gently, he brought the mug to his lips as took a sip. Almost immediately, his
mind felt foggy. He couldn't focus on one thing for very long an his worry
faded away. All he felt was tired now.
Castiel stumbled, fumbling to place the mug down somewhere. He was able to
register that there was something wrong with it and he shouldn't drink anymore.
He felt the mug leave his hands and a second pair of hands come to support him.
He knew that he shouldn't like that and should he trying to get away but his
brain wouldn't send the correct signals to his muscles.
He was taken upstairs, a process that took almost twice as long as it should
have. Castiel was deposited in the room they had given him, his journal placed
on the bedside table. His wings surged up and cradled him protectively. In
moments, he was asleep.
Dreams plagued him. Distorted, fuzzy things that Castiel could barely decipher.
A myriad of horror stories that he couldn't wake up from. He whimpered in his
sleep, tossing and turning as he battled his mind. John's impending arrival
pushed through into his sub conscious. The monster of his nightmares.
The restless agitation of self-resentment woke him. He kicked at the covers,
accidentally hitting Sam in the process. The boy gave a soft grunt in response,
but didn't wake. Dean took a deep breath to calm himself, unable to conjure an
explanation for why he felt that way. Carefully he climbed over his brother and
faltered to a stand. He scratched his bare chest and felt the brisk autumn air
brush his skin. There might have been a window open somewhere, though he didn't
care to find it. Instead he grabbed the first shirt his fist found in the
closet. A black Lynyrd Skynyrd tee, ripped at the armpit.
He stepped into the hallway, the hush practically pressing in on all sides.
Down the hall Bobby's door was left slightly ajar. That wasn't unusual, but it
felt slightly out of place and Dean couldn't figure out why. Snoring echoed
from within that room, and he proceeded toward it, intending the pass by and
into the bathroom opposite the steps. The next footfall shot a realization
through his spine. He was the reason Bobby's door was left open. So if Dean
started something in the night the old man could contain him. Another
resounding snore and he remembered screaming in Castiel's face. Why? What on
God's fuck-all green Earth would make him yell at the angel he would do
anything to console?
Oh. He'd run away again. He knew at least that much from the conversation he'd
had with Bobby yesterday around one o'clock. The splitting headache told Dean
that he had spent the remainder of the afternoon and night out at the bars; the
itchy sensation on the inside of his nose told him he'd also done a fair amount
of cocaine. Typical reaction to feeling overly concerned. When Sam ran away
last year and Dad beat the shit out of him for it being his fault, he spent at
least a good twelve hours in a blackout. Part of that included driving drunk
halfway across the country to retrieve the boy, and suffering unnecessarily
from the minor head wound Dad had given him. This situation wasn't much
different, except there was no way he could have gone after Castiel the way he
did Sam. The urge to drown the worry away was so much stronger because he felt
so entirely powerless. His initial intention when he killed those men and
bought the rarity was to nurse him back to health and let him free. Nothing so
far had gone his way.
By the time he swung open the bathroom door, his eyes cool with the drops he'd
put in, Sam was standing partway down the hall. In the dim natural light it
took a moment to see that he was peering into Castiel's room. When he noticed
his older brother staring, he quietly retreated and said, "We need to talk.
Come on."
The times when Sam dared to command Dean to do anything at all were few and far
between. Deep-seated guilt cropped up and he felt his heartbeat quicken,
followed the younger without complaint. They made it into the kitchen before
Sam broke the tension by turning around and slamming his fists into the other's
chest. He looked up, eyes brimming with tears of anger or disappointment.
Either way, it hurt to look at.
His voice was intentionally soft as he swung his hands down one more time. "Do
you have any idea what you did to him? By coming in so reckless like that?"
He swatted Sam away and blinked, unsure of what response the kid wanted. Lamely
he admitted, "I know."
"No, you don't know! Because you went upstairs, showered and slept! Bobby and I
were thrilled to see him finally come out of his shell last night-- we were
surprised it happened so quickly. You saw him sitting with me, drawing in his
journal, watching TV. Then you ruined any chance we had at rehabilitating him
by demanding him to tell you why he left and saying Dad's coming!"
Attempting to match Sam's volume, his voice became a strained hiss. "I didn't
ruin anythin'! He was gonna find out about Dad sooner or later!"
"Sure, but we hoped it would be when he showed up, not now! You weren't here
for the aftermath, Dean. He sat there practically convulsing for an hour after
you screamed at him." He slammed the back of one hand into the palm of another
for emphasis, his brows contorted in sympathy. "And he can't handle knowing
Dad's coming, because apparently that's every angel's worst nightmare! We had
to give him a sedative tea just to get his body out of shock and into bed."
He averted his eyes, let them linger shut, the reality too much in addition to
how destroyed his body felt. When he met Sam's again he swallowed hard.
"Whaddyou want me to do? Pack up 'n leave? Go stay somewhere else for a while
so you guys can handle this Heaven's gates shit on your own?"
"No, Dean, we don't want you to leave. In fact, that would be even more stupid,
because we need as many people here as possible to protect him! You're the one
Dad's after just as much as Castiel is. Okay? This is your mess, so stay and
clean it up."
His expression was skeptical. "Bobby tell you to say that?"
"Jesus," he chuckled. "This is me, Dean. Brother to brother. Telling you what
you already know. The way you acted last night was insane, and it's not going
to be an easy fix. You're going to have to earn back his trust, and honestly? I
don't even know if he'll be in the same room with you. You'll be lucky if he
does-- I think he's starting to associate the thought of you with Dad."
Just like that he was finished. He filled the kettle and set the switch, the
mug of tea beside it in case the angel woke. Then he fixed the coffee for Bobby
and Dean, which percolated pleasantly. When the needs of others were addressed
he made himself a big bowl of cereal and carried it into the living room.
Still standing there too stunned to move, Dean heard the television turn on.
His head throbbed and he wondered how his brother had ended up such a martyr,
when he himself was such a foul disgrace. Once he broke from the trance he went
about making hot breakfast for everyone who would eat, resolved to get dressed
and go down to the auto shop in town right after. All he could think was
associate the thought of you with Dad. If that was true there was no way they
could both stay under one roof without the angel regressing in kind.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Castiel slept far longer than he ever had in his life. When he finally woke up,
his mouth felt like sand and it felt as though his eyes had been glued shut. He
blinked groggily, making no moves to actually get out of the bed or move his
wings. The events of the previous night came rushing back to him. Dean
screaming, the way Castiel had fallen straight back into his submissive habits,
John Winchester’s eventual arrival. It all made him never want to even set foot
out of the room.
Despite Dean’s initial kindness and gentle attitude towards him, Castiel
couldn’t bring himself to go seek the man out. After what he had done last
night, Castiel could admit to himself that he was nothing short of terrified.
They had all promised him up and down that here it was different and here he
was safe. Yet last night had deposited right back into memories of one of the
darkest points in his physical life. The thought of seeing Dean again made
Castiel curl up just a little tighter in his feathery haven. He hated having
that reaction to someone that he had begun to trust, but he couldn’t let
himself have no reaction at all. Too much heart was always Castiel’s problem,
but he would not let it be his downfall.
After about an hour of quiet contemplation, Castiel finally got out of the bed.
His limbs felt strangely weak, but he accounted it on the tea that he had drank
last night. That was something Castiel was extremely wary about. Any drug that
made him lose himself like that was dangerous and it was Sam and Bobby that had
given it to him. He had taken about two steps forward and thirty steps back in
the course of one day. Stretching out as much as he could in the small room,
Castiel moved towards the door and peeked out hesitantly. He wasn’t ready to
see any of them just yet. He dashed out the door and into the bathroom that he
had seen last night when he came up to grab his journal. He locked the door
behind him.
Castiel was still very undecided on whether or not he should leave and he
blamed that on the initial kindness he received from the three humans.
Nonetheless, it had been more time than Castiel would like to admit that he
went without properly grooming his wings, and the rest of his body, so he
decided on a shower. If he was going to leave, he saw no reason why he
shouldn’t do these things now while he had the chance. Castiel stripped out of
his borrowed clothes, catching a look at himself in the large mirror over the
sink. With a small note of surprise, he saw that that ring around his neck had
faded immensely, now only a barely visible yellow mark in its place. Bruises
that bad never healed that quickly and Castiel had to account it to his
returning grace, healing the small things that it could. He wasn’t sure if he
should remove the other bandages on his torso or not, and decided to leave
them, unsure of how his wounds would react to water.
Fitting into the shower was quite a production. In the end, Castiel couldn’t do
it. He washed his hair and body first, his large wings acting in place of the
shower curtain. When he decided that he was clean enough, Castiel turned around
with much difficulty and stuck his wings into the compartment, closing the
curtain around them. He shifted them around without looking, making sure that
each part was able to get thoroughly rinsed off. Finally, he turned off the
shower and commandeered one of the towels on the back of the door to dry
himself.
A billow of steam escaped the bathroom when Castiel opened the door a crack. He
peeked outside in a similar fashion to what he had done before leaving Sam’s
bedroom. He made a second run for it, closing the door behind him as soon as
possible. He knew that Dean had gotten rid of whatever he had been wearing when
they met and unfortunately, Castiel had to borrow a second set of Sam’s
clothes. Perhaps if he decided to leave, he would leave them behind. Castiel
sat on the bed in the room, legs cross, hands in his lap, doing absolutely
nothing. He was too afraid to venture downstairs, not wanting to run into Bobby
or Sam or Dean.
 
Sam heard the shower kick on from his spot on the couch and from the banging
around that he heard against the walls, he was willing to bet it was Castiel.
He was glad that the angel was awake and feeling well enough to clean himself.
He wrestled with the idea of going up to see him, but stayed put in the end,
figuring that Castiel would come down when he was ready.
Except that he didn’t.
Sam knew for a fact that the angel was still weak enough to need food and it
worried him that Castiel never came down for breakfast. With how completely
emaciated he was, there was no way he could afford to skip a meal. After an
hour had gone by, Sam finally rose from the couch and headed into the kitchen.
He fried up a few eggs and some bacon, as well as making a few pieces of toast.
He put it all on a large plate and carried it up the stairs, along with a mug
of the restorative tea.
“Castiel?” he said softly, knocking on the door gently. He received no answer.
The only thing that kept him from seeing if the angel was actually there was
the minor rustle of feathers he heard. Rather than pushing his way in, Sam set
the food down in front of the door. “There’s breakfast out here if you want
it,” he said after a minute before going back downstairs. He sat in the kitchen
and worked on a few of the things that he and Bobby had discussed the previous
night after Dean’s explosion, but he couldn’t hear much from his spot. When he
went back up an hour later, the food had gone cold and the room was still
silent.
The fact that he elected to shower was a good sign. Whether he did it because
he wasn't sure when his next would be or he'd chosen to stay was immaterial. He
and Sam had long since decided not to bother Castiel, and only approached the
bedroom to set a steaming plate of food and tea mug down around dinnertime.
Some seven hours earlier Bobby had called the shop and heard that Dean was
working, so they left that issue alone, too. He was certain both boys would
come around when it mattered most. Right now one was embarrassed, the other
petrified, but similarly out of their mental capacity to handle things.
In the meantime, Sam sat and listened to Bobby unravel the entire process of
his research, start to finish. They looked through new and old documents
together, made a few conference calls to hunters in several different states.
Things became clearer as they flushed out an outline of what was already in the
works and what needed to be accomplished yet. They even discussed John's
whereabouts, and potential reasons as to why he switched sides so suddenly.
It was around nine that night-- three hours after the shop closed on Saturdays-
- when the possibility of John encountering a temping exchange with demons
surfaced.
Sam was surprised at first, then began to nod with fervor. Bobby divulged his
theory that demons were invested in the torment of angels and the points
connected easily. "So, Lucifer's got them empathizing. He's convinced the
demons that the angels deserve this for how they sat back and watched God cast
him out."
Sipping a beer and spooning the remains of his ice cream he said, "Somethin'
like that. I'm thinkin' demons got a hold a your father, gave him a deal. I'll
give you this 'f you torture angels for me. Do what I can't."
"Can't they do it themselves? Possess vessels and go after angels on their own
terms?"
"Some of em are, I'm sure. That senator I told you bout? Runs one a the labs in
Chi-town? Swear to you, I've seen clips of him on TV 'n his eyes've gone
blacker'n makeup on a Goth girl's face. But you gotta understand, too, your
Daddy's considered the best. Lucifer knows just as well as God what he's
capable of. Havin' him on their side's almost better'n doin' it themselves,
cause he knows that much."
Sam mulled it over, tapped his own empty ceramic bowl. "Yeah, but what would
make Dad agree to that? I mean, he's an asshole sometimes, but always with good
intentions."
Sorrow worked its way across his face. "Kid, we both know there's only one
thing enticing enough to make John Winchester turn dark side."
Castiel stayed in his room all day in quiet contemplation. He did small
activities, like combing through his wings with his fingers or taking count of
all the cracks in the ceiling, but nothing that would distract his mind too
much. He heard both Sam and Bobby come up to leave him food but he didn’t eat
any of it and the tea remained completely untouched. He just couldn’t bring
himself to risk it having something strange in it again. His stomach complained
loudly, having gotten used to the constant meals already.
Castiel knew he should stay. Not for his own safety or for the sake of the
humans downstairs, but for his brother’s and sisters. If he stayed here and
gave Bobby the information he needed, he could get them all back home. Reopen
the gates. Show Ezekiel what the truth wrath of God’s warriors was. There were
many of them that blamed their suffering entirely on Ezekiel and would give
anything for a chance to make him feel what they had been forced to endure
during their years on earth.
It was almost ten o’clock when Castiel hesitantly ventured out of the room.
Most of the lights were off, with a strategic one here or there that he knew
were on to make it easier for him to get around. His head swiveled with wide
eyes as he tried to figure out where everyone was. The further he got down the
stairs, the more he could hear voices in the kitchen. He got a little closer
and he could hear that it was Sam and Bobby. There was no sign of Dean and for
that Castiel was grateful.
The angel stood in the doorway of the kitchen, dim light glinting off his now
shining wings as he kept what he felt was a safe distance from the two humans.
They both fell silent, looking at him. Neither said anything or pushed for a
response. They simply waited for him to feel comfortable enough to speak.
“I will stay,” he finally whispered, voice hoarse from disuse, “To help you.
For my brothers and sisters.” He said nothing else, but stayed glued to his
spot in the doorway, staring down at the legs of the table. He couldn’t bring
himself to look at either of them. He was honestly surprised that he had spoken
at all. They were far from forgiven, but Castiel would have to interact with
them in order to give them what they needed.
They exchanged cautious glances after the angel spoke. Bobby was the one to
tentatively say, "We'd love to have you here, whether you wanna help or not. 'n
we understand fully 'f you change your mind at any point 'n wanna leave. We
just can't guarantee your safety 'f you go. But you know that, 'n I think
you've thought your options through." To Sam he said, "Go get the plate 'n mug
from upstairs. I'll fix him somethin' fresh."
The boy carefully stood, each step around the angel delicate and light. Before
Bobby stood himself he found the angel's eyes. It was clear now that with a
haircut and a healthy weight he would be stunningly handsome, with a smug
feline face. The parents of the vessel must miss the kid terribly. Too bad he'd
been strapped to a rocket, likely never to be seen again. Then, if they ever
did unlock the gates and let Castiel home, whoever the body belonged to would
wake broken and almost five years out of place.
He snapped back to his purpose, which was to begin to rebuild trust. It was a
risk to brooch the subject, but he was afraid there wouldn't be another chance.
Though the angel made no mention, he knew it was one of the reasons he'd
remained hidden all day.
"Castiel, I'm gonna tell you somethin' now, 'n you don't gotta believe or even
care. Just humor me for a second, okay? Last night your physical body went into
shock. I know you've noticed what the vessel does when bad things happen.
Humans call it post traumatic stress disorder, but in your case it ain't
exactly post. So you're viable to go on the fritz any time. We gave you the tea
cause we needed to get your body outta shock 'n calm down-- you were in that
state for over 'n hour, which coulda led to a seizure. We couldn't touch you 'n
you couldn't hear us. The sedative our last possible resort."
Raising his hands in gesture of surrender he rose from the chair and added, "Do
what you will with that. We can move on." When he reached the fridge he opened
the door and leaned in. "Whaddyou wanna eat? We got steamed carrots, leftover
chicken 'n potatoes. Or I can make a pizza, I got some stuff for that, pasta,
sandwich... You want your palm tea? I can already see the difference it's
makin'. 'f you weren't lettin' yourself go hungry I bet you'd feel it, too."
Castiel tensed visibly when Sam got up, taking steps away even though the boy
was clearly trying to give him his space. When he heard the stairs creaking, he
relaxed only minutely. He said nothing at the older man’s words and simply
stared, forcing Bobby to choose a food at random. Sam returned with the wasted
food, which he sent down the garbage disposal as he washed out the mug. He made
a new batch of tea, keeping his activities open to Castiel’s gaze so he could
see that he wasn’t doing anything extra to it. The angel did watch intently
despite Bobby’s assurance that they had done it to protect him.
Minutes later, a steaming plate of food was on the table along with his tea but
Castiel made no moves to go towards it. Taking the silent cue, Bobby and Sam
stood at the other end of the kitchen. He still didn’t feel comfortable being
in the room and he was sure the slight tremble of his wings reflected that. It
was one part of him that he could not always consciously control. One human had
noticed and joked that angels would never be able to play poker. Castiel didn’t
think about what came after.
He was surprised at how accommodating Sam and Bobby were being for his
shortcomings. It was strange. He surmised that they must very much want him to
feel comfortable again. It would make the undertaking of reopening heaven far
easier if he was. A small voice in his head disagreed, saying that they cared
for his wellbeing, but he pushed that aside. They drugged him, for whatever
reason, and that was not something that he could take lightly. Not after
everything that had happened to him.
He ate quietly, staring down at his plate rather than at the two. Silverware
was still awkward for him, but he was finally really getting the hang of it. He
didn’t drop as much food as he normally did at the very least. He was about a
quarter of the way finished with his meal when he finally worked up the courage
to ask the question that had been burning in his head.
“Where is Dean?” Castiel asked, though unlike the previous night he did not ask
with curiosity but with apprehension. He had heard no sign of the man being
anywhere in the house since he had woken up which was strange. In his
experience with drunken humans, they tended to sleep most of the next day after
imbibing such great quantities of alcohol. Castiel had slept later than usual,
but not all that late. Yet, Dean was seemingly gone by the time he woke up.
"To be honest," Sam said from across the room, where he and Bobby leaned
against the counter. "We have no idea. He understands what he did and he knows
you don't want him around. He left this morning to go to work, but the shop
closed hours ago." He looked down, felt stupid for talking. Part of him wanted
to explain what a 'shop' was, to let the angel know his brother as a person and
not just a frightening shadow. Dean was respectable, well liked by nearly
everyone he met.
It hit him that those details wouldn't matter to Castiel. The amount of hurt he
had endured was beyond Sam's comprehension. Observing someone-- creature,
human, didn't make a difference-- that was a trauma survivor held a strange
gravity. Despite the angel's attempts to move normally and go about his
business, the calculations were etched upon his alien face. He was always ten
steps ahead of them, racking his brain to discern who were his friends and
enemies, how he could escape if they turned. Even the twitch of his wings as he
fumbled with dinner gave him away.
Sam knew his decision to stay wasn't because he saw them as friends, as the boy
had so desperately started to hope. The way he acted at the table was a blatant
sign that Castiel saw them as predators, would only stay to get his family
home.
The sadness swung against him and he began to cry so suddenly he had to leave
the room.
The expression on Castiel’s face would have been comical if not for the
seriousness of the situation. He watched Sam leave the room with tears
streaming down his face, eyes wide. If there was one thing he had never seen in
his time on Earth, it was a human crying in his presence. He knew they did of
course. He’d observed them for thousands of years, but he’d never seen it
happen in front of him. He froze at his spot at the table, unsure if he was
supposed to react or not.
In the end he did nothing, simply staring at the doorway in confusion. It was
Bobby that followed the young boy out to ensure that he was okay, leaving
Castiel in the kitchen by himself. Though he was confused, he visibly relaxed.
He continued to eat his dinner, keeping watch over the door and an ear out for
someone returning. He still didn’t touch his tea.
He found himself wondering why Sam would have reason to cry. It was true that
his father was a veritable monster and Castiel had heard no mention of a
mother, but he had Bobby. From what Castiel could understand, he was a father
figure. Sam had Dean as well, who was a part of his blood family, which Castiel
knew was also important. By most conventional definitions, Sam should be happy.
Humans were strange creatures.
The TV in the living room played at a soft volume, completely forgotten. He
leaned on the railing of the stairs looking up. There was no reason to bother
the kid. It was clear he was face down in his bed sobbing. Though what
generated that response, disproportionate to the circumstances, he couldn't
say.
Instead of returning to the kitchen he sat down in the armchair, adjacent to
the sofa. The papers and books on his desk would remain untouched for the
remainder of the night. His cell phone basket would be ignored, should any of
them go off. Vaguely he wished he could get his beer from the kitchen, but that
would involve interrupting the angel, who was evidently still eating. He would
rather not do that.
He found a mind-numbing reality show called Say Yes to the Dress, in which
women cried or bitched or both about their fluffy whites. Bobby found himself
chuckling after a few minutes, and finally the tension of being father to three
emotional train wrecks diffused.
Castiel cleared about half of his plate, as per usual. He stood and placed his
dirty dishes in the sink as he had seen Sam and Dean two nights before when he
had first come. He dumped his tea down the sink. Truthfully, he did want more.
The return of his grace was already slowing down to more normal levels the
longer he went without it, but he didn’t trust that it wasn’t contaminated.
He stood in the kitchen for a moment, trying to decide what he should do. Sam
was upstairs. Castiel could just barely hear sobbing coming from the upper
level of the house. Bobby was in the living room, a chuckle or two filtering
out as he watched some show on the television. Castiel supposed he should keep
true to his purpose and forced himself to walk towards the living room. He
stayed in the doorway, not able to go in any further.
“What had you and Sam found?” he requested quietly, “What kind of assistance do
you require from me?”
A brief reprieve before the angel found him, mustered up the nerve to ask what
kind of help he needed. Bobby felt entirely through with work for the night.
Yet he understood that to deny him the right to discuss the one thing he
chalked up the courage to was like to hitch his anxiety. He couldn't afford to
do that, so he stood up and walked past Castiel, into the den. At the desk he
rifled through a notebook until he came to the page where he'd made notes about
the first seal.
"Think I located the guy that's gonna reverse this'n. But I got questions-
- startin' with, they destined to follow through with these? Or do we gotta
make sure they get carried out? Cause that'll be a whole other beast I ain't
ready to tackle..."
If the angel was willing to answer that one, Bobby had about a thousand more.
He was alright with working now that his eyes were pried off the TV. The beer
sounded better than ever, though, and as they exacted clips of conversation he
moved naturally around his own space, retrieving the bottle from the kitchen
table. He was less ignorant to Castiel's needs and more refusing to act
unnatural.
In his mind, part of rebuilding trust was behaving as he always had, not
suddenly changing his every ebb and flow.
---
The nightmare tore him up. He sat, began to dry heave, chestnut hair plastered
to his forehead with sweat. Hastily he stripped out of his long sleeved tee
shirt and only then did he realize the bed was empty. They'd been sharing,
there was an angel in their home. Where was everyone? What was the date and
time?
When he swiveled his head in the direction of the clock he saw that it was
shortly after four in the morning. Practically falling to the floor, he reached
desperately for his cell phone, unsure of where he left it because all the
people he would ever call lived here with him. Then, Dean went missing hours
ago. Sam's fear was that he'd gone out to get fucked up again, which would only
exacerbate the already awful atmosphere. It felt somewhere on the cusp of
toxic, like a chemical that needed oxygen to turn to active poison. A fire,
perhaps.
He dialed his brother and it went to voice mail, which meant he'd purposely
ignored the call. Dean's ringer always went six rounds before foiling. This was
complete bullshit, and Sam felt tears of anger throw tension into his jaw. It
felt like he'd been crying since Friday night. Or maybe Friday night had
swallowed him into a continual loop, like a mystery spot intent to teach him a
lesson about putting stock in members of blood and bone.
Finally he threw the phone down on the floor, feet from where he sat. Nearby
was a dry shirt, one of Dean's flannels. He tugged it on and buttoned it up.
The sleeves were too long and the collar slid down around his left shoulder. He
looked like some pretty girl with a shaggy haircut. Good thing he couldn't see
himself, even if his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.
He made his way into the hall, saw that Castiel's door was closed and assumed
he was asleep. Bobby was snoring down the hall, so he doubly assumed the angel
was retired. The old man had insisted none of them leave him unguarded right
now. He wouldn't give up unless... Unless Dean was home.
Almost excitedly he skipped the remaining steps and peeked wildly into every
room. The last place to check was the kitchen, and when he rounded the
threshold he felt the relief in his chest deflate like a balloon. Dean hadn't
come home. With how bad Sam made him feel about Castiel earlier, he was
starting to wonder if he ever would.
Castiel looked over Bobby’s notes, trying not to tense when he came too close,
but his body betrayed him. He focused on the words in front of him instead. The
notes were expansive and very detailed. Four years had clearly not been spent
twiddling thumbs.
“It is as much in their destiny as it was for those who broke them in the first
place,” Castiel answered softly without looking up, “Someone just has to begun
the process by slotting the first piece into place. However, if left to its
natural progression, a spell like this could take years to complete as it had
with Ezekiel. Of course, he had time. We do not. If…” Castiel stopped,
swallowing hard, every fiber in his being rebelling against what he was about
to say, “If you bring me to this man when he is repairing the seal, I should be
able to locate the others and speed up the process if I am healthy enough.”
There was silence across the room and Castiel saw that Bobby had moved to
retrieve a beer, though he had heard what the angel had said.
“I shall take these, if you don’t mind,” Castiel said quietly, referring to the
notes. Bobby gave him a nod and he retreated to the safety of his borrowed
room. He wanted to catch himself up on whatever it was that Bobby and Sam knew.
He stayed up for hours, eventually hearing Bobby come up the stairs to go to
sleep. Castiel didn’t want to sleep. It didn’t feel safe. However, he felt
himself fading around two in the morning, his body still too weak to go without
it. His last thought was a silent prayer that the nightmares would not plague
him tonight as he curled into his wings.
When he decided to call back Sam didn't pick up the phone. Figuring he'd woken
from a nightmare and fallen back asleep he slid the cell into his pocket. He
sat on grass and gravel, back against the stripped wooden siding of the old
house. A fragile bit of light sent a beam straight over his head, just out of
his reach. Even if someone opened the front door and looked out they might miss
him, tucked on a precipice of shadow.
Going to work angry and riding the worst hangover of his life served him well.
They'd missed him, apparently, and he had to give some crap story about
visiting a friend from college. The hunters who worked there knew damn well
Dean was a high school drop out, didn't have any college friends. One tossed
him a careful wink, and he nodded in return. They could think what they wanted
to about the hunt he'd gone on, but he wouldn't give them an inch. Not when
Castiel's visceral life hung in the very moves he made-- or rather, the moves
he'd made nights ago in a dirty alley behind a deserted warehouse.
It was cleansing, regardless. He walked out of there with oil wedged into every
crevice of his palms and fingerprints. His hair was slicked sideways from all
the times he'd habitually pushed it off his hot forehead. Inside the dark blue
jumpsuit he sweat, gaining body odor like he hadn't in quite a while. The whole
garage was warm, potent with scents both human and mechanic. It comforted him
in ways that hunting couldn't. He loved to save people, even loved ganking
things that deserved it, and while working on autos required physical strength,
it held a different language. One altogether easier to speak.
At closing he roused to the paradoxical fact that home was the last place he
could go and the first place he needed to be. Waiting for the compromise to
strike him, he swaggered back to the truck with his jumpsuit hanging off at the
waist. He climbed in and scrounged up whatever change he could. Some eight
dollars balled up in his fist and he felt compelled to do what he could only
hope was the right thing. Bobby even said it last night, he had one job. That
was to protect Castiel-- with brute force if it came to it. If there was ever a
chance to earn redemption for the horror he'd instilled it would be to keep his
promise. Somewhere along the line he knew he made it, in his head or out loud.
He sat down in the dirt hours ago, the jumpsuit all there was to keep him warm.
In the overhead light that drained out from the living room he saw each exhale
float in clouds upward. Some of the night's conversation he'd heard. Bobby and
Castiel talking about the seals, whatever those were, his brother sobbing
himself to sleep-- over what? Nothing had happened, to his knowledge. Could his
absence really shift the dynamics of the house that much? Or was whatever Bobby
planned just bat-shit crazy?
The plastic deli bag beside him rustled in the wind. He'd brought some snack
items, a beer. He cared about Castiel enough to never be in the same room as
him again, if that's what it took. Why, he couldn't figure. It wasn't like
they'd even had a chance to become friends. Must have been the result of years
of being the parent, or reveling in playing God with people's lives. No, Dean
wasn't really that self-centered, was he? After all, he was out there freezing
his ass off, keeping watch, when he could be inside holding his brother, who
clearly needed him tonight.
Should Dad show up he'd be the first to know, and he could pay his dues for
illegally buying the angel without Castiel ever having to be alarmed. Or so
that's how the fantasy went, as the .45 rose and fell with the weight of each
resting breath.
By eight o'clock Sunday morning he was gone again, got coffee and pie for
breakfast with the rest of his change, washed up in the shop bathroom before
first shift.
Castiel slept late again after trying so hard to stay up all night. It
irritated him that he was sleeping so much. He stretched, shaking his wings out
as much as he could, making papers flutter around the room. They were getting
restless. It happened when he didn’t get to fly. True, Castiel couldn’t
actually fly. He could only get himself about five feet off the ground, which
none of the other angels believed counted. Castiel didn’t think it did either.
He wished he could go outside and even just flap a few times, but he couldn’t
risk that. Besides, the feeling would go away in a few days. It always did.
He peeked out of his room in a similar fashion to the day before, though this
time he didn’t go for the bathroom. He gathered up all the notes that he’d
borrowed from Bobby. He had made a few corrections in a flawed legend or two,
but for the most part the research was very accurate. It was rather impressive.
He dashed down the stairs quickly. No one else had woken up just yet. It seemed
everyone had a late night. Though Castiel couldn’t be sure, he didn’t really
see any sign that Dean had come home last night. He wasn’t sure if he should
feel happy about that or not and his conflicted feelings worried him even more.
Castiel replaced the notes exactly like he remembered them on Bobby’s desk and
then stepped out of the den, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He looked
around at the light filtering in through the blinds, catching the dust motes in
the air and caught himself thinking it seemed peaceful. Then he remembered
Dean’s yelling and his panic attack and that John Winchester was coming. That
ruined everything pretty quickly.
He scurried into the kitchen, wanting to get away from the living room and its
associated memories. Running, just like he always did. Castiel looked around
and his eyes caught on the tea maker. He had noticed this morning that nothing
new had healed and he knew that his grace had returned to replenishing itself
at a normal level, which was extremely slow. He bumped around the kitchen
quietly, searching for the leaves that would send his grace back into hyper
drive. Finally, he found them. After doing what some would call a paranoid
check of the dry leaves, Castiel set up the device like Bobby had shown him the
first night he was here. It gave him some trouble at first, but eventually he
had a steaming mug of tea that he drank eagerly. He could feel the restoring
warmth shoot through him and he closed his eyes, reveling in it. He poured
himself a little more before disappearing up the stairs quickly. He wasn’t
ready to see Dean if the man chose to return home this early in the morning,
nor did he really want to see Sam or Bobby. He knew that the two of them were
truly trying to earn back his trust, but Castiel had been betrayed one too many
times in his life to let it happen that easily.
As he re-entered the house his face contorted like that of a bitchy teenage
girl. The slam of the front door was unintentional, though the way he careened
into the den and stood with his hands on his hips wasn't. Dean's stubbornness
always hurt other people. When was he going to realize that? Better yet, when
was he going to stop being such a swinging dick and just act like a normal
teenager? Sam suffered nightmares, had called twice in the middle of the night
and stupidly fallen back asleep only to miss what he thought might be the last
chance ever to talk to his brother. Despite Bobby assuring him he'd spoken to
the guys at the shop who said Dean was working, he'd begun to believe Dean was
lying dead in a ditch somewhere. But no, that would be far too cliché for the
sentimental idiot.
"He's outside!" Sam exclaimed to Bobby. "I went to put the garbage cans out and
he's sitting next to the front steps with the .45 and some takeout, said
something ridiculous about wanting to keep his promise to Castiel without
imposing. Like that means anything now!" With the last words he scoffed.
The man shrugged, which only furthered his outrage. "Course it does. Ain't
nothin' ridiculous bout it. He wants to protect him, 'n you said yourself he
knows what he did. He's sorry, but sorry ain't gonna glue a broken doll back
together, much less put him in the position to receive a loose canon. Your
brother made a mess of it, let him try 'n fix what he can."
His arms flew out to either side, his voice slightly above average volume.
"Bobby, it's below freezing! We might get snow, and he thinks he's gonna fall
asleep under the guise of wanting to be prepared for if Dad shows up? I don't
care if he's trying to redeem himself, he's being dumb. Castiel's still gonna
worry about it anyway, so what does it matter if he's here or not?"
Suddenly the man scratched his mustache and raised his eyebrows, looking just
behind the boy. "I dunno 'f it matters or not, Sam, why don't you ask him?"
He swung and saw that the angel was standing nearby, wings like deft arches in
the dim lights. Where he'd been Sam wasn't sure. They'd been working together
nearly all day, into the late evening hours, drudging details regardless of the
thick celestial tension. At some point each of them enlisted the decompression
of a break. In his irritation he must have misplaced the angel, assumed his
outburst was absorbed by only one set of ears. He blushed, embarrassed by his
honesty. Would Castiel take offense to the way he'd talked about him? Sam
didn't think the angel was weak, but the sadness he'd felt last night had
become stress. Living with a trauma survivor required far more understanding
and emotional investment than he presumed, and he still had his self-righteous
brother to be concerned with. What he thought was going to be a fun adventure
in raising angels turned out to be a hardcore training in social skills and
patience.
A sigh unfolded him. "Dean spent last night on watch, worked all day at the
shop. He thinks he's doing you some type of favor by staying away, but I was
saying to Bobby that in the long run I don't think it'll matter anyway, since
you seem so upset about... well, everything. I just, I guess I just don't know
what to do." Originally the issue was the kid voluntarily positioned in the
yard. Perhaps it was really he who needed a redirective explanation. It was too
much to have two people he cared about-- for no matter how long-- at odds with
each other when clearly all participants were critical to the task.
Castiel was surprised to learn that Dean had been staying outside all this
time. That couldn’t be healthy. Bobby had been grouching about his heating bill
to himself earlier, so he knew that it must be very cold outside. Again, he
felt those conflicting feelings. Dean was out there, protecting him and staying
away so that they would not come in contact. Yet, as soon as Castiel thought
about the man, he was transported back to two nights previous when he had
cowered beneath the bellowing man.
“This is his home,” Castiel said slowly, “He should feel no reason to feel
unwelcome. If he desires to come inside, I will retire to my room.” He couldn’t
face him. Not yet. Castiel was almost ashamed to admit it, but it was true. He
looked between Sam and Bobby for a moment before leaving the room silently,
retreating to the kitchen to make himself another mug of tea. The ring was
completely gone from his throat now, but he could still feel his major injuries
had not received any healing at all. He prayed they would soon. He had to be as
strong as possible if John Winchester was coming.
“You could stay down here with us,” Sam said softly from the doorway of the
kitchen. Castiel jumped, having not heard him approach.
“I am tired,” Castiel lied, not wanting to admit to his weakness. Sam just
sighed quietly, sadness in his eyes as he turned to leave. Castiel focused on
making his tea. Sam and Bobby could do it much more quickly than he could, but
he did not care. He just wanted to make himself a fresh cup of tea and get
upstairs.
“Castiel said it’s fine if you come in,” Sam said, poking his head outside and
looking down at his older brother’s crouched figure, “He’s going upstairs
though. If it makes you feel any better, he’s not so chummy with me and Bobby
either.” The thought still made Sam’s spirit sag.
It didn't make him feel any better. Neither did the thought that going inside
would cause Castiel to physically retreat. That was the exact reason he didn't
want to tell his brother or Bobby where he was. He would rather them think he
was out getting pissy drunk and letting whores swallow than have them on his
case about coming in from the cold. Worse yet, he didn't want the angel to know
how he truly felt. That he desired to please and be forgiven. He was Dean
fucking Winchester-- his mode of operation was to pretend he didn't care. Now
everybody within the tiny household knew he did, and that just because he felt
it didn't mean he could show it in anything like a productive way.
So he sat outside, wrapped in his navy jumpsuit, curled under the blanket that
Castiel had used in the truck. It smelled like his sweat and blood, and he
remembered vaguely that Friday night when he came in the angel had been clean.
His dark brown hair was shiny, as were his wings, and his face held pallor even
in its marble majesty. As he huddled against the hurling wind he inhaled,
genuinely sickened by the fact that he was intrigued by the scent of another
male. Sure, just because the vessel was male didn't mean the angel identified
as any particular gender. But it didn't feel right. Castiel was a stranger, in
a strange body. Not his brother, not his friend. It was one thing to use the
blanket, and another thing entirely to superimpose intimacy on an inanimate
object.
What the fuck was he doing? He knew John wasn't going to come at night. That
would be more than obvious, and he knew well enough his boys and Bobby could
predict patterns of behavior. Then, in that case, maybe he would come at night,
thinking they would expect him during the day... It would be best if he stayed.
In addition to outlandish self-punishment, it would make the circumstances less
atrocious, he believed, if he confronted his father first.
---
At seven in the morning when he came tumbling out the door to catch the bus he
kicked his brother awake. "I can't believe you, Dean! Look around you, it's
snowing. Go inside and get over yourself already." He gave the most offensive
bitch face he possibly could so early in the day and trotted off. He knew very
well his brother would get up, dust himself off, and make his way into town for
work. Even if it was his day off, he'd do anything he could to avoid facing the
angel he'd destroyed single-handed. They wouldn't end up speaking until Castiel
made a move, and that would be if absolutely necessary. Or maybe never.
The sadness swelled in his chest again. He turned the volume on his iPod up and
sunk into the frigid window seat.
---
"Well, listen. Tell him tomorrow he can't work. Sure, sure, give him his pay.
's fine, but don't take him in tomorrow. He got work he needs to do here 'n
he's avoidin'-- yeah, 's a difficult hunt. You could say that again. Anyway,
thanks."
He hung up the landline and reached for the mug of coffee. Seated in the creaky
chair behind the desk he listened for signs of movements. Sam left maybe two
hours ago, there was no sign of Dean or the angel. That didn't concern him-- he
trusted his gut to tell him if something was truly wrong. Regardless, around
nine thirty he commanded the kitchen and made a stack of French toast a foot
high. He wondered if Castiel would eat the sweet tasting stuff, with savory
sausages piled beside. He made another pot of coffee and hit the switch on the
teakettle. It would be nice if the angel relaxed, came out of his shell again.
Bobby had yet to see him blossom, though he doubted their new friend would
choose to bloom in front of him. He had a way with teenage boys because he
understood their recklessness, but ethereal entities in pretty tight vessels
were another story.
In the living room the morning news serenaded him with stories of healthcare
and economic ruin while he made himself a healthy serving on a chipped china
plate.
Castiel woke up shivering. The room was so small and had too many windows for
that amount of space that it had gotten incredibly cold overnight with the
temperature dropping enough for crystal white snow to coat the ground. Castiel
decided that a warm shower would make him feel better and so he went to the
bathroom, this time without his little peeking act. After the revelation that
Dean had no reentered the house since the morning after their fight, Castiel
felt confident that the man would not be around. He cleaned only his body this
time, removing the bandages to see that the large gashes on his torso had
scabbed over and it seemed his ribs were healing at a faster pace as well. It
made him feel a little better about the situation he had found himself stuck
in.
He wandered downstairs after his shower. He knew that Sam would be off at
school by now and that Dean would almost definitely not be in the house. It was
just him and Bobby. Castiel felt strangely okay with that, especially after
spending all of yesterday with the older man, working out the kinks in his
theories and planning things out with the help of Sam. It was interesting,
seeing someone so young with so much to offer. By Castiel’s standards, Sam had
barely even begun to exist, and he was already trying to make such a difference
in the world. It was inspirational.
Castiel entered the kitchen to find a huge plate of French toast and sausage.
Sounds of the television filtered in from the living room and he figured that’s
where Bobby had chosen to take his meal. Castiel selected one of each and put
it on the plate that was left out for him before pouring himself a mug of
boiling water for his tea. After severe contemplation, Castiel walked towards
the living room and quietly settled himself on the floor, near the doorway and
a good distance from the couch where Bobby sat. The older man made no comment,
simply shooting him a glance before returning to the television.
It seemed humans were having their own problems, and such petty problems they
were. Here mankind was worried about money and politics. The word ‘angel’ did
not even pass the newscaster’s lips. Their plight was not even a blip on the
human radar. He had heard stories of course, of how the fall had been dismissed
as an astronomical phenomenon. A meteor shower, of all things. Castiel himself
had created meteor showers and he was almost insulted that they could not tell
the difference.
“They should be far more worried about the atmospheric damage they are
inflicting on the planet,” Castiel commented quietly, cutting his food into
tiny pieces, “Your valuable paper will mean little when there is no longer
enough food and water to feed your masses.” It was a morbid thought, but it was
true. Ever since their industrial revolution, Castiel had watched mankind eat
away at the gifts God had given them, leaving no time for it to replace itself.
It was selfish and greedy. It was the only problem Castiel had really been able
to pinpoint in humans before the fall. They were inexplicably self-centered.
All other species committed homicide and genocide and even engaged in some form
of war, but no other species was as narcissistic as mankind. Not even the
angels.
It was radical how fast a damn television program could cut the tension. Even
working all of yesterday and last night hadn't served that purpose, with
Castiel's wings still twittering when he or Sam made a sudden movement or
coughed. Whatever happened between the point they went to bed and now must have
changed something, because the angel was sitting on the floor stuffing his
face, looking up at the screen. Snow continued to fall outside, and then he
spoke.
Bobby felt immense relief. He felt safe enough being home alone with the man to
relax in full-- or at least as much as he'd ever seen Castiel relax before.
This was the same stance he'd been in Friday, up until Dean crashed into the
house like a drunken lunatic, which at the time he was. Needless to say, the
man was surprised to the point of not being able to think up a response. He
pretended to be occupied with a link of sausage, sipped coffee loudly. Then
finally, "If y'ain't noticed yet, the whole species is like a bunch of
toddlers. Always bitchin' 'n moanin' bout somethin', killin' people like kids
squish bugs to see the color of their insides. 's been this way for as long as
I've been alive, which is long enough."
His tone was always bitter when he talked about life. Despite how fully he
loved his boys, his big junkyard property, and good cold beer, he had never
shaken the feeling that plagued him while growing up. That he was worth
nothing; instead of a baby he should have been a cum rag. And if he, who had
managed to save people and raise two kids to be right in the head-- as much as
was possible for hunters-- could feel so awful, then the rest of the world
couldn't be far behind him. His beliefs about suicide and living were
unconventional at best, and he didn't talk about them often. Now wasn't the
time, either, but he felt Castiel would understand without him having to say
much.
They sat in front of the TV for some time, and Bobby enjoyed the superior white
light that filtered in through the thin drapes. At one point the news program
flashed to a political summit, and he leaned forward in his seat. "That one
there, where it says R-Texas? Works at the lab in Detroit. I dunno how much you
know bout those labs, Castiel, but 'f I ever got that man alone I'd wanna pull
some experiments on him. Taste of his own medicine, the bastard. You know
that's why they're coverin' it up, right?" It occurred to him as sudden as Dean
had decided to bring him home that the angel might not be aware of how
insidious the human nature to lie was. "They said it was some type of meteor
shower for exactly this reason-- so they could do what they wanted with the
angels 'n not have accountability. What the people don't know they won't want a
say in." He figured that would get the point across.
The news became depressing quickly, and he cleaned up their dishes and made
Castiel more tea. As they set to work in the den he remarked, "You're lookin a
lot better, Castiel. 'n I mean a lot. Think you're even puttin' weight on,
which is real good. Let me know 'f you need anythin' else, like a haircut." He
chuckled when he said it, doubtful the angel would let him near his precious
scalp with clippers. "I more or less raised John's boys, so I've done a good
number of trims. Ain't nothin' to worry bout, 'f you want one. You let me know
when you do."
Castiel found himself running a hand through his hair. Getting a trim had never
occurred to him. It was just one of those human behaviors that was so common he
never thought about it. His body was never in good enough shape to really worry
about hair length. Besides, his various trips to auction houses and as a slave
in a high household had always led to a quick, uneven trim of his hair. Castiel
could just never find it in him to care. Vanity wasn’t something he felt was
important enough to worry about. After all, physical attractiveness and good
looks was by far the last thing that defined a person.
There has been a wide range of people that could say they have been Castiel’s
owner, and none of their faces had matched how cruel they were inside. The sons
of rich men, hunters of all ages, old politicians that seemingly just couldn’t
resist another scandal under their belt. Each one used and abused him to their
own purpose, whatever that may be, and as soon as he stopped waking up or grew
weak and ugly, he was tossed away. Castiel was lucky that each time he was
found by his brothers and sisters and given a brief reprieve before somehow
being taken again. It had been a vicious cycle since the time that Castiel was
twelve.
Snapping back to the present, Castiel looked up at Bobby and gave a small shake
of his head. “That service is not required,” he said quietly, “But thank you.”
Getting his hair cut would remind him too much of being prepared for another
set of nightmares, another page in his nearly full journal. He looked down at
the notes spread out in front of them, intent on getting back to work.
It was strange that he felt as safe as he did. John Winchester’s looming
arrival and Dean’s presence alone should have made him quake where he stood and
yet he was calm. It was most likely because of his screwed up sense of safety.
It was almost like a defense mechanism, sticking himself in this mental bubble
where nothing could go wrong until it did. That was where he was right now.
Standing here with Bobby, working on reopening the gates of Heaven, there was
no way anything could go wrong. It was just him, Bobby, and the notes. Those
were the only three things that existed in his world. With so few things, how
could anything go wrong?
With his pay he went to the local bakery. It was really aggravating that Bobby
told the manager to give him his week's worth and send him off for a few days.
Especially when he needed the money desperately, considering what he'd done at
the end of the past week-- went on a road trip and spent over thirty thousand
dollars on a fucking angel that wasn't even talking to him because he was a
giant dickbag who consistently ruined all of his relationships. If he hadn't
barred himself stubbornly from going inside, he would have stormed in and
bitched the old man out for trying to run his life even though he was a
''responsible adult''.
He bought a warm pumpkin pie knowing he wouldn't dare take a bite unless he was
invited. It was meant to be a gesture of solidarity for the angel,
specifically. The first night they'd sat around the kitchen table enjoying
dessert together. That seemed another time and place entirely, when the
possibility of friendship made his heart swell. Dean had promised Castiel-
- there were so many empty ones he was destined not to keep-- that one day he
would have him try it fresh. Regardless of whether the angel ate it or not, or
ever deigned to talk to the nineteen year old scumbag again, it would be there.
A present to taste in the midst of complete chaos.
Yet when he threw the truck into park outside the house, he saw in through the
living room window from the height of the driver's seat. It gave him a clear
but partial view of the den and kitchen, also. He saw Bobby and Sam fawning
over Castiel, could see their mouths moving. As he clipped the ignition he
realized that he couldn't hear their voices because he was outside. Dumbly he
noted that he hadn't been in the house since early Saturday morning. For what
purpose? To ease the pain he'd cause a stupid fallen angel? The more thought he
put into the decisions he'd made the more angry he became with himself.
Sure, it seemed like his tiny taped up family was having a grand old time
getting work done, or whatever. But at what expense? And to what extent did
they really need him? When he was bombed to the mickey the other night Bobby
had instructed him to be the watchdog. That had sounded all well and good, but
he'd played the role three straight days. That should have been enough. He
wanted to keep Castiel safe, but he'd rather do it by the angel's side. When he
remembered the first night in the motel he got chills. The way he'd been able
to watch the angel move, unadulterated. The way his actions were all predicated
by some sort of reason, something Castiel could understand, unlike his drunken
freak out on Friday. He remembered talking at him until finally he got a little
response. Was it really only three days ago that he believed they might become
friends? It seemed at once years prior and like a thing that never existed at
all.
He approached the door with great trepidation. Would it be better to knock?
Enter on his own? At the risk of spooking Castiel and making everyone think Dad
had shown up, he simply opened the door a crack and slid the items against the
foyer floor. There was the pie, tied delicately in a box with string, and a
plastic bag with ice cream and beer. Four of the eight beers were already
taken. He'd drank three already, the fourth was in the truck cab waiting for
him. As soon as the door was closed tight again he retreated to his vehicle,
where he could gain a bit more warmth than on the ground. It had snowed a bit
more during the day, and the blanket was beginning to loose the odor of angel
rust. Irrationally he wished for it to retain.
The fourth beer went down too easy, and he craved another almost immediately
after. He watched what he could through the windows, handgun nearby, the lyrics
of 'Simple Man' pulsing through his chest.
Castiel nodded at what Sam was saying. It made sense and he opened his mouth to
respond when he heard the door creak open. He froze mid-sentence, body tense as
he tilted his head towards the sound. Moments later, the door shut again
without even opening all the way.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, face riddled with concern.
“The door,” Castiel said quietly as way of explanation. Bobby was the one that
went out into the hall, being the only one of the three of them that had a
weapon on him. Moments later, he came back into the room with a half empty
eight pack of beer, tub of ice cream, and a large white box. He nodded the two
of them into the kitchen and placed the box on the table to reveal a still warm
pumpkin pie, completely in tact.
Sam’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. It was obvious that Dean had to have
left this, seeing as the truck was in the driveway. The fact that he hadn’t
eaten any of the pie was mind-boggling. He must really want to make things
better.
“It’s for you,” Sam told the angel.
“I do not understand,” Castiel answer, brows furrowed in confusion as he looked
down at the pie.
“Dean left this and he didn’t eat any,” Sam tried to explain, “Pie is his
absolute favorite food. It’s an apology.” Castiel didn’t understand. Bobby
lifted the pie out of the box and began divvying it up.
“Do you want him to have a piece?” he asked Castiel.
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said again.
“He meant this for you,” Bobby said, “You get to decide what happens to it.”
Castiel was confused. He had never had any experience with the act of human
gift giving. It made no sense to him.
“There is no reason he should not have some,” Castiel said quietly. Bobby slid
a piece onto a plate and pushed it towards him.
“Then give him one,” he said easily. Castiel’s eyes went wide and he
immediately shook his head.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
“Just do the same thing he did to us,” Sam said gently, “Slip it through a
crack in the door.” Castiel was silent as he stared down at the pie on the
plate. “I know you’re not ready to face him,” Sam went on, “But he will never
come back in this house if you don’t make the first step.” It was a lot to put
on the angel, but it was the truth. Castiel had no idea what to do. He lifted
the plate into his hands and walked over to the door. He then proceeded to sit
cross-legged in front of it. He had no idea what to do.
In all honesty, he was still afraid of Dean. He had never seen quite a shift in
someone’s personality like that. His experience with drunken humans had been
that it simply exacerbated their personality. It seemed that alcohol completely
changed Dean’s. That was a terrifying thought. After almost fifteen minutes,
Castiel finally reached up and opened the door a crack. Cold air rushed in.
Quickly, he pushed the plate out onto the porch and turn, leaning back on the
door to shut it. He didn’t notice that the back of his wings had been caught in
the door, only slightly. He didn’t notice that one of his feathers had fallen
off, fluttering down to sit next to the plate, telling Dean exactly who had
left it for him. Castiel returned to the kitchen to take his spot on the stool
and eat with Sam and Bobby.
He woke feeling slightly disoriented, far more tired than was usual for six in
the morning, despite having gone to sleep at a reasonable time. After dessert
they'd lounged around, Castiel filling more of his journal while he read and
Bobby watched one of his favorite reality shows, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo Child
("She'd make a good hunter 'f she wasn't so fat. Don't take shit from 'nyone 'n
she ain't afraid to be gross"). They were able to sit in the same room
together, the angel with his gorgeous wings on the floor and clear shot out the
front of the house if necessary. Occasionally he would comment on the program,
which Sam found endearing. Castiel really had no idea what human entertainment
was all about; the fact that he didn't understand it made his reactions almost
comical.
Even breakfast didn't help him feel more awake, because he felt nauseous and
couldn't eat much. The thought of staying home passed through his mind. He'd
love nothing more than another day working with the angel and Bobby. It was
strange to see how business-like the two could be. Sam forgot that technically
Castiel was an adult-- though still young from Heaven's perspective, he had
centuries on the little human. So they spoke like adults, he and the gruff man
asking questions aloud and rehashing details. They had already decided to go
out for the first seal guy Friday night. Of course, they hadn't told Dean yet.
And they might not, all things considered.
Sam felt like that was kind of wrong, but what was he going to do? It was
obvious he wasn't the decision-maker in the party.
He knocked on the window and woke his brother up. The air was freezing, the
truck windows whitened by frost. When he let Sam in he started her up, though
the heat wouldn't come on for a few minutes yet. As he watched Dean spin a
strong looking black feather under his nose, the boy disclosed that he wasn't
feeling too hot, that he was going to school anyway because they had a test in
his advanced mathematics class on Friday. He wanted to be there through the
week to get the material.
Dean laughed, gently mussed his hair. "Too dedicated. That's your problem.
You're stressed cause a studyin' whatever the hell you're studyin' in there, 'n
it's gonna affect you in school now, too."
It occurred to Sam that the elder had been kicked out-- so to speak-- before
being caught up with the whole plan. He asked to be driven to the end of the
driveway, where he began to recount as briefly as he could the information
they'd gathered and what they planned to do with it. He didn't mention how they
wanted to leave Friday, because he wasn't sure if Dean was invited yet. They
were going to be in the same car together-- he, Bobby and Castiel. He wasn't
sure the angel would sit near Dean for a ten-hour trip.
The bus pulled up and Dean gave the kid some crappy line that would have been
better stated as "I love you". Sam nodded with a weak grin and climbed out. It
was clear his brother felt better knowing the truth, or at least most of it. He
was smiling again, especially after Sam had mentioned how the angel was free of
bruises now, skin clear and hair thick, eyes alight with enough light to feel
good about. Bobby was really pleased about Castiel's improving health, too. At
least there was one thing for Dean to hold on to, when he was told not to be at
work and had stupidly barred himself from entering the house.
Castiel awoke to find frost covering the windows in a thin film. It must have
gotten quite cold last night. He realized with a start that he had gotten an
extra blanket that night, and yet he was not shivering. Castiel closed his eyes
and focused. He could feel more grace inside him than he’d had in years,
despite the face that he was technically still under ‘half-full’, so to speak.
He had drank nearly a mug of tea every hour for the past day and a half, always
surprised that it didn’t run out. That had to be the reason for the large jump.
Castiel unbutton his borrowed shirt to reveal two thick, pink, shiny scars
where there had been scabs yesterday. At this rate of healing, Castiel felt
more confident in regaining his abilities than he ever did before.
He padded down the stairs, intent on keeping his progress up as he went into
the kitchen to start the tea making process. He had to be sure that he had
enough on Friday so that when the man broke the seal, Castiel would be able to
latch onto his essence and feel for those with the same destiny so that Sam and
Bobby could locate them. He was still extremely uneasy with going out. Here,
things were okay. He didn’t leave the house, no one came or went besides Sam
and Dean, and it felt constant. The outside world didn’t follow such rules.
Dean. Castiel hadn’t thought about the man much since he pushed that plate onto
the porch and hightailed it back to the kitchen. He suddenly felt a strange
sense of guilt that the human had spent the night outside. Castiel hadn’t heard
him enter the house during the night. He was still very wary of the idea of
being around him, though his mood only became so volatile under the influence
of alcohol. Dean had never expressed even remotely similar actions when sober.
Castiel couldn’t completely excuse it, but the temperatures were only going to
drop. He would admit to feeling guilty if Dean froze to death because he was
worried for Castiel’s well being.
Problem was that Castiel still didn’t want to speak with Dean. Not yet. Bobby
and Sam had explained that he wasn’t likely to come back into the house until
Castiel invited him, if he even came in then. Humans were so strange. He had no
idea how to get Dean into the house without directly requesting that he come
inside. Castiel sipped the warm mug of tea in his hands and thought. Perhaps
Dean’s act of gift giving played a role. If he gave Dean a gift in return that
had not originally stemmed from his own gift, he may come back inside. Sadly,
Castiel had nothing of his own to give. Then his eyes fell on his journal. He
had left it here before going to bed last night.
Castiel placed his mug down and flipped through the pages, remembering how he
had felt while drawing each one. He stopped, tilting his head as he came to a
particular scene. It had been from the first night he arrived, after he had
come back after running into the yard to hide. He, Dean, Bobby, and Sam were
all around the table. They all wore soft smiles as they watched him take his
first bite of pie. He felt a smile on his face as he looked at it, something
that didn’t happen very often. He sat himself down and began to meticulously
rip the page out of the journal without damaging it. He flipped it over to the
other side to see that the next picture had simply been of Sam’s empty room
that he now called home. He could redraw it if necessary. Bobby came down in
the middle of this.
“What’re ya doin'?” he inquired, looking down at Castiel on the floor.
“Is there a way to temporarily secure this to the flat surface of the front
door?” Castiel asked without waiting. Bobby’s brows rose a bit, but he went
into the den and reemerged with a circular roll.
“Tape,” Bobby said by way of explanation. He showed Castiel how it worked on an
old piece of notebook paper. This was another one of those things that Castiel
knew in theory, though it should be far simpler than handling silverware, which
he had improved at. Castiel accepted the tape gratefully and went to the door.
He opened it a crack and peeked out to see that the truck was gone, though he
thought he could hear it coming up the drive again. He opened the door the rest
of the way and smoothed the tape down, securing the picture to the front. As an
afterthought, he neatly wrote ‘Come in’ on the bottom left hand corner, in case
the meaning wasn’t clear. He may not speak to Dean and would definitely be wary
of him in close quarters, but the human dying from cold would solve nothing for
anyone. Bobby had a funny look on his face upon his return, but he said nothing
beyond asking what Castiel wanted for breakfast.
"Boy, you must be bored to Hell out here. Four days straight."
Dean's facial expression was much like a shrug. He was curled up behind the
wheel with a Science Report magazine, Bobby standing at the open driver's side
door. Cold air rushed in and he felt even more aggravated than he had before.
"Couldn't go to work cause someone told them I'm goin on a hunt. Figured I'd
keep my post since he don't want me inside yet."
Rolling his eyes, the man said, "He left you a note. 'f you weren't so
thickheaded you mighta seen it 'n already gone in."
"What?"
"Yeah. Well, listen, I gotta run."
"Where you goin?" He sat up straight now, leaned towards the man. Even turned
down the Led on the stereo.
"Get Sam. He's sick at school."
"Oh, I'll get him." Hastily he threw the magazine aside, ready to launch the
truck into reverse. With a firm hand on his forearm he was stopped.
"I need to tell them I'm pullin' him next week. 'n you know he'll want the
week's work ahead of time."
"Wait-- pulling him? Why? Does this have to do with the damn angel plan?" He
gave a killer look. "By the way, when were you gonna tell me?"
"Not sure." He shrugged. It pissed Dean off to the point of wanting to slide to
his feet and slap him. Bobby saw that and kept on. "Just wanted to wait til the
right time. Now's not the time. Your brother's sufferin' a fever 'n I gotta
give a smooth lie to the attendance secretary. I'm also listed as emergency
contact, you're not. So hang tight, I'll be back in an hour, maybe little
less." He backed away, turned to walk off. Then he paused. "'n kid? Don't do
anythin' dumb."
Mumbling to himself, he watched the old man climb into his car through the rear
view mirror. "Not goin inside there til he can look me in the eye again, don't
care bout no fuckin note." He slumped in the driver's seat like a child, waited
until the coast was clear to blast his music. Through the mirror he watched
Bobby's tire tracks on the paved road collect fresh snow. He loved this place
because it was so deserted. There wouldn't be another set of tire tracks for a
while yet. Intently he listened to the tunes and watched the thin white flecks.
Not even five minutes passed when a familiar rusted hunter green flash through
the trees that lined either side of the road. Electricity shot through his
spine. Deftly and without hesitation he cut the engine, grabbed the pistol and
darted from the truck into the house. Suddenly he didn't give a damn about
Castiel's fear of him. Just as he shut the front door behind him-- note
forgotten in the rush-- he saw his father turn into the drive. Embarrassment
threatened to wreak him, and he steadied the gun in his hands. No, he wouldn't
let this happen. He would die willingly before he saw that angel taken again,
at the hands of his fucking dad.
Forcing himself not to pant from the adrenaline he swung his head wildly from
the window and looked for Castiel. He found him easily, standing stunned in the
den by Bobby's desk. Like a deer in headlights, except instead of a wild animal
he was a rare form of celestial intent in a healing hot body with a price tag
over his head. And Dean was the idiot left in charge.
His brows cinched, voice barely above a whisper because he couldn't contain the
sound of the guilt that cracked him. "He's here. Hide."
Castiel could feel his heart sink into his stomach, which proceeded to twist
into knots. He wanted to throw up. He needed more time. He wasn’t nearly healed
enough to face John Winchester. Without even thinking, Castiel slammed back the
remainder of the tea that he had in his mug, figuring that every little bit
would help. Hiding was the difficult part. He had no idea where he could go
that the man wouldn’t know to check. John had undoubtedly been here many times
before and would know every nook and cranny of the house.
This really was the worst possible time for John to have shown up. Castiel was
still weak, Sam was sick and at school, and Bobby had just left to go pick up
Sam. This left Castiel and Dean alone in the house, the two people that John
was after in the first place. How fitting.
He tried to think rationally through his fear. He had to get either somewhere
that had a locking door, or a second entrance that would be easy to escape
through. Sam’s room had plenty of windows, but the door didn’t lock. The
bathroom door could lock, but there were no windows large enough for Castiel to
fit through. The kitchen technically had two entrances, but one of them wasn’t
very secure. Although, the kitchen did have a doorway to the cellar, which
Castiel clearly remembered as having a panic room. He had never seen it, but
Bobby and Sam had dropped a comment more than once.
All this was decided in a fraction of a second. Castiel gave Dean and fleeting
glance. He found that he was a little sad they had never really smoothed things
over, but he couldn’t think about that now. He ran past Dean towards the
kitchen, his feathers brushing the man’s back, almost like a goodbye.
Castiel slammed the sliding door shut and threw the lock into place before
running to the second door that led to the outside and locking that as well. He
stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He could go straight to the
panic room and have these doors acting like a first line of defense.
Alternatively, he could stay in the kitchen where he could hear what was going
on and run outside or go to the panic room if he needed to. Something made
Castiel stay in the kitchen, this weird tug in his chest that told him not to
leave the second floor. He had no idea why until his mind supplied the answer;
Dean might need help.
Everything was exactly as it had been when he'd dropped the boys off almost
half a year ago, with the exception of two things.
First, the unmistakable scent of feathers. Unlike the vile odor of angel's
wings after they've gone through the labs and plants, like raw chicken flesh,
this was healthy. A good sort of ripe. Years ago, before either of the boys
were born, he and Mary went into a pet store exclusively for birds. She'd
wanted an African Grey because they were supposed to be smart. John had
dismissed the whim, it being completely unrealistic for them to own a pet. They
could barely take care of themselves as young as they were-- there was no way
they could feed another mouth. Still, as she held the bird up to his nose he
inhaled the sweet and musky smell. That same smell permeated the house now, and
he found himself chuckling. Too bad he hadn't brought along Taylor's hound;
they'd used her to locate the last settlement, about seven hours away. Funny,
that must've been the settlement the black-winged one came from.
The other notable piece that changed the mental image of how he'd left the
house was a sheaf of papers on the desk. He entered the den, pulled by the
intriguing notes and markings, dates and names. He began to leaf through,
realized with the strangest satisfaction that Bobby was researching a way to
reverse the spell. How long had he been gathering that information? Why hadn't
he entrusted John with the truth of his intentions? Maybe he'd mentioned
wanting to try to save the angels once or twice, but clearly without much
enthusiasm. John would remember something like that. He chuckled to himself
again as he continued to read, scrawls of seals and the location of men. Some
of this had to be the work of the angel they were housing. Why else would they
keep him here, and so seemingly well cared for?
The barrel of the gun upon his back didn't surprise him. He paused for a beat,
finished the page he was reading, before he quietly spoke in baritone. "Put it
away, Dean. I know you won't use it. You're just acting like a child."
His tone was darker than he remembered. "Bobby said you called. Said you
thought I killed three of your men 'n stole their cash for a goddamn angel."
He sighed, turned to face his son. The boy's pallor was off. Why? At nineteen
they were now the same height, his son's eyes intense with what could only be
anger. At him, he presumed. "That's because you did. I'm not here to play with
you, I'm here to reclaim my commodity."
Dean looked sickened. "He ain't a commodity. 'n he ain't here."
"You're gonna look that upset over a little insult 'n expect me to buy in?" At
that point he held up the note which he'd ripped off the door and crumpled in
his fist. Delicately he flattened it out, amused at the wonder in Dean's eyes.
"What'd he do, kick you out of your own house?" He pointed to where the note
said come in, and then tapped what must have been the self-portrait: black
wings.
Stuttering, he failed to recover. "He ain't here anymore."
"Oh yeah?" That's when he leaned in real close. He could have sworn his son
tried to back away. "Then why can I smell him? If the angel's not here, Dean,
then why can I see the reflection of giant black feathers in the kitchen
window?" His son's head swiveled to observe with horror the reality of it. From
where they stood in the den, with the overcast snow clouds outside, they beheld
a clear reflection of the angel's back. And the angel was listening-- the
reflection moved.
John lunged with the weight of a grown man behind his actions, but Dean was
just as fast. He found the kid sandwiched between he and the creature as he
reached out and grabbed onto the hollow bone arch of one wing. He was being
pushed away, the youth desperately screaming from somewhere in his gut, "Don't
you fuckin touch him, bastard, don't you fuckin touch him!" He took the hit of
a pistol to his jaw, which caused him to let go and sent him reeling
momentarily backwards.
When he caught himself he gave what was decidedly his only warning, and just a
growl. "Don't be stupid, Dean."
As soon as Castiel realized that they could see him, he tried to make a run for
it, heading for the door that led outside rather than the one that led to the
panic room. He would have more maneuverability outside and he knew the junkyard
a little better than he knew the cellar, seeing as he had never been down
there.
An iron grip clamped down on the arch of his wing and though it didn’t hurt,
Castiel wanted to scream. He knew for a fact that it wasn’t Dean and when he
turned to look at the monster that had haunted his nightmares, he was
momentarily taken off guard.
Castiel had expected some horrible, disgusting, wretched human, but from what
he could see John looked completely normal. He could see a little bit of Dean
in his face, but not much. Dean must resemble his mother more. He could see Sam
in John’s face as well and that scared him. Because of this, John’s face seemed
vaguely familiar, but the worst part was that he looked like he could be a good
man, a good father. Clearly he was none of those.
As soon as John released his wings, Castiel was off like a shot, dashing for
the door that would lead him to freedom. He threw the lock open and nearly
ripped the door off its hinges with the force that he used to yank the thing
open, a force Castiel didn’t know he had. He paused, and turned to look back at
Dean, not knowing if he would ever see him again. This proved to be a fatal
mistake.
He felt Castiel stop at the door, somewhere to the left and behind him. That
type of hesitance only implied one thing-- that somewhere inside of himself
Castiel cared about Dean, knew it wasn't right to abandon him despite the fact
that he had practically begged the angel to do exactly that minutes earlier.
Lungs still thick with the apology he would never deliver, he turned and locked
eyes with Castiel. In that second of vulnerability Dad pivoted, stunted Dean's
hold, took possession of the gun and shot the pretty little arch of the right
wing, severing hollow bone in two. Soft down feathers floated chaotically while
the man tossed the gun into his left hand, using his dominant to lean down and
drag the angel's half-limp body back inside. One foot kicked the door closed,
the cold air and pale sunlight he'd grown so familiar with in the past four
days completely shut out.
The gun was pointed directly at Dean's stomach. Dad straightened up, one muddy
boot pressed hard against Castiel's spine. He was face down on the floor,
positioned eerily to absorb the whole scene. Suddenly Dean felt the gravity of
what would happen if he failed to perform. The angel he worked so hard to
rescue, bring home, be kind to, would be taken from him and brought directly to
a worse place. He doubted there was anything worse than being with his father,
alone.
All he had left to use against the man were his words, and they weren't worth
much. He met Castiel's eyes again and spoke directly to the man pressing his
godforsaken weight against the boy's frail frame. "You won't kill him. Too
valuable to you." Maybe if he could stall long enough, Bobby and Sam would come
home. They would recognize the green truck in the driveway, they'd rush in
prepared. The same trepidation he'd felt swell in his limbs last night arrived
now, as he took a gentle step towards Dad. What was he even planning to do?
There was a gun pointed at his innards and a broken angel on the floor.
Dad laughed, his smile sad and comfortable. "'f only you knew how valuable he
really is. Dean, 'f you only knew, you would have shot me while you still had
the gun. I knew I could count on you to be stupid. Looking back at him like
parting lovers. I didn't raise you to be a queer and I didn't raise you to
disobey me. Step any closer and I'll shoot."
He repeated it, a prayer, all he had. "You won't kill him."
A shrug. "No. But I will do this." The gun was still aimed precisely as he
leaned down and wrapped his dominant hand around the base of Castiel's intact
wing. He pulled with great effort until there was an audible snap, followed by
a whimper. Dean swallowed hard, about to be sick. His father was right. He
could always be counted on for stupidity. The angel was about to be captured
and he was just standing there. Then he was reminded, by the pain in those ice
blue eyes, of the promise he meant to keep.
He heard the shot before he felt it. Rushing forward, he laid claim, said
something he would never remember. There was a second shot, and his hand
instinctively went to his gut. A lot of blood. His knees hit the floor, then
his hip and shoulder, and finally he was laying on his side, facing the angel.
Their eyes locked again and in his mind he mouthed the words I'm sorry. This
tragedy was all his fault, he knew. The angel with his porcelain cheek grinding
into the wood. The hot blood pulsing from two places in his very own torso.
There was a dreamlike disconnectedness as they watched each other's pain.
Through eyelids that fluttered, heavy, he watched Dad tie Castiel together at
the wrists and ankles. Sorrow warmed him like a drug.
Castiel felt himself scream more than he heard it. Pain rippled through him
like a forest fire, spreading with no hope of being extinguished. He could feel
most of his wing now dangling, only held together by skin and sinew. The weight
of John’s foot on his back made it difficult to breath and he’d foolishly
thought that there was no way he could feel any worse pain. Then John reached
down and practically ripped his left wing from his back. The trace amounts of
grace that he still had inside him had rushed to the areas, a feeble attempt to
fix them, but there was no way he had enough strength for something like that.
He kept his eyes on Dean and tried his hardest to focus on breathing. Dean
would save him. He had promised to protect him and Castiel had nothing now. He
couldn’t depend on anyone but Dean in this moment. He knew that there was
little the man could do, with John pointing a gun at him, but Castiel needed to
believe that John would not harm his son. Fathers were not meant to be cruel to
their children. It went against nature. At least, Castiel thought so.
John Winchester was a creature of hell itself.
He heard Dean’s name leave his lips in a desperate call, willing the human to
wake up. Not even save him, but purely to open his eyes again. To live. Castiel
felt his arms being painfully tugged behind him, his ankles bound so tightly
that almost no blood could go to his feet. Tears built up in his eyes as Dean
gave him no response, something that surprised Castiel. Suddenly, he was hauled
up by his injured wings, a pained scream ripping itself from his throat. John
dragged him outside, over the splintering porch and debris covered ground.
Several cuts and scratches sliced open his newly healed skin, only slightly
distracting from the pain in his wings.
Castiel wanted to struggle. More than anything, he wanted to fight against the
monster that held him, but he knew that any move he made could permanently
damage his wings. Castiel would be nothing without his wings. The trunk of a
forest green truck was opened and Castiel was shoved inside, wings painfully
squished at odd angles behind him. He let his head hit down against the floor
of the car as silent sobs shook his body. Castiel knew pain, but John
Winchester would make him wish for something as sweet as pain. He had never
wanted to dead more than in that moment.
The note was gone, so Bobby figured Dean had finally swallowed his pride and
stopped being an ass. It was obvious to everyone except the two that, for
whatever reason, they truly wanted to be friends. He knew through the strange
looks Castiel gave the door, the way his feathers bristled when the young man's
name was said, that there was some type of longing there. Whether for courtship
or acquaintance, he wasn't sure. Dean didn't exactly fit a mold-- the way he'd
behaved around the angel only furthered Bobby's confusion around what the Hell
he wanted.
They walked in through the front door, Sam planning to go right upstairs to
bed. There was a strange, dark shape silhouetted on the kitchen floor. Bobby
held his hand out to stay the little one, to zero effect. The boy started
wailing the second he realized it was his brother. The old man rushed after
him, cell phone already out and against his ear. As it rang he cried Castiel
several times, even though he knew there would be no response. If John was
brought to the point where he shot his son twice in the stomach, there was no
way the angel had managed to defeat him and escape. Besides, if he was strong
enough to, it would be John on the floor and Dean would be healed. Again,
though he appeared frightened by the heady nineteen year old, there had been
nothing like enmity between them. He was willing to bet that this ended badly
for both kids, and that if able to ask either one they'd say they had failed to
save the other.
When the ambulance came it took several men, Bobby included, to pry Sam away.
He was covered in blood and hyperventilating. Someone asked Bobby permission to
give the boy a sedative before he got to the point of fainting. The man was
tempted to oblige them, if only for a chance to clear his own head. Yet he
pulled Sam to his side all but forcefully, allowed him to carry on as long as
he needed to. Hastily he packed a large duffle with clothes, books, snacks and
their precious notes-- which had been suspiciously left behind. They followed
shortly after the ambulance in their own ugly truck, and Sam's screams lulled
to little sobs.
At one point he formed words. "If I hadn't called you to come get me, they--"
"Nope. No, you're not gonna put that thought in your head. You know damn well
even 'f I was there we mighta had the same result. Hunters get hurt."
"But he's gone, Bobby, and Dad's on the dark side. He's gone and he's probably
so scared, and Dean might be gone, too! He's such an idiot, he should have just
shot Dad!" A few stifled sobs, he curled up against the passenger door. He was
shivering, though Bobby wasn't sure if that was from the cold or the bad fever
he had. Probably both.
After a pause, "You wouldn't have, either. Regardless of what that man has
done, he's your father. 's hard. All we can hope is that your brother wakes up,
'n when he does, we'll go get Castiel."
"We don't even know where they're going! Or if he'll be alive!"
A sharp inhale, "Boy, have a little faith! We've found addresses quicker 'n for
less. We'll find where he is 'n go bring him back. He's a natural born fighter.
Of course he'll be alive." He wasn't so sure about Dean, though he wouldn't
tell Sam that. The way he'd been entirely lifeless and beyond pale in the pool
of blood on the floor reverberated against his throat. That would never wash
out. Not from the wood or his mind.
---
Maybe ten hours into the drive he got tired of being alone with his memories
and thoughts. He pulled over on the side of the highway. It wasn't a main
thruway, but a deserted stretch that raveled through the forest. He carried the
bound hog from the trunk and threw him on the bench seat, directly in the
front. Again, he was facedown, his tiny nose inches from John's thigh. The two
wings stuck up at painfully odd angles. Later he would set them, so they would
heal at the very least. The wings were something he couldn't keep compromised;
if they lost blood flow or got infected and had to be removed, he'd be down a
lot of money.
"I have a feeling Bobby told you he thinks I made a deal with the devil. He
wouldn't be wrong, but he wouldn't be right either." He began quietly, a small
smile on his face. The truck lurched back into drive, the world dark around
them. "Hm? Don't wanna talk?" He flung his hand over and wrenched one of the
wings. The angel was trying desperately to be strong. For who? It only made
John angrier. The demons wanted them as put down as possible. This one was
clearly resilient beyond average capability.
He wound one hand through the angel's thick brown hair and pulled tightly. "Let
me make this very clear. When I speak to you, you answer me."
Despite his pain and his worry, Castiel somehow managed to fall asleep.
Surprisingly, he had no nightmares. Instead, he dreamt of the first night he
had spent with Dean in that motel room. His first taste of human kindness.
Dean’s gentle touch when he tended to his wounds. The amount of freedom he gave
him when choosing his food or even allowing him to groom his wings. It was
almost as though Castiel’s subconscious knew that he had to remember this the
most now, in this moment. Seconds later, he was ripped from this perfect world
as the trunk door open and he was pulled out.
Unlike riding in the front with Dean, riding in the front with John was
completely degrading. He was stuck on his stomach, his nose almost touching
John’s thigh. He was definitely not comfortable with the way he was positioned.
He felt completely exposed and vulnerable and he wished he was strong enough to
defend himself. It burned him that he was not.
He let out a hiss when John yanked his head up. Castiel avoided his gaze, not
having the courage to look the man in the eye, but he still did not speak.
Rationally, he knew that he was making things worse for himself, but Castiel
did not care. He would not speak to John.
Before now, Castiel had no reason to disobey. He had no reason to exacerbate
his own situation by doing so. In the short amount of time that they had spent
together, even with no words being exchanged between them, Dean had given
Castiel that reason. Dean who showed him kindness like it was his job, though
he owed nothing to Castiel. Dean who disobeyed his own father and was now
suffering from a fatal injury because of Castiel. Dean who looked at him with
wonder when he tried to use a fork. Dean had not wanted him to be a pet. He
never wanted him to be treated as a possession to be kept. Dean and Bobby and
Sam all treated him like a person and that was something Castiel would never
forget until the day he died.
Based on John’s temper, that day may be arriving sooner than he’d thought.
Even after they'd gotten word that Dean was stable and would likely be
conscious within the day, Sam went through intense intermittent bouts of
sobbing. Between the fever-- now broken thanks to aspirin and a few extra
sweaters-- and the tears, the kid was a mess. A few times nurses offered
various things to help, but in the end Bobby just walked him outside and around
the parking lot, knowing that with the cool wind it would eventually wear off.
When Sam was able to form a sentence without breaking into tears again, his
voice was desperate. "We have to do something."
The question honestly surprised him. His eyebrows raised. "We will, kid. First
we'll get your brother back on track, then the three of us are gonna ride out
there 'n get him."
Sam's wet face shined with the orange glow of lights overhead. The fur lining
around the hood of his jacket tossed in the breeze. He halted, turned to look
up. "We don't even know where he is, and it might take weeks for Dean to get
well enough to walk. Castiel could be dead by then!"
"I told you, we'll get the address. 'n he won't be dead. That angel's more
resilient than any I've ever met or read about. The speed he was healin' at was
unheard of-- 'n I ain't just talkin' physical, but in here, too." He tapped his
chest hard.
Fervently he shook his head, hands balled in his pockets. "He won't last if he
doesn't have hope, Bobby. Think about it. He was finally rescued, then Dean
fucked up and made him feel like he hadn't been rescued, then he was taken by
our father. And he probably saw Dean get shot, too! Dammit, if that's not
enough to make someone give up, I don't know what is. We need to give him hope,
tell him we're coming without being found out. He'll make it if he knows we're
coming, he'll make it if he knows Dean's alive!" His voice became preciously
soft as two people walked past, towards the hospital entrance. "And he'll
believe you."
He gave the boy a narrow-eyed look. "Whaddya mean you? I ain't the only one
involved in this disaster."
"Yeah, but you can speak Enochian. We can call Dad, ask to speak to Castiel. He
can even put us on speakerphone, I don't care, and you can just tell him Dean's
alive and it'll be a sign-- he'll know we're on our way."
Bobby didn't like the sound of it. All too picturesque. Gently he began to
retrace his steps, headed back for the sliding doors. Sam caught up,
desperately pleaded him to take the idea. That's when he snapped, "Your Daddy
ain't gonna pick up the goddamn phone after what he did, 'n even 'f he does he
sure as Hell ain't gonna let me talk to the subject of his abuse! Whatever we
do tell him, John'll just torture out! It ain't worth it, Sam!"
He began to sob again, evidently forcing himself to be quiet about it. They
made it back to their seats in the lobby, the television serving as white
noise. Bobby couldn't focus on it directly, though, because Sam was still
carrying on. When the old man looked at him wearily once more his heart near
cracked in half.
The words choked out, barely above a whisper. "Please, Bobby. We have to try.
He's gotta be so scared."
---
He tried the intimidation technique in the dark confines of the truck once
more, willing to pry words out of the pig like teeth if necessary. Aside from
the screams he'd heard back there in Bobby's kitchen, the angel hadn't uttered
a sound. Maybe his son's name, but that didn't exactly count as a word, did it?
He was eager to hear what he always heard in their voices-- bitterness, scorn,
betrayal, indignation. Of course he had a variety of well-rehearsed responses
that he couldn't wait to use.
The excitement fled and anger seared across his skin like flame when he
realized the angel didn't plan to respond. Not now, not ever. Swiftly he swung
to the side of the highway, tires screeching with the weight. The sudden
braking threw the vessel from the seat and against the lower part of the dash.
He was stuck firmly between the two, the gearshift stuffed under his ribs.
There were droplets of blood on his seat. From what, he wasn't sure.
As if ravaged by hunger he jumped from the van, slammed the door shut and
strode to the passenger's side. The headlights of his truck were enough to see
by; it didn't worry him that someone might drive by on the quiet stretch and
see him beating an angel. He would should anyone that tried to dictate his
actions. That much was predetermined months ago when he sealed the deal.
The steel-toed tip of one boot was covered in slick wet red. Whatever traces of
grace would be lost mattered little to him. As soon as they got to the plant in
another three hours he'd bring the beast into the restoration unit, where he'd
be infused with a random strand of grace and set to heal. Hopefully his wings
would retain their shape with ease. The idea of putting effort into what was
supposedly the rarest, most valuable angel sickened him. Especially when said
angel was flat-out refusing to speak. All he wanted was a little love.
There must have been more broken bones. The body sounded soft and squishy when
he lifted it. He was genuinely surprised at how light it was, how easily he
could toss it several feet over. Now lying awkwardly on his two broken wings,
the angel looked up. How was he still conscious? Why wasn't he responding?
Admittedly John was starting to get tired, wearing himself out from damaging
another. It was nothing new, but more frustrating than ever in unfamiliar way.
Kneeling on the angel's now bruised and bloodied gut with all his weight and
leaning down into his face he spat, "Believe it or not, I can make this worse.
I'll say it one more time. When I speak to you, you answer me."
Castiel coughed up more blood than he thought was possible to lose and still be
alive, let alone conscious. John was vicious and uncaring, but Castiel could
see that the fact that he wasn’t speaking was truly getting to the man. He had
no idea why, but he really could not bring himself to care. He was a little
more worried about the lack of movement in his body. It felt as though he
couldn’t properly lift anything. Everything felt twisted and cracked. To think
he had just begun to heal.
Castiel almost didn’t want to give John the satisfaction of speaking at this
point, but he couldn’t let himself be killed. He refused to believe that Dean
was dead. Bobby had to be minutes away and there was no doubt in Castiel’s mind
Dean had received the proper medical care. He would not allow himself to think
otherwise, slamming a box down on such thoughts before they even had a chance
to form.
Coughing, Castiel finally opened his mouth, still looking away from John’s
face. His voice rumbled as he spoke in the words of his people, the Enochian
echoing in the empty air around them. “Your soul belongs in the farthest
reaches of Hell.” There was a chance that John would understand him, but
Castiel was willing to take that chance.
With partial awe he took the angel's jaw in one hand. Instead of wrenching his
head sideways, as he was tempted to do and had done to countless other monsters
over the years, he dug his fingers into the gaunt cheeks, between his bloody
teeth. He felt flesh pop, the inside of the angel's mouth likely awash with a
whole new rush of blood.
"I know you understand English, cherub. Can't fool me there. We've got guys
back at the base that can translate Enochian, so you might as well start
speaking my language. There's really no use." He deigned to climb off, boots
scuffling through the dried grass where snow and frozen tracks of mud had
settled. They must be digging into the angel's wings and spine. All the more to
John's satisfaction.
The angel was laid down on the seat beside him once more. Though the engine
hummed as he floored the pedal, everything seemed quite silent. He peered down
to the side a few times before finally venturing, "You're wondering why they're
not like me." He was projecting his own thoughts and volatile emotions onto the
wreckage beside him. Each bump passed a jolting whimper up from the bent form.
"Like I said, Bobby was only half-right. Made a deal with a demon. Get to see
my wife when I go, but first I gotta put in time helping them. Demons. You know
how they feel about you after you let Lucifer rot. So no, I wasn't always like
this. But then again, maybe I was. I'll bet anything you saw the side of Dean
that reminds you of me. So if you're hoping he's alive, that he'll come from
you... Don't."
He swore to himself if he didn't get a response, much less one in English, he
would stop the truck again. This time, he would begin the experiments now.
Castiel was tempted to answer in Enochian again, but he highly doubted he could
speak anyway with the blood filling his mouth and John’s hand practically
forcing its way through the flesh of his cheek. He said nothing as he laid
there on the ground, but apparently the Enochian was enough for now as Castiel
was lifted up and carried back to the truck. He was less than thrilled about
the prospect of being in the front seat once more. He definitely preferred the
trunk.
Castiel could almost smell the anger seething off of John as he laid there and
wished he had the strength to return it with some of his own. In truth, he
didn’t really care all that much about how John came to be the way he was.
There was nothing the man could possibly say that would justify his actions.
He almost wanted to laugh at the man’s stupidity when he spoke about his wife.
Unless she had done something inexplicably horrible, there was a large chance
that when she passed on she had entered into Heaven. The demons had no domain
over Heaven. No one but Ezekiel did now, it seemed. He was most likely still
letting in souls, seeing as the human deceased were sent to a different part of
Heaven meant specially for them.
It was John’s words about Dean that lit a fire in his eyes again. As far as
Castiel was concerned, he had no right to say anything about a son that he shot
twice in the stomach. He could hardly be called a father. Castiel wouldn’t
pretend that his father had been perfect, but God had never intentionally
caused the angels harm. He spat blood onto the floor of the car, trying to
clear out his mouth before he spoke.
“Dean is a good man,” he forced out, despite how it hurt him to speak, “Better
than you could ever hope to be.” It was almost as though Castiel was asking for
a second beating, or something worse. He knew that John was capable of so much
worse, but seeing the way that Dean had tried so hard to protect him from his
father, Castiel couldn’t let John speak about him that way. Even if he was a
violent drunk. Dean’s virtues far outweighed his vices.
"My younger son believes in you. I mean, the whole lot of you-- angels, Heaven.
My wife did, too. I wasn't one to believe in anything, but her strength got me
as far as it did." He spoke quietly, exhausted and irritated about the
remaining two and a half hours of the trip.
"When they were nine and five, Sam drew a picture of an angel at school. It
wasn't with a halo or a white gown or anything. It was scary, it had a bunch of
heads and what looked like different animal parts. Beams of light coming in and
out, laced across the page. I asked him where he'd gotten the idea from. We
were sitting at the table in a motel room-- we rented one for several months
straight that year-- and he told me he'd seen it in a dream." He shook his
head, remembering the moment vividly. The bright expression on his son's tiny
face. Then his small smile faded. "Dean ripped it to shreds the moment he saw
it. Told Sam to stop buying into that garbage, that nothing like angels existed
and it was stupid to think someone would ever help him. There was only family,
he said, family should give you hope."
He neglected to explain that what came behind the child's outburst was an
intense hurt that his mother had passed away when he was so young. According to
Dean, Mary always told him angels were watching over them. He immediately
dismissed the idea when she died, held a sort of unique attitude of vengeance
towards the ethereal things. At that point John wasn't as deep into hunting as
he was presently, nor did he know whether or not angels actually existed. He
figured yes, but when humans went millennia without seeing a creature, the
possibilities began to look poor. Everyone knew now that they did indeed exist,
but were nothing like their true forms when housed in human vessels with
ridiculous wings.
The parking lot was grey with the first mark of dawn. He would sleep soon in
the small bunker provided him. The government always managed to make a nice set
up, even if it was a makeshift secret laboratory run out of an old factory farm
building. A clump of white feathers, fragmented and browned with blood, passed
by his boot as he walked around to the passenger's side and retrieved the
angel. It could have been from the hens that were once raised here, or the
angels. Some of the guys ran an experiment a few weeks ago where they'd put an
angel through an old meat grinder and then doused him in grace, to see if he
could piece his vessel back together. He couldn't.
Everyone was buzzing with excitement. They'd woken up early when they heard he
was coming, that he had rightfully stolen back the young one with the black
wings. Like borderline idiots they really believed that wing color meant there
was something inherently different. John wasn't so sure, but he did know that
he looked forward to seeing them carry out one of the experiments the demons
had helped him to plan. It would be done in the same stretch of building as the
meat grinder test-- the Restoration Unit. The government officials had sworn
off rooms and hallways for various purposes. One corridor was simply labeled
Extraction, and another Vessel Transfer. The worst things he'd seen were
witness in the latter. Swapping brains and other organs, live blood
transfusions to see if angels could switch vessels. If they could, it would
mean that even the angels they killed had a chance of surviving if there was
another body nearby.
The guys and women eagerly poked and prodded the angel in the entrance area.
John held him up from behind and let them, watched with pleasure as some
commented on how beautiful he was, how thin, how the startling appearance of
bones and marks of violence on his skin suited him. One person even reached
down inside of his trousers-- Sam's borrowed clothes, he'd noticed with
disdain-- to see what he was endowed with. There was a comment like Too bad you
don't know how to use this, and an eruption of laughter from the group.
When that was through, he carried the piggy to the only empty room left in the
RU. It was a sterile place, small. There was a hose and showerhead in one
corner, a drain in the center. No windows, all tile walls. Very bright lights,
stainless steel fixtures. Little poles with chains for if he wanted to bind the
angel. Right now he was intent on setting his wings and injecting him with
grace so they could heal. The feathers were already using luster, and he
planned to sell those. He ordered one of the lesser men to bring him a case of
vials and syringes.
By the time he had the angel seated upright, shackled with an arm pulled
outward to either side, the case was handed to him. He gave a thank you grunt
and began to set up the needle. "Dunno who this came from, so we'll have to see
how you take it. If not this, we'll try another. Gotta get your wings back in
shape real soon." He noticed the pale blue eyes darting around the room. "You
like it in here, huh? Nice and secure, well lit. I like it, too." With a smile
on his face he sank the needle into the angel's neck-- just about the only
place on his body from what he could see that wasn't purple and red with
bruises.
The smell. That was the first thing that struck Castiel. The thick, cloying
scent of blood and fear filled his nose and churned his stomach. Horrible
things had happened here, were happening here. If his ankles had not been
chained, Castiel would have tried to run in spite of all his injuries. This was
a place of nightmare, and he was steadily being dragged towards it.
Castiel was appalled at the way he was received by the people in the facility.
They called him beautiful because he was bruised and battered. They admired the
way his skin stretched tight over each bone. They called him a rarity and yet
pulled at his already injured wings. Had John not been holding him so tightly,
Castiel would have tried to fight them all away but he just hung there,
listless. It wasn’t until a man so brazenly shoved his hands down Castiel’s
borrowed pants that he really started squirming weakly to try and escape. Fear
coursed through him at the touch. He would not let this happened to him again.
He couldn’t/ Contrary to popular belief, Castiel knew better than most exactly
what that part of the human body was used for. They laughed at him in his
pathetic attempts and Castiel could feel the anger building in his chest.
Still, he stayed quiet. If John’s behavior was anything to go by, these people
would not react well to any kind of disrespect or disobedience. Castiel had to
bide his time.
John dragged him away to an impossibly small room. His wings couldn’t have
spread out even if he was able to move them. His arms were held out almost
painfully, reminiscent of the way he had been on display at the auction house,
his toes just able to hold him off the floor so he wasn’t completely dangling.
An image of Gabriel flashed through his head, having been in the same position
when he died.
Castiel had not said a words since entering the facility. He had not even
uttered a sound. Then John injected him with the strange grace. A gasping
scream was torn from his throat as every muscle in his body contracted at once.
He could recognize which of his kin this had belonged to immediately and he
found himself wondering if the humans knew that they could tell. The grace
belonged to Zachariah, a much more powerful angel than Castiel and a much for
malevolent one as well. Castiel’s body rejected Zachariah’s grace, causing him
to vomit violently as his body dissolved into seizures. The grace thrashed
around his body, knowing that it didn’t belong. Finally, it burst out of
Castiel’s eyes, nose, and mouth in a bright white light that would burn out the
eyes of any mortal who looked directly into it. As soon as the offending
material exited his body, Castiel slumped. The chains were the only things that
prevented him from falling on the floor beneath him. His breathing was labored
and his head hung heavily between his shoulders.
That had been more than a surreal experience. Castiel had never felt another
angel’s grace in that way before. It had torn through him like a tidal wave,
leaving wreckage in its wake. He had seen more than one vial being brought into
the room and Castiel could only hope that none of the rest of them were
anything like that, though if they were, he doubted he would get any kind of
reprieve.
There were strings of spittle dragging from the angel's thin line of a mouth.
Vomit had splattered John's boots. He stood at the other end of the room and
doused them with the hose, which ran on only two temperatures. Ice cold and
scalding hot. He chose to spray the creature down with the latter, only after
he'd stripped him. There were signs of what might have been freshly healed
injuries near the ribs and hips. As he finished slicing apart the shirt and
ripping it from the now naked body-- aside from the borrowed boxers, of course,
which he recognized as one of Dean's old pairs-- he noted the bruises and cuts
he'd left after the beating hours earlier. There was something fulfilling in
knowing he was the reason for those marks. In time, he might be able to claim
scars on the angel's body.
At least he could be sure he would leave scars on the mind. After all, the
angel had known he was coming, had feared his arrival enough to try and hide.
Too bad he hadn't been smart enough to run. Remembering the dumb look on his
face brought John back to that night, and when he hung the hose back up he
turned to observe the angel, whose skin was now blistering red from the water.
For a moment he laughed before he said, "Did you love him?" That exacted a
dazed look, so he pressed on. "Dean Winchester. My son. There's something
that's still not adding up, and that's the look on your face when you paused at
the door. Any angel would have run. Getting out the back door could have saved
you. It would have taken me hours to find you in the junkyard, and I never
would have gotten the gun from his hands if he hadn't been so distracted by...
By what? By your face?" He winced, honestly trying to figure how that whole
scene worked out. "What's so special about you that my son lets his guard down,
lets me take his gun and shoot him?"
Castiel hung there limply, breathing heavy as he looked up at John. It seemed a
strange question for a human to ask an angel. He knew that a great deal of
humans assumed them to be indifferent to emotions like love. They thought them
to be heartless, cold, and uncaring. Though this was largely true for the most
part, Castiel had always had trouble with not feeling. Apathy was a
characteristic of angels that allowed them to complete God's commands without
question. Castiel, however, had always been cursed with empathy. Though he
never allowed it to interfere with his orders, Castiel did carry guilt for some
of the things they had to do and he always tried to make up for it, something
that the other angels never understood.
Did he love Dean? That was a question Castiel never would have thought to ask
himself. It had never occurred to him that he could love a human. He was a
little unsure as to what love entailed. He has watched it destroy families and
nations, as well as knit them together. He has watched as love inspired great
works of art and horrible crimes of passion. Love was a powerful emotion that
Castiel could not hope to fully understand with his outside knowledge. He knew
that he felt something for Dean, the first human to show him kindness, though
he was unsure if this was gratefulness or something more. Castiel owed Dean his
life, and despite the fact that he had ended up here, he found himself
wondering if that could instill feelings of love. He wondered if that was what
Dean felt for him.
In the end he said nothing in response to John's questioning as he was unsure
of the answer himself. He was aware that his silence could be construed as an
affirmative answer, but he could not let himself say no until he was sure that
that was the true answer.
The angel's only reply came in the form of labored breath and dull expression.
There was maybe a twitch of his brows that could have signified emotional
reaction to the question, but there was really no way to tell if the angel had
or hadn't loved his son. John knew the only certain way to get an answer would
be to tell a lie, which he planned to do shortly. The first priority, before he
could set that up, was to get the angel's wings healed. They would be coming in
from the Production corridor tomorrow to pull and box his feathers. The blood
stowed away in the flight feather quills were hot selling items in the black
market. He had heard several accounts of people killing each other to get their
hands on a little bit of grace-infused blood. Apparently, if diluted correctly,
it could get humans high.
Open on the stainless steel counter nearby was the case that he'd been given
earlier. There were a variety of vials left to choose from. Seeing as the
first, which was taken from a larger bottle, was received so horribly, he
decided to go for the smallest. Then, the vial size likely had little to do
with the power of the angel it came from. He loaded up the syringe, strode with
heavy boot falls to the tapered body strung up by chains, and slammed the
needle into a fresh spot on his neck.
As soon as the needle was tossed into the waste bin-- there was some order to
the place, even if it was a center for torturing small animals-- he pretended
his phone was vibrating. The bound being across the room didn't seem to be
reacting the way he had to the last shot, so he figured it was a better time
than any. "I'm gonna go take this call. Let me know how it goes with your
wings, bud. Okay?" A chipper smile passed his face and he vacated with a
resounding echo of the closing door.
Castiel almost burst into tears upon the injection of the second vial of grace.
Samandriel. His vessel had been even younger than Castiel's when all this
started. He hadn't known how the young angel had died, only that he had. To
think that someone so young had been forced into a place like this ripped his
heart in two. He shuddered to think what the young angel had gone through and
could only pray that his time here had been brief and that he was at peace now.
Samandriel's grace curled around Castiel's own meager supply, caressing it and
cradling it gently. They had been on good terms. He had been something of a
little brother to Castiel. His grace pulsed gently as they fused together,
growing and spreading to the parts of his body that needed it the most. He bit
his lip against the tears that threatened to fall and bowed his head. "Your
body has been taken and your essence repossessed, but may your consciousness
rest with our Father in eternal paradise," he mumbled in Enochian, the
syllables of the prayer bouncing off the walls. It was a prayer used for angels
that had been killed since the beginning of time. When an angel is killed,
their grace explodes out of them and is returned to the universe to be used
again. This was admittedly not the same situation, but a similar result.
Castiel could still hear John through the door and he knew that the man must
know that and it confused him as to why he bothered leaving the room. His
sudden upbeat tone as smile had unnerved Castiel and made him very
uncomfortable about what was to come. No man on earth should wear such an
expression when torturing innocent beings.
Time and space were lost to them. The food of the hospital cafe barely filled
their bellies, achy from lack of sleep and too many tears. Sam managed to
convince him that they couldn't wait any longer. If they did, Castiel might be
too far gone to understand. They knew John would hang up the second he realized
Bobby was speaking Enochian, so they didn't exactly have the chance for
conversation. Together they agreed on three concise, coded sentences.
Sam beamed with faith when he saw Bobby press the dial button on his cell. They
were sitting in the parking lot, Dean unconscious in a bed somewhere on the
fifth floor. The two oddballs were heating up in the truck, engine running and
music on. He clipped the volume as the man picked up. It had never been so
critical for him to act before, and he looked away from Sam's face in an effort
to keep his voice carefully numbed.
"He's gone, John." There was a hush. He could imagine the devastated look;
regardless of what was making him do terrible things to human bodies with holy
beings trapped inside, he was still a father. And regardless of what feelings
he harbored about his son, a loss was a loss. Sensing the chink, he slipped a
gold-plated shear through the armor. "Are you in the room with the angel?"
It must have been without thought. "Yes."
"Let me talk to him for a second, would ya? Put me on speaker 'f it makes you
more comfortable. I just wanna let him know we're not gonna be comin’ to get
him. Sam... just can't handle that after what the angel did." Sure, Castiel
hadn't done anything. He figured it would be best to encourage John's
imagination to run.
He purposefully withheld the being's true name. That would only escalate things
from shit-bad to way worse. There was no doubt in his mind that the poor thing
would take the aftermath of a lifetime for what he was about to do. Maybe he'd
been right all along, shouldn't have bought into Sam's plan. This would do more
harm than good. But when his eyes flicked up and met the hazel blues across the
bench seat of the truck, he folded. That broken boy and the wet, wet face. We
have to try. He's gotta be so scared.
For an instant John sounded like a child, gullible and frayed. He clicked a
button and said, "Go ahead."
Bobby heard the sound of chains shift against what must have been a tile floor.
Relief rushed through him-- adrenaline, too. If Castiel didn't understand the
message, the whole operation would be in vain. Delicately he spoke in faulty
Enochian, each syllable echoing. "The righteous one lives. He wakes, we
retrieve you. Stay your heart."
Castiel didn’t look up when John returned. He had neither reason nor desire to
look upon the face of this captor. He was able to support himself a little
better now, Samandriel’s grace allowing him to heal. It wasn’t nearly enough to
bring him back to full strength, but he supposed that John knew that. He hated
how much they knew. On instinct, the grace had rushed to his wings to repair
them, just like the man wanted. He had no control over it and couldn’t send it
anywhere else just to spite them and he hated that as well.
His head snapped up when he heard Bobby’s voice. The Enochian was rough, but
understandable, though Castiel showed no sign on his face that he understood.
John fumbled with the phone as soon as he heard the Enochian, rushing to hang
it up. Bobby was still speaking when he did, but Castiel would wager that he
heard the most important parts. ‘Retri-“ was very likely ‘retrieve’. Dean was
alive, and when he was well, they would come for him. Castiel almost wanted to
sag in relief, but he did not let any of his actions betray what Bobby had
said.
The fact that Dean was alive on his own would have given him hope. Of course,
after what had happened the first time he had tried to save Castiel, it could
be expected that he would not try again. The angel would not have held it
against him. However, on that same note, Dean had already risked so much to
keep Castiel safe. What more did he have to lose? Castiel just needed to have
faith.
He was afraid to look up. John would be furious. He didn’t understand Enochian;
that much was clear from their little stop on the way to the facility. There
was no way Castiel would tell him what Bobby had said. That would not only
prepare them for some kind of attack, but it was possible that they would move
him. Castiel just had to wait it out. They were coming for him. Dean was coming
for him.
The lie he'd been intending to sell the angel had never been delivered. It
wasn't a lie anymore, and it was dripping down his face like red wine. Then
again, Bobby had spoken words in Enochian, which he wasn't even aware the man
could do. It was possible his son wasn't dead, that all members of the party
had tricked him just so they could give the beast a secret message. Yet the
angel hadn't reacted to any of it. A slight titter of the wings here and there,
but so far as he could tell that was natural, especially in angels recently
injected with grace. If his wings were flooded with the healing substance, of
course they would twitch.
Angrily John realized that along with being tricked, his opportunity to glean
some sort of reaction from the angel in regards to Dean had been nothing more
than a failed attempt. He wasn't going to sit back and let himself be seen a
fool.
The hose had a large metal fixture at the end where water showered out. He
lifted the hose out of its cradle and held it like a bat, walked towards the
angel and began to bash him repeatedly with it, everywhere on his body, from
head to groin. He must have been screaming something, maybe What did he tell
you!?, but was completely unaware of his own voice. The rage blinded him,
narrowed his scope of thought to that one burning question: why had Dean risked
so much for this thing? They'd known each other for less than a week, they
couldn't have been friends. The only thing he had to go by was that look they
exchanged, right before it all fell apart. Thinking that they felt lust or even
love towards each other was worse than thinking they'd become fast companions.
He cringed.
A creak and then deep male shouting. "Aye aye, John!" He swung around, panting,
to face the other hunter. "Lock up. We got our meeting, then lunch. You can be
back in with him in a few hours. Oh-- and you might wanna give him another
dose, cause you know the Pluckers won't be happy to see him like that. They'll
be here in a few."
Grumbling, having just caught his breath, he hung the hose up. Blood dripped
off of it and onto the tile floor, ran in a pink stream with the remaining
water from the angel's scalding wash and down the drain. He said loud enough to
be heard, "The fuck do they care how the angels look? If they're so upset about
their treatment they shouldn't be pulling feathers. I'm not shooting him up
again until the experiments start. Report me if you want to." He took one last
look at the angel, who seemed nothing more than a hanging pulp with wings, and
turned out of the room.
Castiel said nothing to John's crazed demands. He simply took the horrific
beating, saying nothing save for the small sounds of pain that he simply
couldn't hold in. He wouldn't tell the man what Bobby said no matter how much
pain he was in. The kindness Bobby had shown him and the risk he had taken
warranted far more than simply withholding information from John, but Castiel
had nothing more to give. A body that had just barely begun to heal took about
twenty steps back. He had become too used to the comfortable life after just
over a week. Castiel knew that he shouldn't have gotten so attached. He was
paying for it now. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this much pain
and just hung there limply.
The sounds around him seemed muffled and far away, his head pounding and
ringing. He managed to catch certain words as the door closed. Pluckers. He'd
heard of them. They ripped apart an angel's wings and sold them off. Most of
them were ruined beyond repair, though Castiel had heard stories of lucky
angels that managed to get away and gain enough grace to regrow their feathers.
The door shut behind John's imposing figure and Castiel starting wiggling. He
had almost no control over his body but he couldn't simply had there and do
nothing. The knowledge that Bobby, Sam, and Dean meant little now. There was no
telling when they would come and it seemed that the Pluckers would be there any
minute.
"What did I tell you, Will? Gorgeous," a man said as the door opened again and
two men in brown scrubs walked in.
"Shame about his body though," the man who must've been Will responded, "Having
fun on the job is a lot harder when they're like this."
"True," the first man conceded as he placed the case he was carrying on the
floor.
"Hey, spray him down at least, Rick," Will said as he snapped on a pair of
latex gloves, "Gotta make sure those feathers are nice and clean." Castiel
looked up during none of this, still pulling weakly and rhythmically against
his restraints. Suddenly, ice cold water hit him from the back. His eyes
snapped open as his body was forced into a painful arch from the force.
"Damn, Rick, come look at this," Will exclaimed, grabbing Castiel's chin and
forcing him to look up. Rick finished hosing the angel off and came to the
front.
"I've never seen eyes like that," Rick agreed, "Imagine them all lust-blown,
eh?"
"Too bad they beat his dick into submission," Will joked, "Come on, let's get
to work."
This was every angel's nightmare. Their wings were all they had. Their final
gift from God. Nothing could compare to an angel's wings. Destroying them in
turn destroyed the angel. Castiel pulled away weakly, unable to speak without
pain. The two men approached Castiel, gloves squeaking.
They started from the outside and intended to go in. They pulled his wings out
straight to the sides and pinned them up. No matter how Castiel move or shifted
his injured body, he could not remove his wings from their hold.
"Please," he breathed, eyes shut as his head hung. The men paid him no heed and
almost as if planned, they began simultaneously pulling out Castiel's primary
flight feathers. He screamed.
Almost an hour later, they were done for that day at least. All of Castiel's
flight feathers were gone, both primary and secondary. They sealed each
individual feather in an airtight bag, making sure to save all the grace filled
blood that they could. They boxed up and left, finally letting his mutilated
wings down. Castiel waited until the door had closed behind them before letting
himself go. He didn't have to look at his wings to know what they looked like.
Quietly, he began to cry.
A few hours later John reentered the sterile environment, his belly pleasantly
full with lunch. Immediately he was hit with a gruesome smell. The rooms always
took on such an ungodly scent after the Pluckers did their business. The angel
hung limp against the shackles, seemingly rocking himself for comfort. There
were pools of excess blood beneath him, and smudges where his bare feet had
slipped in the crimson stuff. His recently beautiful wings were nothing more
than pale, pebbled skin. Irritated puckered wholes watched him as he moved
about the small space, studying which feathers they had taken and how many. If
he'd had any compassion he would have considered their act a great injustice.
Still exhausted from delivering the beating which left the angel's body an ugly
clotted brown, he had nothing to give.
When he got closer he noticed strange streaks on the angel's face. Forcefully
he lifted his chin and saw that they were tear tracks. It made him laugh.
"Wallowing, huh? Oh, Reject, you haven't nearly borne the weight of what you
deserve."
As per his instructions, he began the experiment then. He sucked up the grace
from one of the smaller vials into a syringe and sank it deep into the angel's
neck. There were two swollen bumps like vampire bites along the side of his
painfully sinewy throat. Had Dean looked at this with lust in his eyes, as
other men undoubtedly had over the years? The idea of humans wanting to take
angels was nothing new, and in most instances the sight or sounds of rape
didn't disturb or even remotely surprise him. Yet something about the thought
of his son yearning for the once smooth skin, the narrow waist, loose dark
bangs over precious blue eyes made him sick. Their family was full of hunters,
their purpose to save people. Never would he intend for his children to fall in
love with monsters, or even to enjoy them as friends.
Spitefully he set the needle down, chose not to rejuvenate the angel at all
before running the test. He committed to discovering the true nature of the eye
contact he'd seen before the angel was killed, which would likely be within the
week.
John went about adjusting and shifting the binds. He removed the ones holding
his arms up and out, bound them together at the wrists instead, and left the
chain between the ankles. In his experience the repetitive administration of
poisons, drugs and grace weakened the vessels quickly. Within a few days he
would probably only need one chain around one ankle to hold the angle to his
stake. Even if the creature risked attack or escape, he wouldn't make it far in
an addled state.
While he fished in the cabinets beneath the steel counter for the right
solution he spoke. There was some renewed level of excitement in his voice.
"You know what people do with the grace, right? Some use it like heroin, fire
it up in a spoon and shoot it through their veins. My son tried that once or
twice. One of the reasons I got so upset with him, you know? Not his place to
go around using angel blood to get high. That's why he pretended to save you.
So he could use you how he wanted. He would have just thrown you away in the
end, like everyone else has. Like we will."
He pushed the Reject onto his knees and straddled him at the shoulder, locking
the beast in between his legs. With one fist full of hair he yanked the head
back, with the other he jammed a funnel halfway down the esophagus and then
lifted the bottle of acetone, poured it in until the bottle was completely
empty and the angel would just not take any more.
Castiel barely physically reacted to John' return. He couldn't. His body ached
and protested every time he even tried to move so he'd stopped trying. His
mind, however was reeling. Castiel was terrified of the man in front of him and
could feel the hysteria building in his chest. He tried to remind himself that
he wasn't going to be here forever. He was going to be saved. Dean would come
for him.
He glared weakly when John sneered at him, laughing at the tears that coated
his face. Castiel hated that it made him look weak, but he had to give himself
one small reprieve. If he could mourn nothing else, he would mourn the loss of
his wings.
"Liar," Castiel rasped at John's words about Dean. He spoke so weakly and
quietly, the man obviously didn't hear or Castiel would have paid for it. He
couldn't let himself believe that it was true. Dean wasn't a druggie. Bobby
would have told him, and Dean himself wouldn't have been so caring. He would
have made Castiel's wound worse rather than trying to heal them. It just didn't
add up. Dean hadn't been using him. He couldn't have been.
Against his will, Castiel let out a whimper when John let his arms down, the
limbs unused and beyond painful. They were sealed together again and he was sat
in the floor. His featherless wings dragging through the blood on the floor. He
might as well not even have the wings anymore. They were nothing but sticks
jutting from his back now. He just wanted to be left alone, but Castiel knew
that was too much to hope for.
His body screamed when John settled around him, yanking his head back
painfully. He tried to glare, but Castiel couldn't quite manage it. His mine
went where it often did in these situations, fearing that his body would go
through an even worse abuse. However, it became worse than Castiel ever could
have thought. He gagged around the metal funnel, instinctively trying to jerk
away but there was nowhere for him to go. Burning liquid filled his mouth and
Castiel struggled hard despite the pain, his body not allowing him to sit still
and take this. Tears streamed down his face as he choked, gurgling and spitting
as the hazardous chemical was forced down his throat. His hands flew up,
desperately trying to get away.
When it was over there was vomit and blood. A lot of the acetone had come right
back up, some of it through the nose. The angel's eyes watered anew, but there
were no tears. It became evident he'd slipped into numbness-- a quality many of
them took on when it became too much to bear.
He let the near-naked, bloodied body fall to the tile floor. It slid against
the mire helplessly created. The intricacy of human systems were so
fascinating; it was no wonder people were eager to study the ways in which
angels could fill such vehicles for extended periods of time.
"Why aren't you unconscious? It would be easier for you if you let yourself
shut down. Stupid, stupid Reject." He was genuinely curious, though he made the
comments more to himself than anyone else. The angel appeared to have traveled
into a private recess, at least temporarily. That was alright with John. After
the night and day's events he was ready to retire and catch some sleep in his
tiny bunk bed. Before he could do that, though, he needed to finish the test.
At the counter he retrieved the needle he had been about to use minutes
earlier. Luckily the management hadn't come in during his little power trip.
They'd be mildly disappointed to see him fail to administer the test correctly.
They were never supposed to deliver the poison to an angel in a sub-par
condition. After the earlier beating, that's exactly what he'd done. In an
effort to correct his actions he decided to fill a second vial. He would inject
the Reject twice, add two more freckles to the side of his skinny neck.
While the graces worked their way through the angel's blood, John instinctively
lifted the hose and turned the water to scalding. Protocol required them to
ensure the angels and lab rooms alike were left clean before dinner time and
subsequent lights out. There were even metal stationary fans in corners of the
room to help dry the walls of condensation. It kept the environments as sterile
and odor-free as possible. He respected that about the facilities, and felt
grateful that government officials had secretively involved themselves in the
action.
Ignoring the condition of the angel completely, he flicked the switch to turn
the fans on high and shut the lights out. Some had choked on their own vomit
during the night, or impaled themselves upon the stakes they were tied to. A
few who were particularly thin went into shock from the water and fans, died
frozen in seizure. This angel was one of the thinnest he'd seen, and young,
which added to the slightness of his frame. Yet John was more than willing to
take that risk with the creature who had felt something towards his son. Angels
weren't supposed to feel-- that was against their nature entirely, making it
all the more easy to do the tests and torture them. Since humans believed the
angels lacked thought, opinion and emotion, they felt less guilty about their
terrible deeds.
"Almost dinner time," he said aloud into the darkness. "I'll be back tomorrow
morning. Oh, and, uh, if you were wondering-- no, we don't feed the angels."
Then he slammed and locked the door.
Castiel couldn't move from where he'd slumped onto the floor. He could only be
thankful that at the very least the floor had been cleaned. He supposed he
would have to enjoy the little things if he was going to make it through this.
He was going to give Bobby, Sam, and Dean something to save, even if it was
only for a moment.
Not long after John left, Castiel began to shiver. The scalding heat of the
water had long worn off with the freezing fan blowing at full force around the
small room. Instinctively, his wings moved to wrap around him and it was then
that Castiel remembered it would do little good. He laid there, slowly healing
as the strange grace worked through him. He found himself thanking luck once
more that these vials had not reacted like Zachariah's had. He tried not to
think about who they belonged to, needing to focus on the situation at hand.
The room was completely dark. Castiel couldn't see anything, especially not
without his enhanced vision from his grace. Despite his shivering and his
weaknesses, he forced himself to stand. He could feel the cold air blowing from
the one spot where the large fan lay, hitting almost every spot in the room. On
shaking limbs, Castiel made himself walk towards it, arms outstretched in front
of him to feel his way. Finally he hit the metal cage that surrounded the fan
blades. Taking a deep breath, Castiel grabbed onto it with blog hands.
He thought of Balthazar's teasing laugh, whenever Castiel would take something
too literally. He thought of Gabriel's lilting smirk when he spoke, an
expression you could always hear in his voice. He thought of Michael's firm
strength and Samandriel's youthful smile. He thought of the excited look on
Sam's face when Castiel agreed to sit with them in the living room. He thought
of Bobby's gentle voice. He thought of Dean's face when he first tried pie.
Keeping all these pictures in his head, Castiel summoned his strength and
hoisted himself up. The force of the fan nearly sent him flying across the
room, but he kept holding on. With the few muscles he had left, Castiel pulled
his feet up and hooked his toes through the cage. He climbed up the small
remaining bit until he sat perched on top of the fan, leaning heavily against
the wall as he panted. The temperature of the room was still dropping, but this
was the only place the fan couldn't reach directly. Letting his head thump
against the wall, Castiel wrapped his bony wings around himself and tried to
sleep.
"His funeral's today," he lied. The surprising phone call from Bobby was the
only one he'd received in the four days since he'd bound the angel and hauled
him into the truck. He didn't expect to hear anything else from them, whether
or not his son was really dead. Still, the farce was for the angel. "They said
in the autopsy that he had trace amounts of unknown substance in his blood.
Tell me that ain't a sign, Reject. Tell me that ain't why they made you feel so
comfortable so fast. I mean, Bobby didn't exactly wait to get you all signed up
and bought into that reversing the spell bullshit, did he?"
Even as he spoke he laughed, moved around the room with swift ease. The
chemicals, vials and syringes were already spread out on the stainless steel
counter top. They were still technically in phase one, but John had been lacing
in little verbal persuasions-- the type of psyche-damaging techniques reserved
for the third tier of experimentation-- since the start. Most angels died
before they reached the mental restoration tests, from any combination of
factors or suicide. The lab had become careful, modified many of their rooms
and activities to ensure that the beasts were not allowed to kill each other or
take any number of 'easy ways' out.
The black-winged angel had proved himself to be entirely too resistant. A man
and woman, both in white coats, let themselves in just as he jabbed the funnel
against the back of the painfully irritated throat. It had gotten to the point
where chunks of skin had started to stick to the end of the plastic tool when
he removed it. That meant the grace wasn't absorbing properly. The doses he'd
been injecting the futile being with were larger than most others received, yet
there were tell-tale signs of deterioration. Despite the fact that what he was
about to do was only the end of the first stage, he was aware that many
collapsed indefinitely at that point.
From the back of the room the woman asked the time of the last shot he'd given
the angel. He spoke plainly and honestly, began to dump the chemicals down.
When the bottle was drained John stepped away, let the body drop to the floor
and release the contents of its stomach. He tossed the empty bottle into the
recyclable bin at the corner of the room and watched both doctors make notes.
Then he wrapped his hand around the next jug and carried it over, adjusting the
funnel. He wished the observers had not picked this time to step in; he was
looking forward to using the poisoning as a way to get information.
When every chemical bottle in the room had been emptied into the angel, the
doctors stepped forward. They wrapped measuring tapes around him at the waist,
hips and throat. They took photographs of the bruises, the bloodshot eyes, the
bleeding nose and poorly recovered wings. The male doctor broke his index
finger as one might snap a carrot, and gave a displeased noise at how easy it
was.
Finally they stood up, nodded at John in approval. "You can move on to the next
stage tomorrow morning. We'd prefer if you didn't give him any more grace
tonight. Everyone is interested in seeing how little this one truly needs."
That meant the possibility of his becoming mortal and dying were extremely
high. John had seen this happen to maybe hundreds of angels in the past six
months. It was simultaneously enthralling and very, very wrong.
---
The alarm went off. He showered, dressed, went down to the cafeteria for
pancakes and eggs. There he read the newspaper and listened to a few other guys
talk. He felt content, with nothing to complain about.
When he reached the Restoration Unit he noticed the door to his tiny lab was
already unlocked. His hand immediately went to the gun tucked into the
waistband of his pants, at his back. It could be the angel had escaped, or that
the doctors had prematurely come in to check vitals. John pulled the door open
gently, a giant creak giving him away. The male hunter turned wildly to look up
at John. The angel's throat was wrapped tightly in chains, his face pressed
roughly against the drain in the center of the room. He was being ridden so
hard there was a pool of blood beneath his pelvis. And while rape was nothing
more than an act of dominance to John, the vacant expression in the angel's
eyes was disturbing.
"Get the fuck out of here! I'll have you written up for that-- you know we're
not allowed if we don't own them!" As the man hastily fumbled with his pants
zipper and scrambled to his feet, John smacked him upside the head with his
pistol. The metal door slammed behind the raper, and he heard himself sigh. It
took several minutes to get the chains off the asphyxiated throat and sit the
angel upright. By then he was behind on his schedule. That was never good.
Phase two always began with cocaine. The design team wanted all the drugs to be
filtered in through the blood, where the grace could either attack it or allow
it to enter the brain. Routinely he set up a syringe, with a dose that would
easily stop the average human heart. John reminded himself this wasn't a human.
It was the special creature who had turned his son into a weak, pathetic hunter
who allowed himself to be taken down. It was the Reject who'd failed to get
away, though Dean had left him with the easiest escape route.
Of course there was vomit. There always was with the first shot of cocaine. A
smattering of freckles lined the angel's neck, and John watched with feigned
interest as the beast writhed against his shackle. By now there was only one,
around one ankle, just as he'd predicted about five days ago.
He rocked on his heels, hands in his pockets. One flipped his cell phone idly
around. "You gonna tell me what he saw in you now? I mean, he's dead. So it's
not gonna hurt him one bit. But keeping silent sure has hurt you. Don't you
think?"
As he awaited an answer from the brute, who was shaking violently and
disgustingly thin, he heard a sudden jarring buzz. The intercom, which rarely
went off, instructed him to respond immediately to the Vessel Transfer unit,
where there had been an attack. His hands flew from his pockets to provide his
body balance as he all but ran from the room. He didn't notice the cell phone
fall to the floor, or hear the plastic case skid to a stop at the angel's feet.
Five days felt like five years. Castiel had never felt so much pain in all his
years on Earth. All the abuse he’d suffered could not compare to his days spent
with John. He could no longer speak without blood gurgling out of his mouth,
his throat having been torn to shreds by the various chemicals forced down it
daily. He had very little control over his body and was almost completely
dependent on John and the doctors to move him. It was humiliating and
horrifying for Castiel. He had never been at such a low point in his life.
He was honestly surprised that he was still alive. It had only been under a
week, a fact he only knew because of the verbal notes made by the doctors that
observed John’s experiments. He tried to see the point in what they were doing
to him, but Castiel found none. It almost disgusted him how quickly he’d given
up. He no longer fought when humans came into his room. The light had gone from
his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that Bobby had
claimed they would come for him. Those were just words now.
John’s verbal abuse was transparent. Castiel could easily see that the man was
attempting to damage him not only physically but psychologically as well.
Despite the fact that he knew this, Castiel’s pain-addled brain slowly began to
believe his words. Bobby, Sam, and Dean would never come for him. Why would
they? He was useless now. John was right. Dean had planned to use him.
Nothing mattered to Castiel anymore. His alive purely by his body’s refusal to
die. It was amazing in its own way and he supposed that’s why the doctors had
taken a special interest in him. From what Castiel could tell, they believed
that the color that his wings had once been had something to do with his
survival. Castiel wasn’t so sure. All he knew was that he was still alive and
he would rather not be.
He didn’t even flinch when a strange man came into his room, spitting
obscenities. He didn’t wince when he was flipped over onto his stomach. He made
no noise when his face was shoved into the floor and his hips yanked up as his
stained boxers were torn off. He didn’t move as the man shoved his way into
Castiel’s body, rough and uncaring, muttering insults and slurs as he fucked
into him. Castiel simply took it, unable to do anything else.
There was little change when John came in. They proceeded as they always did,
positioning Castiel until he could swallow the daily dose of whatever chemical
they chose for him that morning. As per usual, it tore apart the sensitive skin
of his throat, causing him to vomit up blood and bile as there was nothing in
his stomach. He barely even listened to their words, hardly understanding
anymore. They weren’t giving him what he needed, so why should he care? He
wasn’t going to survive this, so Castiel saw no reason to try and pretend he
would.
Until he felt something small bump against his foot as John fled the room.
Castiel tilted his head down and saw John’s cell phone. He didn’t know much
about the little piece of technology, but he knew what he could do. With a
small cry of pain, Castiel reached down to grab it. Hands shaking, he pulled it
up towards his face. It took him three tries to actually flip it open. It
seemed some merciful force was on his side as he flipped it open to see it was
already opened to the contacts list. He didn’t really understand what it was,
but the first name he saw was Dean’s. Castiel pressed the small green button,
having gained the understanding that green meant go. He lifted it to his ear
and listened to the ring. He wasted no time when he heard someone pick up, not
even waiting for them to give a greeting.
“Help me,” he whimpered, blood rising in his throat to give his plea a wet
sound, “Please.” He didn’t even recognize his own voice anymore and could only
hope that they would.
When he came to the first time, he remembered the look in Castiel's pale, pale
eyes; pure terror, pain.
Dean winced when he dragged the tubes from his mouth. The needle in the crook
of his arm and the one in his hand left smeared drops of blood behind as he
slid to his feet. What seemed like far off to the right he heard his brother
warn him not to get up. The instant his full weight landed an immense ache
pulsed through his lower torso. His body immediately crumpled.
When he came to the second time, he removed the tubes but left the needles in.
Like a good boy, he didn't move. There were shot wounds beneath the sheets, and
he recalled the cold expression on his father's face. In a way, resigned.
Sam was beside him, had pulled the mushy chair up to the mattress and laid his
head on it. He was sleeping. The only certainty Dean ever had was that no
matter what happened, his brother would be waiting for him. If not here, on the
other side. Since he assumed Bobby was also nearby, there was only one concern
on his mind.
"Where is he?"
Startled, his head jerked and he straightened up. "Where? Who? Dean, thank
God!" His brother's elegant hand was wrapped around his own-- the one without
the IV-- and the grip tightened. It looked like he'd spent hours crying,
because he probably had.
"Where's the angel?"
Cinched brows and a sympathetic tone. "Dean..."
He couldn't talk after that.
---
Since Dean had been awake the night before, Sam had filled him in on the days
he'd missed; talking to the police, tricking Dad into letting them tell Castiel
he was alive, continuing to track the men about to re-enact the seals. It felt
strange that his brother's instinct was to tell Castiel that he was alive. He
was the one responsible for the angel's anxiety, discomfort and recapture-- why
would the knowledge of his own survival give the other any hope at all?
They were watching reality TV so exuberantly that the nurses laughed along when
one of the phones rang. It was his second conscious day, and thankfully the
doctors had moved him out of ICU. Sam had taken Dean's belongings-- including
his cell-- the day they came in. Now their phones sat side by side on the
little table next to the bed. His first thought was that it was Bobby, who was
back at the house, supposedly scrubbing blood from the floor and doing
everything within his power to get accurate details on their father. But it
wasn't.
He and Sam leaned in and saw together that it was Dad's cell calling Dean's.
Immediately he shook his head, jaw set with anger. "'f he thinks I'm fuckin
pickin' up, he's nuts. I'll never talk to him again 'less it's to shoot him
between the eyes."
Sam seemed relatively shocked that Dean would say something that violent about
their father, regardless of what he'd done. Then the ludicrous expression
carried on into his following statement. "Don't be an idiot, Dean. There's a
chance it might be Castiel. Answer it." He lifted the cell delicately and
dropped it into his brother's palm.
Suddenly his stomach was in his throat. He forced himself to pick up. The
trembling sound that reached his ears was unrecognizable, completely out of
character. At first he wondered if the phone had fallen into someone else's
hands, but the soft rattle of a chain that told him the truth. Castiel called
him, begging for help. What could have been done to such a strong angel that he
would stoop to the point of pleading?
The nervousness and anger dispelled entirely and gave way to suffocating
sadness. He was powerless, sprawled out in a hospital bed until further notice.
The only thing he could possibly give Castiel was reassurance. Even as he
spoke, tears filled his eyes, sure of the angel's pain but unsure of why he
would have called him to glean anything like hope. One hand played absently
about his lips and Sam leaned forward intently as he exhaled, "Okay, Castiel."
He willed himself to sound strong for the other, but his voice betrayed him. It
cracked as he went on, "I'm here. We're here. 'n as soon as I'm outta this damn
hospital we're comin. Bobby thinks he knows where you are already, alright?"
All he heard on the other end of the line was shaking breath. He imagined him
as he had been the night of the auction. Pale, half-naked, thinner than any
sixteen year old he'd ever seen. Was he in worse shape now? It sounded like he
was, but why hadn't his body given up? Dean was reminded of something he'd said
during their initial time together. Being so strong is like a curse. As
desperately as he wanted Castiel to be given a break, he would rather him hang
on so they could retrieve him. He would feel better once able to care for the
angel himself.
Sniffling against his own unwanted tears, Sam's face peering up at him, he made
a plea of his own. "Castiel? Please believe that I care. I'm gonna bring you
back. Please believe that."
Castiel almost cried upon hearing Dean’s voice. He really was alive. There had
been a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that there was no way a mortal
could have withstood an injury like that and that he had misunderstood Bobby.
It seems he was wrong. Dean was alive and he sounded the same as he always did,
save for the little waver in his voice, but Castiel excused that. A barely
there smile graced Castiel’s lips. Dean was alive.
He couldn’t really answer much of what Dean said. His throat was destroyed
beyond all recognition. At the same time, Castiel felt an overwhelming urge to
talk to this Dean. This Dean that was singing soft words in his ear, words that
promised safety and healing. So much different than the Dean that John had
planted in his head, a Dean of abuse and callousness. Castiel’s subconscious
warred over the two images; part of him convinced that this phone call was
actually a hallucination.
He almost didn’t want to believe that Dean was coming for him. It would be
easier if he weren’t. It would be easier if all these words were just sweet
nothings given to him by the mercy of insanity. That way, his body could give
out. He wouldn’t have to keep fighting, waiting for something that may never
come. If it did though, he didn’t want to be left behind.
Castiel breathed shakily into the phone for a good few minutes before he could
finally work up the strength to speak again. The words were weak and gurgled
and he hoped that Dean would understand, hallucination or not.
“Restoration Unit,” he choked out, proceeding to vomit up blood and chunks of
flesh moments later. He couldn’t even move his head out of the mess, simply
laying there in his own bodily expulsion. He wanted them to know where to find
him. He had seen the signs on his way in and knew very well where he was,
though he still could not see the purpose for their experiments, the most
recent one especially.
They had given him cocaine, a petty drug that mortals used to get high.
Normally, his grace would have attacked such an intrusion. It was unnecessary
and unwanted in his body’s eyes. However, his grace did nothing. It seemed that
the doctor’s were unaware, but Castiel had been taking most of this abuse as
relatively mortal. His grace had concentrated itself, surrounding only the
organs absolutely necessary for life. As long as it cradled them in its hold,
Castiel would stay alive. He had never experienced this before, nor had he ever
heard of any other angel going through such a thing. It reminded him of the
“survival mode” that humans went into when they were deprived of food. It
seemed that Castiel’s grace did not care what happened to his body, only that
it continue living.
As a result, the abnormally large dosage of drugs was beginning to take effect.
His overworked heart began beating faster. His struggling lungs began to work
harder. His body grew hot as he began to sweat, though where the liquid for the
sweat was coming from Castiel was not sure. His pupils dilated and he suddenly
felt more alert than he had in days, almost forced to take notice of the world
around him. He could almost feel the receptors in his brain producing too many
chemicals that had nowhere to go as an unwarranted feeling of happiness and
confidence began to flow through him. It was as though he wasn’t trapped in a
place worse than Hell itself. It was as though Castiel’s body wasn’t falling
apart at the seams. He felt as though he could do anything when in reality he
could do nothing.
He realized he was still on the phone, but anything Dean said didn’t really
register in his drug-filled brain. Castiel supposed he might remember later,
but with a strange feeling of euphoria, decided that he didn’t really care.
Castiel heard footsteps then and fumbled with the phone, slamming it shut on
whatever Dean was saying. He almost felt a smile on his face at his antics, but
his body was too weak to complete the action. Castiel slid the phone across the
floor to get it away from him before the door opened.
He heard 'Restoration Unit' and knew that Bobby would be able to decipher what
that truly meant. Dean was almost thankful he had no idea what happened there.
Strange gagging sounds materialized against his ear and he realized Castiel was
vomiting. That passed and there was shaky breathing again. It was frightening;
he felt his own heart pound against his chest, Sam mouthing What's happening
beside him. Midway through his next sentence the line went dead.
"We have to call Bobby. Now." He didn't even bother to wipe away the tears.
---
The angel was curled up on the floor, convulsing in a mess of his own vomit and
blood. Evidently the cocaine had locked him further into his mental cage. He
seemed oblivious to the fact that there was a man in the room, standing there
breathing in the atrocious smell. He shut the door behind him and took a step
forward to cross the room and grab the hose. Before he made it any further the
toe of his boot hit something. His cell phone.
With crazed wonder he scooped it up, looked at the recent calls list and saw
that his son Dean had been rung only minutes ago. In three brief steps he was
upon the angel, swung his leg back and kicked so hard the animal froze and
wheezed. That repeated until he heard bones crack beneath his boots. The entire
torso was discolored, and though part of him figured the colors would wash away
under the hose.
The hose!
He lifted it out of its cradle and began to whip him with it. Blood leaked from
new places-- the bare matchstick thighs, the temples of his head, the place
where his triceps should have bulged, had they been even remotely developed. In
his mind the beating was no big deal. He would have to shoot the angel up with
grace in a few minutes anyway. It was his duty to make sure the Reject knew his
place, paid for his foolish actions.
His breath was labored when he was through, and he knelt down near the pool of
mire and forced the creature to look up at him by wrapping fingers through his
hair. "You are alone, Reject, and you will die here alone. The cocaine is
making you delusional, and that's only just the start. He's not coming for
you."
Finally he backed away and switched on the scalding water. When the room was
entirely clean again he turned on the fans, faced them towards the beast. He
got the next dose of grace ready and injected it into the neck. There was
bruising there, too, now that he'd made over five shots to the same area. He
went to mark the time on his clipboard, remembered he needed to get the drugs
for the next round from the pharmacy, and shut the lights off before he left.
Though it was only shortly after noon, the room was pitch black, giving the
Reject no sense of time or space.
Had he realized it was John who had returned, Castiel probably would not have
been so oblivious. He always tried to pay attention when John was around. That
was when the worst things happened and he never wanted to be caught off guard
around the man. Being unprepared for something always made it worse. When
something was unexpected, it didn’t give Castiel enough time to mentally shut
down or tune out. It was one of the only reasons he still had any rationale
left.
Unfortunately, the foot had been entirely unexpected.
He laid there and took it, unable to do anything else. Screams were forcefully
ripped from his throat as the hose came down against him. It was a feeling he
was used to, but this attack had much more vehemence than usual. John was
furious and raging and the angel couldn’t remember a time when someone had so
much fury inside them that was directed at him. In his drug-filled brain, it
almost gave him a sense of power that he was able to rile the man up so
completely by doing almost nothing at all.
Castiel had no idea what had been broken. One would think that he would be able
to feel it judging by the pain, but his entire body radiated it. There was no
break from one spot to the next, all of the aches simply blended into one
another. The only thing that the beating had served to show was that the phone
call Castiel had made was indeed real. Despite John’s words, he would not have
gotten so angry otherwise.
However, that validated nothing else. He’d made the call, true enough, but had
anyone picked up? Castiel could have effortlessly created the conversation in
his mind to put himself at ease. A beautiful lie.
He shivered violently from his spot on the floor, curling around himself as
much as he possibly could. Castiel couldn’t remember ever being this cold and
lost. The happy feelings the cocaine had given him had now dissolved into
confusion and paranoia as he lay there in the darkness. The same thoughts
continued to circle around in his brain. Perhaps he had made the call, but
maybe he’d imagined Dean’s voice. Maybe his affected mind had simply wanted to
give him something to hang onto. It was all too possible and it made an
increasing amount of sense in the angel’s mind. There was no reason for Dean to
want him, to want to save him. Castiel was nothing. He was pathetic. He was a
Reject.
One of the doctors approached him while he was seated at a table in the
cafeteria, alone. There were maybe ten of them, all government appointed, true
doctors who worked in various research labs and hospitals across the country.
Sworn to secrecy, they'd been brought to collect notes and documents on the
recently discovered species. John listened thoughtfully and watched the way the
woman's face moved as he listened to her summarize the experiment just far. He
chewed his sandwich in a bored manner until she said, "We advise you to stop
the physicality, unless it's absolutely necessary. I've reread the hypothesis-
- beating the angel is not a part of this experiment. You should focus your
attention on the doses of chemicals and the combinations of them. If you
continue to abuse your authority, and in turn run the tests wrong, we won't be
able to get accurate reads on his vitals. You're disturbing the entire
restoration process by bloodying him, John. Please stop."
The way she spoke was matter of fact, yet soft. Could she have felt sympathy
for the beast? It made no sense that she would. He was used to the hunters and
humans he worked with, many of whom were people like him who had been consigned
to the task of torturing angels by demons they'd met along the path. Because of
that they had grown callous and overtly cruel. The doctor across from him
showed no sign of wanting to enact cruelty upon the angels. If John hadn't been
so confused he would have accepted her as someone purely devoted to the cause:
discovery of how a human body could sustain the force of an angel being trapped
inside.
Finally he nodded, took a sip of his drink. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll
adjust the way I handle him."
Smiling, she scribbled something on the clipboard, stood and walked away. He
was left with an unfamiliar sensation of guilt, which sat at the base of his
gut. The angels were living creatures, like anything else.
---
Ten days had passed since they’d arrived at the facility.
The poisoning of the angel's body was over, and John had shot him up with all
the regularly scheduled doses of grace. As far as he could tell they made no
difference-- though he'd last beat the angel three days ago, despite the
warning from the doctor, there were no signs of physical healing. Maybe the
funny stuff was doing its job inside, where the recreational drugs coursed.
They were in the thick of phase two, and he'd so far tried both cocaine and
heroin on the monster. The heroin was interesting because it completely put the
angel out. His body went under a spell, became completely still. Rather than
nod out like humans did, the angel seemed to simply go unconscious. Abstractly,
John wondered what he dreamed about, if anything at all.
Today was ecstasy. He'd diluted it into a solution, like everything else, and
shot the angel up. That was dangerous in and of itself, and like with the
cocaine and heroin he needed to locate an actual vein. Muscles could freeze or
little wells of the drugs could develop under the skin if not injected
correctly. The doctors had demonstrated once for him, shortly after giving him
the talking-to. Confident he could administer the garbage on his own, he found
a vein near the angel's groin-- beside the dark hair was one of the only
smooth, pale spots left-- and pressed the needle in.
He'd brought in a metal stool to sit on specifically so he could watch the
creature unfold. Three doctors filtered in mere seconds after he'd made the
injection. His head swiveled to observe them as they excitedly buzzed about the
angel. He was a survivor, had made it further in the experiment than any of his
brothers and sisters. They made notes and took measurements, shined lights in
his eyes and dripped water into his cracked mouth. John remained perched on the
stool through all of this, watching quietly as a child would. That sensation
returned, deep within his core, and it caused him to fold his hands
uncomfortably on his knee. He wanted them to leave so he could be alone with
the subject.
When he was, the first words out of his mouth were, "You killed him. No matter
what you tell me, I know what that look was about. The one that made you fail
to escape. My son is not that way-- you changed him, so I shot him dead. But it
was really you who killed him, by changing the nature of his soul."
There was some kind of merciful force in the universe that had decided the cast
its gaze upon Castiel, though he could not for the life of him determine why.
John had stopped beating him. Well, he’d stopped beating him frequently, but
that on its own was a godsend. He was given almost regular doses of grace now
and every drop when to pool around his life-giving systems and tissues. His
body still radiated pain, but the grace refused to heal it. Staying alive was
its primary concern and to that end it was doing a fantastic job.
If Castiel was being completely honest, the drugs were actually somewhat
enjoyable. The cocaine had caused severe paranoia, but between that he felt
like he could do anything. The heroin was like an angel of clemency, knocking
him out for hours at a time, something his natural body never allowed during
the beatings or poison. It gave Castiel a reprieve from the real world and
allowed him to be anywhere that his subconscious had deigned to place him.
Today was something new. Castiel didn’t even flinched when John came towards
him. He didn’t even move when the man focused in on his groin. He knew that
John was going to give him the drugs, and Castiel wasn’t going to fight that.
Why would he fight something that gave him even a momentary escape? He was
beginning to crave them and he found himself wondering if that was the point.
To see how his body reacted to addiction.
Castiel listened to the murmuring of the scientists as they flitted around him
excitedly. Apparently, no other angel had ever made it this far. He found
himself feeling bad for them. They never got to feel this rush. He could tell
that this was a new drug. The way it flowed through his system was different;
the way it made him feel was different. Dopamine flowed from his brain
receptors and all Castiel could feel was happy. As though everyone in the world
was his friend and nothing could ever go wrong.
However, this was only the beginning trickle of the drug.
John always gave him much larger doses than a human would receive. In humans,
it would take continued usage over time to get to certain effects, but because
of the amount of the drug that hit Castiel’s system all at once, he would feel
them the second it was at full force. The beginning was almost always nice, but
it was the peak that made Castiel crave the come down.
John’s words shot through his distracted mind, cutting away his euphoria like a
machete. The man was right. Castiel had driven Dean to death. He had somehow
used his defenselessness to lure the hunter in. He had caused Dean to think
those thoughts, whatever they were, just like John said. It was his entire
fault. Everything was his fault. John was right. John was always right.
At some point he got off the stool, knelt down and adjusted the angel so he was
sitting upright with his back against the wall. There were still several broken
bones, including the finger, ribs, and what he thought might be a fractured
wrist. The once marble skin was still wholly discolored, gruesome to look upon
in truth. The wings remained bare, irritated and puckered, and the dark brown
hair was extremely matted, and in some areas had begun to thin out.
He returned to his perch and looked at the angel, locked eyes with him. They
had always been a piercing blue, but it was now that the color, shape and
expression began to twist him. Similar to how he used to get upset with Dean
for being so stubborn, it made him angry to know that an angel could survive
through so much abuse. Although tempted to ask why he was still conscious,
alive, he refrained. There were more pressing things to discuss. Namely, the
fake death of his son.
"The only reason he tried to save you when I came is because he wanted to keep
using you." An idea infiltrated his mind, too creative to have been his own.
"Did he ever scream at you?" He withheld the urge to reach out and kick the
angel for not responding. Maybe if he tried the same tactic Bobby and his sons
had tried, he would get a better response. His voice was soft and steady, his
face the same. "Did Dean ever scream at you, or scare you?"
Castiel didn’t make a sound when he was moved. He was so accustomed to the pain
that constantly radiated throughout his body, that it no longer affected him
the way it should. It would take something rather extreme to make him scream
now. His head lolled on his shoulders, no longer able to really hold it up on
his own. He let it press against the cool tile wall, his empty eyes looking
back at John.
It was a strange question to say the least, but even stranger was the way it
was asked. Castiel had never heard such a tone from the man. John was not soft
and gentle, and hearing him acting so was confusing and almost unwelcome.
Castiel was used to a certain way for things to be done. John being even a
little bit kind was fucking with his head even more than any of his verbal
abuse had ever done.
Without even realizing it, Castiel felt his head nod in response to John’s
question. It was true, after all. That one instance, that one occurrence still
technically counted. Castiel remembered having been terrified, Dean’s voice
booming around him. He remembered how he had wanted to run and hide. How nice
it had been, being able to feel, to react. Now all Castiel felt was numb.
Leaning forward, hands folded in his lap again, he pressed tenderly, "Right. I
want you to think about that time, Reject, and think about how different he
seemed. His mood when he screamed at you. Did he hit you? Did you think he was
about to? It was all withdraw from the grace. I bet he treated you so special
the first night or two, to warm you up. Then it probably all came crashing
down." He forced his tone to stay neutral. "If I hadn't saved you from him when
I did you would have been sucked dry. Would you have liked that, angel? To be
sucked dry by my fuck of a son?"
Castiel, stared at John, eyes wide. It suddenly seemed to make sense. His brain
warped and manipulated the memory to match John's mostly accurate words. His
mind was filled with images of Dean hitting him in his anger. The word "saved"
and "sucked dry" banged around in his head. John had saved him. John was the
one he should be looking towards, not Dean. The drugs were screwing with his
head, but Castiel couldn't see it. All he knew was that John had suddenly
opened his eyes to the truth.
"They all lied," he smiled. Presently he lifted himself from the stool, knelt
down on the floor before the angel. The knees of his thick blue jeans gathered
moisture from the most recent hosing. That didn't bother him at all. In the
moment he was fascinated by how the Reject was absorbing the farce. "I bet Sam
gave you some story about how Dean's just like that, Dean just gets a little
crazy sometimes, but he's not mean. That's what he likes to believe. I've seen
him inject angel blood before, and I've seen him abuse his brother during
withdraw."
He reached out and wiped the bangs, wet with sweat from the drugs, from those
pale eyes. "Angels aren't meant to live with humans. I know you know that. What
you're doing here is purposeful. You're giving yourself over to research. We
can improve the lives of humans and animals with what you and your brothers
have helped us learn." The sick grin was still wide across his face. He
recalled the pained look on his son's face when he'd witnessed the breaking of
the Reject's beautiful black wings, which were now utterly abject. Dean felt
something unnatural for the beast, and in the event that his tiny, wildly
estranged family might come to reclaim their property, he wanted them to find a
completely cracked shell.
Again his hand reached out for the angel's face. He caressed one of the bruises
he had put there. "Thank you for what you've done."
Then he slowly stood, ensured that everything was in its place, flicked the
lights out and abandoned the angel for the night.
Castiel felt his heart becoming more and more torn with every word John spoke.
All of it was true. That was exactly what Sam had told him in the midst of his
panic attack. How could John know that unless it was a lie that he told all the
time? This was the rationale that ran around Castiel’s brain. Of course Sam
would lie for Dean. Sam loved Dean. It all fit together. It was as though
Castiel had been confused as to why he didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle
only to find out that he’d been looking at the wrong picture all along.
He stared at John, barely recognizing the touch for what it was. Soft. Kind.
Castiel hadn’t felt such a thing in what felt like years though in truth was
only days. His face was that of a deer in headlights, open and vulnerable. He
had a purpose. Just like angels were meant to. How had he not seen it before?
Castiel had a purpose and he was performing so well, John had deigned to thank
him. This was why his body fought. He had to stay alive and continue doing his
job.
Castiel had no idea it was the drugs that had altered his brain so severely in
order to make him think this way. He had no idea that none of this was true or
made any sense. He had no idea that this was careful and planned manipulation.
All he knew was that John was his savior. John was his god.
When the lights were turned off, Castiel panicked. The walls seemed to be
closing in around him, even though he couldn’t see them. He kept hearing
callous laughter that sounded suspiciously like Sam and even Bobby. Dean’s
voice echoed off the walls, screaming at him, telling him how worthless he was.
Monsters closed in from all sides and Castiel curled in on himself, wishing he
could scream at them to go away, but his unhealed throat would not allow it. He
covered his ears, trying to drown out Dean’s cruel words as he waited for
John’s return.
One week and a day had passed since they should have left together in the van
to track down the man responsible for the first seal. Sam was finding it
difficult not to sink with disappointment over the fact. He truly wanted to
rescue Castiel, but what good would a rescue do if there might only more of the
same? Possible recaptures, mortal pain? He wished that while Dean had been
lying motionless, attached to needles and pipes, he and Bobby had traveled to
the place of the first re-enactment. Sitting in the starchy hospital for such a
long stretch had him going practically out of his mind with the urgency, the
need to save someone hundreds of miles away.
Dean walked slowly to the elevator, Bobby helping him the whole way. Sam
trailed absently behind them, carrying the tote bag with their books, notes and
clothes. They waited until they were in the van before discussing the
inevitable attack, which was now their all-encompassing focus. It seemed Bobby
knew more than he was willing to say, though the boy couldn't be totally sure.
Regardless, both his brother and the old man seemed irritatingly concerned
about his ability to handle what they might encounter there. Sam was reminded
that he would be expected to hold and wield a gun, kill if necessary, which is
something they knew he hated. In addition, there was the reality that Castiel
might be dead, mutilated, or worse, and they spoke about it as if the little
boy might break down when he saw the angel's condition.
"I know it's going to be horrible, and I know I'm going to have to use the damn
gun." Sam spoke miserably. "You guys can stop treating me like I'm a baby. We
need to get home, pack and leave already. It's been eleven days. More than a
week since he called and begged Dean for help." His brother, leaning back in
the front seat, made no response. That only made him more restless. His skin
practically itched. "Can you stop acting like you're not freaking out! For
Christ's sake, you're the reason he was recaptured in the first place! You've
just been laying there watching reality TV like you're not in any rush to go
save him!"
His brother was clearly about to turn and say something regrettable, but Bobby
flung up a hand and stopped him. In a carefully calmed voice he said, "What
would be the use of him worryin' while he was holed up in there? All we can do
is what we're gonna do-- like you said, Sam, go home 'n pack up, leave as soon
as we're physically capable. Which, I'm gonna remind you again, might not be
for a few days. We need all the manpower we can get in there. We need to wait
til your brother can walk."
The anger burned the back of his throat, and he felt as if he might cry. No, he
needed to be tough. For as powerless as he felt, he could do some things. Help
with the directions, clean and load the guns, check Dean's stitches every few
hours to make sure they were completely in tact. Castiel would survive long
enough for them to come, and when they did Sam knew he would be grateful to see
them.
---
After breakfast he injected the angel with a combination of things. He knelt
kindly and whispered as he plunged the needle in. "This is going to be a rough
one, but you're so, so brave. Everyone's rooting for you. We know you can
handle it."
The grotesque body barely made any response, unable to move for how ravaged
with hunger and injuries it was. Only the blue eyes traced John's every
movement, which was eerie. Beneath the bruises he saw bones, only bones, and it
had begun to bother him slightly along with the imprisoned gaze. He considered
blinding the angel to stop him from looking. Maybe convincing him he had been
the true savior in the situation had only made things worse. John shook his
head, grabbed the pen on the steel counter and wrote down the time and
tincture.
Behind him, the body lying on the floor began to seize. Heroin, cocaine, some
type of LSD derivative. It was a package designed to test resilience to mental
alteration. Angels were supposed to feel a high, hallucinate, ride it out.
During that time the administrator would be allowed to do provide any number of
mental, verbal or visual stimuli. However, this sudden reaction gave him pause.
How would he deliver any tricks when the angel's bird-thin muscles were
contracted with strain? There was foam around the tight, bruised lips. Only the
whites of his eyes shown now, and those were irrationally bloodshot. For the
first time, John wasn't sure what to do.
Then the angel went limp. He leaned down, checked for a pulse. It was there,
but extremely slow considering the drugs. Maybe he had finally succeeding in
overdosing the angel. What a tragedy it would have been, if not for the
excitement in his chest. There was a large vial of grace left on the counter.
He could restore the angel to consciousness, though why would he want to? He
knew the angel would survive this trauma, too, regardless of what action he
took.
In case the Reject could hear him he said in feigned concern, "I'll be right
back-- I'm going to get a doctor!"
Quickly he tracked down the man who had groped the angel's endowment that first
night, when John carried the limp figure into the lobby. With nothing less than
happiness in his chest he reported that the Restoration Unit Room 220 was open.
There were two hours before the next official test, and visitors were welcome
so long as they locked the door.
Castiel relished in John’s words and cherished every one that was spoken to
him. He was brave. He could do this. His body put up a huge fight as the drugs
entered his system, seizing up and shaking violently. Minor amounts of grace
left their post around Castiel’s organs an attempted to fight them off, the
first attempt at healing since it was realized that it would do little good.
Nothing happened. The drugs swept through the grace like a bulldozer, filling
Castiel’s system.
He couldn’t move when the seizures finally stopped. His breathing was shallow
and his heart was weak. He knew it wouldn’t give out though. It couldn’t.
Castiel had to stay alive. The scientists needed him. He had a purpose. John
had told him so. Of course Castiel would stay alive.
He felt worried when John was gone, as he always did. Castiel was always afraid
that the man wouldn’t come back, but he did every time. John always came back.
John was a constant that Castiel’s mind had come to revolve around. He closed
his eyes in the silence of the room and focused on his breathing. Castiel had
completely lost all range of voluntary movement. His body would be completely
still were it not for the doctors and John who moved him every now and then. He
could not speak either, his throat still unhealed, as well as being dry and
cracked from lack of water. Castiel didn’t care. He didn’t need water. He had a
purpose.
When the door opened again, Castiel opened his eyes. His head was thankfully
already turned in the direction of the door. However, the sight that met him
was not one that caused happiness.
In truth, Castiel was looking at a man from the facility. The one that he had
tried to wriggle away from on his first night. Unfortunately, that was not what
Castiel saw. Thanks to the drugs flowing through his system paired with severe
psychological manipulation, Castiel saw Dean standing there in the doorway,
leering down at him.
“Still haven’t given up yet, Reject?” he sneered, taking a few steps into the
room before turning to shut the door behind him. Castiel heard the lock click.
“I’ve got two hours before anyone comes back,” the man mused, taking careful,
slow steps towards the angel. All Castiel saw and heard was Dean. Dean’s face,
Dean’s voice, Dean’s footsteps. If he was able, he would have run away, but all
Castiel could do was stare with wide eyes.
“Quit looking at me with that fucking creepy ass stare,” false-Dean yelled,
delivering a kick to Castiel’s stomach. Castiel’s body curled in on itself, but
he shut his eyes, praying that he would go away.
“We’re going to have a little fun,” he hissed, taking a handful of Castiel’s
dirty hair and yanking on it to flip the angel onto his stomach and press his
face into the floor. Castiel was all bones now, and his body made a strange,
echoing sound as it was tossed around. He felt the shape of Dean’s hands,
spreading him apart, completely unable to snap out of his drug-filled haze to
see that it wasn’t him and that Dean was nowhere to be found. The man pressed
into him roughly, a hand reaching up to squeeze Castiel’s throat as he fucked
him, raped him. He leaned over the angel’s body, tightening his grip as he
whispered in his ear, promises of pain and worthlessness. In truth, it was a
man whose name Castiel didn’t even know, but all he heard was Dean.
When John reentered in the afternoon of the eleventh day it was with several
large glass bottles quivering in a basket. There was a loud bang as he set the
carrier down on the steel. He turned to survey the scene. "Could've cleaned you
up, at least." He grumbled, took the hose and washed the angel clear of blood,
semen and vomit. Dean's old boxers were torn and frayed from countless
soilings, washes, and chemical soaks. It was sickening to think that a creature
who had entered this place in beautiful majesty was now a disgusting rack of
multicolored pebbled flesh and unnatural angles. He'd seen less bones on
anorexic teenage girls.
"Alright, now that that's cared for, let's keep going." He sat the being
upright, heard the clatter of shoulder blades and hollow wings against the tile
wall. Haunting. He was growing tired of this game, the sensation in his gut a
recently permanent staple. Though he tried to ignore it, the guilt grew with
each minor mental game he played. "We're gonna do what they like to call the
honesty test. It's all about discovering the human body's capacity for enacting
truth while accommodating pain. It'll help us train soldiers who have to go
overseas, who might be captured and tortured..." The lies were quick,
effortless. His nature contributed to the tug in his chest. This was wrong.
Mary wouldn't want him knowing what he'd done to such precious, worthy
creatures. The whole deal had been in vain.
It wouldn't serve him to think like that. Not yet. He suspected Bobby and the
boys would come eventually, and he knew the vessel wouldn't hold up forever,
despite how phenomenal it was. As if he'd received a prophecy, he knew how that
whole tragedy would play itself out. Before the nightmares became reality,
before he left this world for good, he needed to do what was left in his power
to do. There was a purpose. Even he had come to believe that, irrational as it
was. At the counter he uncapped an expensive liter of vodka, the highest proof
possible. When he knelt before the angel his words were hardly audible. "Drink
up, baby doll. It'll be over soon."
He was saying it more to himself, he realized, as the liter drained down. This
time he found a rag and slid it like a bib around the angel's neck so that when
he vomited it wouldn't sit hot and sticky on his lacerated rib cage. "I have to
start the questions now." Was it feigned sympathy, or true? Was he the one
being experimented on, inadvertently? He gathered the clipboard and pen with a
paranoid shift of his weight and sat down in front of the angel, whose eyes
were the only clear part of his presence. Still bloodshot, though, with the
pain of millennia, days.
"Who was the first man to capture you? Rape you? Who killed your brothers?" He
knew very well the tincture from earlier hadn't worn off. The LSD especially
would continue to alter the angel's memory and perception for hours. Without
permission from the doctors, or the team who'd generated the hypothesis, he'd
pushed the scheduling of two tests together. They were supposed to be done at
least twenty-four hours apart. Any average civilian would agree that one could
never quite be honest while on a hallucinogen. Even if they were a ball of
agonized celestial intent.
The vodka hit Castiel like a freight train, his body completely unable to
defend against it as it went after his brain, his reflexes, his thought
processes. Almost immediately, he vomited what little his body had to offer,
but he could still feel the effects of the drink. He stared up at John as he
questioned him. It was one of the first times he had really been directly
spoken to since he got here. Sure, people would spit slurs at him and other
obscenities, and yes, John spoke kindly to him now before most experiments, but
that was different. Those were people talking at him. This was John speaking to
him and expecting some kind of answer.
Who had killed his brothers? Castiel didn’t know. They were all brothers and
sisters after all, and they’d all fallen prey to cruel people all over. How was
he to know who had killed them? Even Castiel, with all his previous interest in
humans, did not know the names and deeds of every one of them. Not unless he
was directed to.
It was a similar problem when thinking of his own captors and torturers. They
never spoke their own names around him. At least, not that Castiel could
remember. They had never deigned to speak much to him at all. They simply used
him until they got tired of him or until Castiel managed to get away. He didn’t
remember their names, though he could pick each one out of a crowd, that he
knew for sure.
All these thoughts whirled around his head, hazy and unclear from the mixture
of the drugs and the alcohol. Suddenly, all those faces began to swirl around
in his mind. Every man and woman that had ever looked down on him and laughed.
Every human that had kicked him while he was down or broke his bones just for
laughs. Every mortal that had forced him down when he was weak to use him as
they pleased. Everywhere Castiel looked he could see their faces, their
horrible, cruel, ugly faces. They all morphed together to form some sort of
superhuman monster that placed himself right where John sat in front of him.
But Castiel couldn’t see John anymore, only all his previous torturers.
Castiel’s body kicked itself into gear. His adrenal glands spurred to life,
flooding his system with adrenaline that Castiel didn’t know his body was still
capable of producing. With all the strength he could muster into his pathetic
body, Castiel launched himself at the monster in front of him, intent on making
them all pay for what they’ve done. All the pain that they caused him for no
reason. All the suffering he was forced to endure. Castiel’s limbs were weak,
but he forced them to move anyway. His untrimmed nails scratched out at the
monster and he grabbed on, tearing and pushing and biting, whatever damages his
sad little body could manage to inflict.
At the first sign of attack John swung the clipboard wildly, hitting the angel
in the face a number of times. When this proved useless, simply opening new
wounds on the sunken cheeks, he backed into a corner where the ankle bracelet
and chain could not reach. "I'm not your captor!," he yelled defensively. "I'm
the one who saved you from them!" The following lie came out of his mouth
involuntarily, as if he were a child being punished for immaturity. Instead of
accepting the blame, he pinned it on somebody else. It would benefit him most
if he could continue to convince the gremlin to hate the very people who were
likely on their way. "It was Dean Winchester who captured you, tortured you and
killed your family! He pretended to buy you from the auction just to mess with
your head! He ruined you, not me!"
When the angel exhausted his drug-fueled adrenaline spurt he looked hollowed
out, vacant. As if he couldn't see or hear the overbearing man in front of him.
There were still more questions to be asked, though it was clear he wouldn't
get any accurate answers. Or at least not many. He decided to push on with some
of his own, regardless of how much it hurt either of them to dig. "What do you
remember about him? Tell me everything." He was genuinely curious, wondered if
the angel even realized anymore that he was in the room with Dean's father,
known as the most vile hunter alive.
Castiel sunk back down onto the floor after his outburst, his shaking legs no
longer able to hold him up. They collapsed under him at odd angles that should
have been painful, but Castiel didn’t even notice. His ears were ringing and
his breaths were harsh. His entire body vibrated, his muscles straining and
contracting over the sudden overuse after having wasted away to almost nothing.
John’s question forced him to think. What did he remember? Was there anything?
He was shot into a sudden moment of clarity so quickly the air shot straight up
out of his lungs and Castiel would’ve sworn he got whiplash.
“His voice,” he rasped out painfully, surprised he could still talk at all,
“Talking on the phone when I woke up.” It was the first thing Castiel had
noticed after coming to from passing out for the second time that day. It was
what made him rush to his small corner of the bench seat, wings wrapped tightly
around himself. He’d heard someone speaking and he’d panicked.
“Eyes,” he forced out next, lost in a daze as he remembered Dean, not even
realizing John was still in the room, a faraway look in his eyes, “Green like
spring.” He remembered those eyes, filled with concern and anger as he looked
over Castiel’s wounds.
“Hands,” he whispered moments later, an image of Dean patching him up filling
his mind.
“Kindness,” he said at last, thinking of how Dean had given him the freedom to
clean himself and eat and even sleep how he pleased.
Without warning, Castiel was sucked back into his new reality, his drug-filled
haze. The happy memories that had once filled his mind became warped and
twisted as the drugs ruined them, replacing them with horror stories. Castiel’s
face reflected what was happening in his mind, John’s words coming back to him.
It was Dean Winchester… he ruined you. Suddenly, this was all Castiel could
remember. False memories that never happened.
"So who is she?"
It was the fifteenth morning since they lost Castiel, and the only time Dean
spoke was when it concerned their angelic friend. Which, to his dismay, wasn't
that often. Sam had gone back to school for a few days while Bobby balanced
research, phone conferences and nursing his stubborn surrogate son. At once the
boy wanted them to leave and rescue Castiel without him; yet as soon as they
honestly agreed to, he threw a fit about how there was no way they'd go on a
trip like that unless he was in tow. He was walking better, but it still hurt
him to bend and lift things. In a hunt he'd be all but useless. On the eleventh
day they had known he needed more time. But at this point they had to leave,
regardless of Dean's condition. The conversation he'd had today with Doctor
Sheridan frightened him. They would drive off as soon as Sam got home.
They were in the kitchen. He'd just fried Dean a grilled cheese, re-inventoried
their stock of holy palm fronds and sedative teas. He sat across from the kid
with a weary sigh. "I've known her since my second year as a hunter. Great
woman, 'n actual doctor." All of the notes he'd collected from their phone
calls were hidden in a folder somewhere Dean wouldn't be able to reach. While
he knew the truth would inevitably be found out, he needed the eldest to go
into the mission with a clear head, especially hindered as he was. It wouldn't
do them any good to have him overwhelmed with the rabid state they'd find
Castiel in. "She told me a bit about what he's gone through there, how we can
help him here without havin to go to ER." In truth, he'd already bought and set
up countless provisions-- bath soaks to aid grace in restoring the skin, a
variety of foods that would be easily taken by a starving vessel. Still, he was
certain there would be things he could never prepare for.
Dean grunted in response. He finished the sandwich, wiped the grease on his
jeans. He'd been dressed for what felt like hours, ready to hole up in the back
of the van. They'd decided the night prior that Sam would ride shotgun. They
made a makeshift bed in the back, had removed the seats in the van to create a
little nest where Dean's torso-- and the angel they would God willing pick up-
- could be comfortable despite the jolts of the road.
After a few minutes the kid spoke. It was one of those rare moments when the
amount of love in his heart could be seen in the tension of his shoulders, the
wet look of his eyes. "What 'f he dun remember us? Or freaks out or somethin?
What 'f they brainwash him, turned him into jelly? You know the stories, Bobby,
I -- I can't." His breath was shallow for a moment, and Bobby hoped that what
he had to offer would reassure him.
"I sent her somethin in the mail a few days back. 'f that's the case 'n he
pulls a Cujo, she got an artifact I think'll be good enough to calm him down."
---
It was extremely early on the fifteenth morning when she let herself into room
220. The lights were entirely too bright for her, but the angel gave no
physical response. His eyes were wide open, sure, but they were glassy, and he
was otherwise motionless. Finally she saw the soft push and pull of his sunken
belly; he was breathing, at least.
"Castiel." She approached him with great trepidation, unsure of how much time
she had and how he would react. The first thing she did was pull a sealed
bottle of water from the pocket on the inside of her white lab coat, which
immediately sucked up pink liquid from the floor when she knelt down. If it
weren't for the description Bobby'd given her of his eyes and hair, she
wouldn't have known it was him. A boy, the old man had called him. But what she
saw was not a boy, it was an animal. A box in a cage.
"Please, Castiel, drink." She had no problem pouring the clear liquid down his
throat, which was slowly losing the irritated swollen look of a week prior.
However, though the condition of his insides may have improved, the outside was
absolutely wreaked. She drained half the bottle into him and stopped to let him
breathe. A smile passed her face, and she tucked thick auburn hair behind her
ears. "Did you like that? Take some more. She lifted the bottle to his lips
again. It helped steady her racing heart to pretend he was responding to her,
or perhaps that he was an infant or a baby bird.
"Castiel, I work with Bobby Singer. I know all about the reversal, and I've
been helping him for years. The reason I've been observing some of your
experiments is to forward him information. They'll be able to treat you once
you are rescued. He, Sam and Dean are on their way here. They should be within
twenty four hours. They asked me to tell you, because they know this has
been... ungodly. They beg you to hold on."
At that she backed away, gently. No sudden movement. She had been warned of his
seizures, strange outbursts, catatonic spells. While she waited, she capped the
water bottle and set it down. The treasure in her pocket wouldn't be needed
yet-- Bobby advised her to use it only as a last resort.
Castiel was near catatonic. They had nearly overdosed him six times in the past
four days. After shooting him up, John tended to leave now rather than watching
the scientists continue, though he would always come back after they left. They
had become more and more inquisitive. Apparently, his staying alive was
extremely rare at this stage in the game. They found him remarkable and had no
idea how he was doing it. Castiel didn’t know how he was doing it either. They
had discussed briefly, killing him and opening him up to see what was going on
inside, but had then decided to simply wait him out. They wanted to see how
long he could last.
It seemed they were testing his responses to pain while he was full of drugs.
His body was covered in small and large lacerations from where they had cut
into him. Only one man had succeeded in making him scream and that was the one
who had carved out a large chunk of flesh from his upper thigh. That had only
been the first day after Castiel attacked John. The second day, they had
brought in jumper cables and a car battery and began to electrocute him,
wanting to see if he could handle it better or worse than the flesh wounds.
They did the same, upping the voltage until Castiel let out a blood-curdling
scream. On the third day, they’d brought a small cot into the room, but it
wasn’t an everyday cot. Nails sat sewn into its surface. They’d lifted Castiel
onto it face up, increasing the pressure with which he was pressed down onto
the nails to see if increasing the surface area of injury had any affect until
he once again screamed. His entire back was riddled with holes.
John always came back when they were finished. Most times he took his seat at
the stool and simply stared at the angel who was often completely zoned out
from the amount of drugs in his system or the pain coursing through him.
Sometimes the man spoke, but Castiel could never hear what he was saying. He
was too far gone. He barely even knew his own name. He never spoke anymore,
never moved, he barely even blinked. Castiel could feel his body slowly
shutting down. He was running low on grace, as they’d stopped giving him any.
The small amounts he had remaining clung desperately to his heart, lungs, and
certain parts of the brain, only going elsewhere if it was unavoidably
necessary. Castiel’s body was fighting to live even as the life slowly drained
out of it.
Castiel had been in the facility for fifteen days. He only knew this because
the scientists announced the date everyday for note taking purposes, along with
how long the experiment had been underway. He showed no reaction when the door
opened and a woman came in. He remembered seeing her once or twice in the
beginning, but he couldn’t be sure. His mind was foggy and muddled, the only
parts protected by grace being the ones necessary for life, such as the
breathing reflex. Her voice was soft and kind when she spoke, not clinical and
monotone like every other white coat that came in the room. He showed no sign
that he was listening, but he was more alert than usual. They had left him
alone yesterday, simply giving him the drugs and then leaving.
Water trickled down his throat and Castiel didn’t think that he’d ever felt or
tasted anything better in his life. Had the ability, he would have greedily
drank the entire bottle, but Castiel couldn’t even lift his arms. His mind went
over her words slowly, taking each one in and testing it out, reminding the
angel of the meaning and how they fit together to string a sentence. With a
small jolt he realized that the woman had spoken his name. He hadn’t heard it
spoken out loud since arriving and had almost forgot that it existed. His name.
He tried to listen more intently, but he couldn’t manage to turn his head in
the right direction. Still, his ears strained to understand her words.
Dean. She said Dean. Dean, Sam, and Bobby. They were coming. They were actually
coming. Castiel had no idea how to react. All the things that John had told him
rushed to the forefront, but also fighting for attention were vague memories.
Many of them had been altered by drugs and fear, but the originals still
existed somewhere in his brain. All of this information fought for the
spotlight and Castiel couldn’t even decided what to believe in his own head. He
let out a small groan, unable to speak besides that. He did it again, and
again. His head was pounding and he didn’t know what to do. His body shut down
on him, dissolving into violent seizures as his mind spun.
She saw it coming.
With practiced ease she rolled him onto his side and held his skull while his
body churned, ropy muscles straining against the nervous system's whims. It
would be best if he didn't bash his head, swallow his tongue, or accumulate any
more injuries. The sheer volume and level of his convulsions were unknown to
her, but she realized then that she would need to call Bobby and express the
reality to him. It was likely that he would continue to have sporadic episodes,
perhaps months or years after the rescue. Considering they'd come in a few days
ago and electrocuted him until his ears bled, Castiel might have seizures for
the rest of his life.
Silently she prayed. The doctors, hunters, and various staff were fascinated by
him, and the angel's viscera had become something of a funny toy. She hated it,
hated that she was involved. Yet when Castiel stopped seizing and simply lay
shaking, panting beneath her carefully knelt form, she understood her purpose
for being in the lab. It was to provide a hand in the event that there might be
the opportunity for a miracle. Like Bobby and his boys coming to claim the
supposed chosen one. It had taken her less than a minute to decide she would
die fighting with them, if that's what it came to.
After he was sat upright again she let him drink the rest of the water. His
skin was too cold, the loss of vital warmth detrimental; there were myriad
things wrong with his body, the good cells and grace not knowing where to
fight. A particularly large chunk of flesh was missing from his bony thigh and
had she not been undercover she would have used her expertise to bandage it,
her lab coat to wrap around him. Cautiously she set the empty water bottle
aside, locked eyes with the vacant angel. From her pocket she conjured the
leather bound journal Bobby had sent her. It had been a great risk for both of
them, but thankfully the package arrived safely, and she presented it with love
in her voice.
"Bobby said Sam and Dean wanted you to have this. That you might need help
remembering who they truly are." She knew as well as the old hunter did that
this sentimental gesture may fail as well. Still, she purposefully dropped
their names again. Any effort to bring him back was better than none.
Her hands were firm but gentle as they held him through his seizure. Somewhere
in the back of his mind, he hated that he had so little control over his own
body. He couldn’t even try and think critically or seriously without breaking
down. It was pathetic. However, none of that registered. All that he knew was
that sometimes his body shook and that it caused his unused muscles to convulse
and strain, caused his wounds to scream in protest.
Castiel drank the water as quickly as he could when it was offered. He almost
wanted to cry. He never thought the day would come when water would be such a
precious gift. A mere four years ago and he hadn’t even needed water save for
aesthetics. Now it was the one thing that stood between life and death for him.
He closed his eyes briefly, listening to the woman as she spoke.
He opened his eyes when she mentioned a ‘this’, along with Bobby, Sam, and
Dean’s names. He zeroed in on the object in her hands, a familiar leather bound
journal. Recognition flashed in his eyes and he forced his arm to reach out for
it. His limb shook as it was pushed past its abilities, but the woman helped by
placing it in his hand. His arm immediately dropped under its weight but he
dragged it towards him. With some fumbling, he managed to get it open on his
own and flipped to the first page. He stared at it for a good five minutes
before he remembered what the picture was of, the gentle ink lines depicting
his home.
Castiel began to turn the pages, faster and faster as he recognized what they
were more quickly. He paused sometimes, caressing a picture of a place or a
person. He felt a small ridge between two pages where something had been ripped
out and re-taped. He looked at the picture that he had once chosen to be
removed. It was him, sitting at the table with the three humans. It seemed
centuries ago that this night had occurred. Tears filled his eyes and his
throat closed up as he looked down at the picture. John’s words meant nothing
now. His drug-addled memories fell to the side. This was his, these were his
drawings. These were true.
“Safe,” he whispered, staring down at the picture, his fingers touching it
gently.
The word was barely audible, but a smile broke across her face. As if he were a
child, she acknowledged him with eagerness. "Yes, Castiel, they are safe. I
will help them get you out of here, back to your home with them. Where you will
be safe." Elegantly she pointed to him, reconfirming the positive notion he
seemed to accept.
He flipped through the pages for thirty minutes, and she made soft comments
when she noticed him stop and ponder certain images. There was something like
life in his eyes, and it pained her to finally say, "I can't leave this with
you. But I'll keep it on me, and try to stop by while everyone's down at lunch
in a few hours." It would be foolish to make promises. Though she knew Bobby
wasn't planning to leave the house until late-afternoon, so he could speed
throughout the night, there was little indication of when her phone would buzz.
They'd agreed on a text, from Sam's phone-- an unknown number. It would signify
that they were in the parking lot, and she would ready herself to act with them
during the storm.
---
The morning meal didn't sit well with him. That nagging guilt, or whatever it
was. He felt angry with himself, his surroundings. Something as simple as maple
syrup almost set him off. He needed to get control of his own heart and mind.
The angel's condition wasn't that bad-- truthfully he'd seen worse. He'd done
worse. However, this specific case beheld a quality the others didn't. Before
he'd even begun to experiment on the black-winged creature he'd known it was
tainted. Wouldn't be enjoyable the way torture always was, because his son's
hands were all over it.
Dean had loved him, in whatever way. He had no place to override or attempt to
erase that.
Besides that fluffy fact, no matter which way he looked at it, he'd attempted
to murder his son. For what? A putrid smell and the complete degradation of a
half-mortal? The room seemed smaller today than it ever had, and he set up the
syringe slowly. The self-loathing became lead in his veins, the sorrowing
knowledge that Mary wouldn't want him like this, twisted and marred. He might
be walking and talking, shitting and sleeping fine, but his insides weren't in
much better condition than the shackled thing on the floor.
He yanked the angel upwards, hand beneath his jaw. Days ago he'd given up
trying to fuck with his mind. It wasn't worth what he'd had to give up, hadn't
gotten him where he'd hoped to get. This tragedy's all my fault. That was the
thought which overwhelmed him. His eyes shone like marbled gold as he watched
the liquid empty into the protruding vein. All of his veins protruded now;
there was no fat left on the body to disguise them. No muscle, either.
It was pure cocaine. He should have gone into cardiac arrest. Should have
vomited, but there was nothing other than blood left to eject. The fact that he
was still breathing, still blinking disturbed John to the point of abandoning
the clipboard and pen. Once more he turned to leave, this time without words or
a glance back.
Castiel’s body absorbed the drugs like he was meant to, shooting him up into an
intense high. His grace abandoned his brain for a fraction of a second, zooming
down to attack a portion of the drug before rushing back to its post. Each of
his little groups of grace did this, save for the one that kept his heart
beating sluggishly. Though it was still pure cocaine coursing through his
system, it was a much lower dose than the original injection.
Then the scientists returned.
The angel didn’t even look in their direction, too drugged up and out of it to
care about them. That is, until he smelled gasoline. Castiel felt the sensation
of liquid dripping over his knees, shins, and feet. Nothing above his knees. He
tried to lift his head to see what was happening, but he couldn’t summon the
strength. The room quickly began growing warm. All too soon it was unbearably
hot, something that had never happened before. Castiel felt this heat all over
the lower half of his legs and all too soon it dissolved into blistering pain
unlike anything Castiel had ever felt before. He screamed, his body throwing
itself into panic mode as he began to thrash and convulse, trying to get away.
This time though, the experiment didn’t stop because he was screaming. They
watched him burn, screaming until he began coughing up blood and losing his
voice. Only then did they turn the ice cold spray on him.
Again, water had proved itself to be a merciful gift. Castiel laid on the
floor, whimpering as they wrote down the results of their experiment and
flipped on the fan before leaving. He tilted his head down to see that,
amazingly, he still had skin left on his legs. The skin was red, blistered, and
bloody, just barely hanging on. Castiel shivered in the cool air, but he craved
more. He could still feel his legs burning. What was left of his wings curled
around his body pathetically. One thought swirled around in his mind. Dean was
coming.
---
The woman came back at lunch, just like she’d promised. She turned the water on
again, as cold as it would go and turned it on Castiel’s legs. She kept her
distance, not wanting the force of the water to hurt him even more, but she
knew he needed the relief and it was all she could give. He would be able to
get real treatment tomorrow morning, once Bobby came and got him out.
After about ten minutes. She turned the water off and helped to prop the angel
up against the wall. As promised, she revealed the journal once more. They
spent almost forty-five minutes flipping through the journal again, going over
pages that they had already seen. It was clear that even just that morning was
a little hazy to Castiel and that he needed the reminder. She spoke gently,
reminding the angel of Bobby’s arrival with Sam and Dean and that he only had
to get through one more night. She glanced down at his legs and just prayed
that he would be able to do it.
---
“Sheridan!”
The call came from a man, halfway down the hall from where she stood.
“Yes?” she answered briskly.
“We’re going to need you to come in early tomorrow,” the man said, glancing
down at the clipboard in his hand, “Big plans for 220.”
“What plans?” she asked, almost too quickly.
“He’s taken everything so far, but we’re not so sure about this,” the man said
with a grotesque smile, “We’re going to cut off his wings. Or what’s left of
them. We’ll need as many hands as possible, just in case.”
“Of course,” she said, swallowing the bile that his risen in her throat. She
excused herself politely and went into the first restroom she could find. She
whips out her phone and opened a new text message.
>>Don’t be late getting home or you might not be there to pick up the package.
She sent it off to Bobby, erasing it immediately as soon as it sent. He would
know what it meant. The amount of blood that Castiel would lose would kill him.
There was no doubt in her mind.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Now, I received probably the greatest compliments ever from a reader
     and that convinced me to give you guys a more satisfying ending.
     Though me and destieltheory fell out of contact, we did have a little
     more of the story written together and there were a few more things
     we had discussed, so I wrote for almost twenty four hours straight to
     give you guys this. I'll be straight up, I really didn't edit it
     much, so if there's any glaring grammar problems just give me a
     holler.
His door opened again after the woman left. Castiel moved his eyes just enough
so he could see only to find that it was a man he had never seen before. The
look on his face was nothing new. Castiel knew what was coming and he simply
closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over.
When the man finished with him nearly three hours later, he left Castiel
covered with blood and sperm. It was almost familiar at this point. His rapist
flipped the lights off on his way out and Castiel shut his eyes again, willing
sleep to claim him. He had no idea what was in store for him in the morning. He
only knew one thing: Dean was coming. Unbeknownst to Castiel, Dean just had to
come on time.
Skin pulsed with sweat that reeked of alcohol. He stumbled hard into 220 and
forgot to shut the door, which swung behind him and remained partially open.
Fumbling neurotically with the leather satchel at his hip he pulled out several
candles, lit three on either side of the angel's matchstick thighs. He was
unaware of his whispering, incessant and rushed. "... cut off your wings. Don't
deserve it. I'll save you before it happens... save you, I won't let them take
you." Afraid to look into the eerie blue eyes he extracted a thick bandanna and
tied it tightly around the other-- an effort to shut out the pain.
Prayers coursed across his lips as he rocked rhythmically, weeping, begging her
to forgive him. It was wrong to hurt their children under the guise of
desperately needing to see her again. While his love for her grew immeasurably
strong after the fire, it shouldn't have stood in place of Sam and Dean, who
were the last collective memory of their marriage, their brilliant coexistence.
It was disgraceful that he had gone to such extreme measures, destroyed three
innocent lives for one that ended years ago.
Torn from the state by what felt like a whisper against his back he addressed
the angel. His voice trembled with the fear of God, who came in his mind as his
deceased wife. Barely seeing the blinded, battered lamb slouched less than two
feet from him, he seethed. "Before I save you, you'll help me. Won't you? We'll
go together, go where they can't reach." He never gave the they a name.
Knuckles went white around the ivory handle, the blade pressed flat against the
angel's right wrist. It was shallow hole, small.
So many hunters came to work in these labs because of deals they'd made, failed
to think through. Bound, they attempted myriad escapes, counteroffers. Of all
the things they had discovered, they'd failed to think of this. He folded like
a child, silhouetted against the candlelight, and began to suck the tempestuous
blood. Hot salt water wet the pale skin of the inner arm. He would receive the
grace and be redeemed, slit the boy-god's throat and stab his own. Together
they would be saved, put out of their mortal misery before the maniacs came to
tear their wings apart.
---
"I was in earlier, a little after one in the morning. Showed him the journal
again." She didn't mention that she'd cleaned blood and sperm from his stomach,
back and legs. Instead she recounted how the third viewing had exacted a
response very similar to the first. A small acknowledgement-- safe. The
handsome, green eyed teen made a strange face at that, as if the sound of her
voice repeating Castiel's words pinched his insides. She knew nothing about
their relationship or orientation towards each other, only that Bobby had
brought the two along on the quest to save the rarity from their heinously
deluded father.
In the hallway outside the tiny pharmacy they halted. "Things have changed
since we last spoke." That was directed at Bobby, who nodded solemnly. "It's
gotten worse. You can't afford to leave without at least a few critical items.
Please." They went into the pantry-sized space and she explained how to apply
various salves, bandages and natural medicines to assuage the whole-body
ailments. Again, Dean's expression concerned her. She was tempted to buy in and
ask if he was alright until Bobby's look and their lack of time made her decide
otherwise. She handed Sam the zip lock freezer bag full of healing measures and
thanked him for taking on the responsibility of remembering the instructions
she'd rattled off.
On the second floor she whispered pertinent, delicate things. "There's still a
chance he might attack upon seeing you. Or convulse, as he's been doing with
intensive frequency." While Bobby took the information in stride, Dean appeared
damaged by it. The little one carried himself in a business-like manner,
surprisingly unaffected for now. Children hunters sorrowed her, deterred her
from ever having her own. She continued, "I think it's best if you take the
journal, if only one of you goes in." Before she even finished the sentence the
sandy blonde interrupted with a feverish "I'll go in". It was a little too
loud, and she checked over her shoulder to ensure they were alone. Despite the
fact that she'd welcomed them warmly at the doors, explained to the graveyard
shift guard they were visitors from the DC lab, she was hyper-aware of the
possibility of their being discovered as frauds.
The abject smell reached them before they arrived at the metal door.
Immediately she turned to Bobby-- something was wrong. The boys were clued in
as well, but oblivious to the reality of where the scent was generated. It was
Castiel, the result of soiling himself, being hosed down, left with open
wounds, burned flesh and charred insides. Approaching room 220 they saw the
door was cracked open. Her initial thought was that they'd come early to remove
the wings. Then, it couldn't be. Rather than the familiar blinding white light,
a dull orange glow tossed against the walls in waves. She carefully pushed her
weight against the metal, which creaked wearily. Around her she felt the
presence of three protective family members who'd come to claim their kin.
It was well enough lit for them to decipher John Winchester holding a knife to
the angel's throat. Castiel was nearly impossible to recognize in the context,
with blindfold, grotesque injuries and candlelight. Words of desperation came
in a deep male voice, and she knew at once that it was him. You've saved me,
now I'll save you, before they burn your wings... He re-positioned the knife
and offered what sounded like a dying prayer.
Beside them Sam pieced it together, let out a guttural cry and fell forward,
suddenly sobbing. "Oh, God, Castiel! Dad, what are you doing!? Dad, please!
Stop!"
Castiel stared at John as he came into the room. His demeanor was different
than usual. He could smell the scent of alcohol coming off the man in waves. He
was extremely intoxicated. Castiel followed him with his eyes like he always
did, unable to move any other part of his body. He listened to the man’s
strange rambling, trying to make sense of his words. The words of a lost man.
Cut off your wings. They meant to cut off Castiel’s wings. As deformed and
malnourished as they were, they were still Castiel’s wings. The last thing that
really connected him to God. He listened to John ramble, go on and on about how
he wouldn’t let it happen and how they had to save each other. Castiel had no
idea what he meant but he was panicking. His eyes went wide and if there was
any strength left in his body, he used it to try and wiggle away from the
deranged man.
Being saved? How could John save him? Castiel had nothing to be saved from. Not
really. His wings were admittedly worrying, but John had given him a purpose.
John spoke to him kindly and told him what he was doing meant something. Yes,
there was immeasurable pain, but John promised him that it would all be okay in
the end. Now he was standing here in front of Castiel, making new promises. He
had no idea how to react.
He gave no reaction when John lit the candles or when the knife was pulled out.
These were normal sensations for him. Being blindfolded, however, was a little
uncomfortable. Castiel had so few things that he was able to do, and seeing was
one of them. Having that taken away was a little frightening, but Castiel was
still unable to give any real reaction. Everything he could do was either
mental or involuntary. He could panic all he wanted on the inside, but he
couldn’t show it. He didn’t have the strength.
John was getting progressively more insane sounding as the minutes ticked by,
mumbling to himself, rocking to himself. Suddenly, Castiel felt a shaking hand
grab the back of his head and yank him up. The blade of the knife pressed
against his throat, but Castiel didn’t move. Not until he heard the voice.
Castiel’s head whipped to the side, towards the voice. He barely avoided the
knife’s blade slicing him open. That was Sam. Castiel knew that was Sam. He
couldn’t see anything but he stared intently, as if that would make him see.
Sam was here. Was Dean here as well? A groan fought its way out of Castiel’s
throat, it was all he could do. He needed to see, he wanted to see. Castiel
needed the green eyes staring into his own, the kind hands touching him gently.
Bobby was most likely here too. Safe. They were safe. Castiel somehow knew
this, even with all the screwed up memories in his head. He groaned again,
fighting to say a word, any word. His mind went into overdrive, trying to force
his body to do things it could no longer do. His mind was spinning out of
control. Quickly, as it always did when he tried to make sense of things,
Castiel’s body began dissolving into seizures, shaking out of control as blood
rose in his throat.
It happened simultaneously-- his brother's overt response and Castiel's
convulsion. Tempted as he was to watch, he wouldn't let another opportunity go
amiss. The last time he'd looked instead of launched into action a gun was
pulled from his hands, an angel was captured, and he nearly bled out alone on
the kitchen floor. That was the biggest factor in their arriving here; had Dean
not lost control that afternoon, they would still be safe at Bobby's. He knew
also not to look at the angel yet because it would bring up a whole tide of
emotions he couldn't afford to feel. Better leave the feeling to Sam, who knelt
weeping while the doctor showed him how to properly hold Castiel's head off the
floor.
In the split second given him when his father swung around to face Sam, Dean
tackled. Pain shot through his torso with the force and he wrestled the knife
from his father's hands, pushed the man as far from Castiel as possible. They
knocked over two candles in the process, but seeing as the room was all steel
and tile, the tiny flames faded quickly. As a result they were shrouded in
partial darkness, in one far corner of the room. He felt Dad stand up and
rushed to mirror his stance. At once Bobby was beside him, both their pistols
drawn and pointed at Dad's chest.
The only sounds he heard were crying and heavy breathing. His father added
laughter to the horror-show atmosphere. "I'm just doing for him what you don't
have the guts to. Have you seen him? His body's destroyed, so is his mind.
There's nothing left on earth for him. I'm doing him a favor. Do you plan to
force him to live with all of this, Dean? Do you know what they've done to him?
What I've done?" Discreetly Dad approached him, but the teen didn't back down.
He set his jaw and shook his head, knew that if he spoke he would either scream
or cry. Again, he couldn't afford to do either.
"I poisoned him. For days I dumped liquid fire down his throat, and after that,
injected drugs into his blood. He's had at least seven overdoses, gone into
cardiac arrest more times than any teenager should. Sure, he's not a teenager,
but his body's young. Oh, so many people have enjoyed it! And I've let them!"
Sick giggling. Dean had been told by Bobby countless times not to shoot his
father unless it was absolutely necessary. Something about being a better
hunter, not falling into the same unhealthy patterns. Right now he struggled
against pulling the trigger to end it all then and there. Out of his peripheral
he saw that Castiel was still, sitting upright. It seemed like the doctor and
Sam were touching him, maybe trying to dress wounds while they could. He
swallowed his disgust at what had been done and focused on the man in front of
him.
"You can't see it here in this lighting," he kept on, eyebrows raised as if
this were a pleasant on-the-job conversation. "But they started doing other
things, purely because he's managed to survive everything else. Laying him on
nails, setting him on fire, cutting chunks of his skin out and trying to get
him to eat them. This morning they're cutting off his wings, but I'll kill him
before they do that. He doesn't deserve it, you know?" His arms folded across
his torso, as if he were cold.
With a cinched brow Dean spoke the first words he'd said since they'd entered
the room. They brimmed with darkness, rage. "Why'd you do it? All of it." Based
on what Bobby had told him and what he figured played out, he already knew the
truth. Still, it would hurt and relieve him to hear it from Dad's mouth.
"Why?" He smiled wide, spread his weaponless arms in gesture. "C'mon, Dean, you
know why. I did it for her. Demons offered me a deal. 'We wanna sign John
Winchester on, what'll get him?' Offered me a lifetime with your mother for
just three years of Reject torture. Look, I barely made it seven months.
Pathetic."
Anger threatened to blind him fully. "Yea, you are. Mom would never want you
like this. She'd hate you for what you've done. To me, to Sam, 'n to him.
You're lucky I ain't shot you through the eyes already! Only reason I haven't
is Bobby thinks it's wrong to kill family. Clearly you don't see it that way."
There was a sigh. "Well, I did. And then I didn't. Believe it or not, I'm sorry
for what I've done. You're right about your mother, she won't have me this
way."
Practically choking on the emotions that attempted to swallow him up, he
barked, "You're not sorry! 'f you were ever sorry you woulda seen how healthy
he was with us at Bobby's, turned around 'n left us alone!" He cocked the
pistol, and felt Bobby raise his hand for pause.
Once more the man laughed, the gold in his eyes shimmering in the dim light.
"Oh, you don't have to do that, Bobby. Let him shoot me."
"No, I won't." Dean sneered, voice shaking with contempt. "You're gonna help us
get him outta here 'n then we'll leave you to your own mess. You deserve nothin
less than to die in this room. But I'm not gonna give you that satisfaction."
"That's okay, son. You don't need to." It made his skin itch to hear the
quality of Dad's tone change to something so soft. Something was terribly
wrong. He watched in awe as the man pulled an unforeseen gun from the back of
his waistband and shot himself in the head.
Castiel felt a new set of hands cradle his head as his body seized and
thrashed. He could just barely hear soft crying through the ringing in his
ears. It was Sam. Sam was holding him. Castiel latched onto that fact,
something real that was happening right at that moment. Slowly, he could feel
his body begin to calm itself down. He still couldn’t see, but perhaps Sam and
the woman thought that would be better. An image flashed through Castiel’s mind
of livestock being blindfolded before being moved to keep their stress levels
down. He had no idea how he was capable of supplying that image, but it seemed
strangely fitting. It was nearly the same situation after all.
The angel could hear the woman speaking softly above him, giving instructions
to the young boy over his head. He heard Sam shuffle down and almost
immediately, the pain in his legs was being relieved. For hours after the fire
had gone out, Castiel’s legs had burned with immeasurable pain until he finally
just got used to it. He had forgotten how they were meant to feel and was now
mercifully being reminded. He could hear chains rattling for a moment before a
weight fell from his bony ankle. A tight bandage was wrapped around his still
bleeding wrist. All this was done in under a minute. They couldn’t afford to
waste time.
Castiel was reveling in this brief respite from the largest portion of his
pain, not even really paying attention to his surroundings until he heard it.
Dean’s voice. Castiel whipped his head towards it so quickly, it was amazing
that he didn’t break his skinny neck. Hands held him still as they continued to
try to do what they could, like finding spots on his legs that they had missed
in their initial haste. Castiel couldn’t care less.
Dean was here. Castiel had no idea why that fact sent relief coursing through
him, but it did. Despite everything that had happened between them, he felt a
strange connection with the man. Though the memories in his head fought for
dominance and it was hard to tell which were true with the damage his mind had
sustained, Castiel still knew that part of him thought Dean was safe. That was
enough for him. Castiel could trust no one but himself and if part of him felt
safe, he would latch onto that part with all his might.
His entire body went tense when he heard the gun go off. He still couldn’t see
and he had no idea what had happened. All he knew was that the last time a gun
had gone off around him, Castiel had been introduced to Hell on earth. He heard
Sam get up from his spot by Castiel’s side and run towards the other side of
the room. The woman still kneeled over him, working on what she could before he
was moved to keep it as painless as possible for Castiel.
He hated how weak he was. Castiel wanted to be able to lift his arms and remove
the blindfold himself. He wanted to be able to speak and string words together
to form coherent sentences. Castiel wanted to be able to stand up and walk
away, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do any of that. All Castiel could do was lie
still on the floor until someone deigned to tell him what was happening. He had
a feeling he wouldn’t find out until much later. As far as he understood, most
rescue missions came with a time limit and if it was exceeded, extreme
complications tended to occur. All Castiel could think was that he would never
forgive himself if Dean, Sam, or Bobby got hurt just trying to save him.
"We need to move."
It was Sheridan who dared speak over the sound of Sam's wails. He turned from
the mess that was his brother collapsed over Dad's form to see that she was
still crouched on the floor with Castiel. There was a fresh bandage over what
he could only imagine was a large flesh wound on the frighteningly narrow
thigh. Every inch of his once marble body was marred. Ribs pressed curves into
the skin; candlelight flickered against torn sketches of wings. Everything from
the chest up was unrecognizable as well-- inch deep crevices separated bones,
ligaments in his neck. Cheeks were sunk in, hair matted, bruised lips.
Could it really be the angel they'd come for? Bobby, Sam and the warm woman
seemed to believe it was. Stubbornly Dean decided that he wouldn't believe it
was Castiel until he was able to see his eyes. Icy, pure. Above all else he
would know those that had watched him in the truck the night of the auction,
watched him bleed out on the kitchen floor. Hesitantly he stepped forward as if
to lean down and rip the bandanna from the gaunt face. Sheridan flung a hand up
and said, "Leave it until you're in the van. We want to avoid him having
another seizure. Bobby, please." She gestured and received a curt nod.
Before Dean could protest or shout about how he felt entitled to the job, Bobby
gingerly lifted Castiel into his arms the way he would a toddler-- head lolled
over his shoulder, one leg on either side of his hips. A tension sat heavy
against Dean's gut. That was not his angel. It was a cracked shell. Then he was
reminded of something Bobby said what felt like months ago. He ain't ours.
Regardless of what angel lay hidden under the bones and blindfold, it was not
his. They were already free, even if they'd been locked out of their true home.
He came to motion when Bobby yelled his name, realized his true task was to
remove Sam from the room. The boy was fixed in a state of hysteria previously
unseen. Dean recalled a movie they'd watched years ago, where a lion cub tried
to wake his father after a stampede, unaware of what motionlessness implied. In
their case, lack of motion came coupled with an abundance of dark, shiny blood
on a cream colored floor.
"C'mon, Sam." He repeated it twice. A third time and he would have begun to
unravel.
He screamed in return, "We can't leave him here! Dean, stop! We can't leave
him." The orange light shimmered in tear tracks.
Willing himself not to waver, he pulled his brother close to his stitch-free
side and led him from the room.
---
Snow fell. Their boots left hasty marks in the parking lot. Doctor Sheridan
didn't make it to the van with them. Dean was at once thankful and remorseful
for that fact; she could have helped the angel, sat in the back with him and
continued to work on his injuries. She was the only one who had an extensive
knowledge of them. Honestly, he was incapable, with no idea what to do.
Whatever she'd told his brother was as good as gone now. Sam had climbed into
the passenger seat, continued to hyperventilate into the sleeves of his
sweater. God only knew when that would end.
Gusts of cold air blew against the stacks of pillows, blankets of all sizes and
shapes. There was a tote bag with clothes, provisions, a large thermos of tea.
It was his self-proclaimed nest, designed in consideration of his strange once-
friend. Funny, they were never friends. Yet after so much time apart and with
little other than Castiel on his mind, he sort of believed they'd been close.
In his arms was the zip lock bag of health stuff Sheridan had shoved into his
hands on their way out the emergency exit. In his shock Sam had dropped it,
almost left it behind. He placed it by the tote, unsure of what to use or how.
"Sit up and take him," Bobby barked. Suddenly the angel was thrust into his
lap. The back doors of the van were slammed shut and all he could feel was a
weightless body shaking against his chest. The bones of Castiel's thighs and
hips dug into his own. There was no way.
When he heard the old man shut the driver's side door and rev the engine, he
asked loudly over Sam's jagged sobs, "What do you want me to do?" The van
jolted as Bobby took off. Dean caught balance by digging his heels into the
blankets. His boots were muddy, would ruin the wool and knits, but what did he
care? There was a barely living thing to take care of. He needed direction,
cause.
Bobby projected loudly. "Get him to drink-- not a lot, just enough. Don't
bother tryin'a dress him. Too much movement, you'll hurt him more. Just lay him
on top of you 'n put a blanket over it all."
Confused as fuck, he craned his neck around. "You want me to what?"
"Are you goddamn deaf, kid? His body's in shock 'n your blood's still boilin',
so prepare to play mother hen with a chick on your breast!" They must have been
four streets away already, the van swaying with the rush. Flecks of white
passed by the windows in the dark grey of dawn.
There was a little battery-powered lantern in the tote. He set it down and
switched it on with one hand, the other arm busy supporting Castiel's frail,
child-like frame. Able to see better he grabbed the thermos, was about to uncap
it when he came to. The bandanna was still on. It didn't matter if he was
terrified that the angel beneath might not be the one. He needed to remove it,
help him drink the holy palm tea. Three fingers bent awkwardly around to untie
the knot, and when it fell away the only thing he could do was gasp.
In the clean white glow of the lantern he saw ice blue eyes. They pierced him,
diamonds against his own.
"Hey, Castiel," he whispered, and twisted off the top of the silver canister.
Carefully he lifted and tipped it against the broken lips.
Sam was crying, the sound cutting through all the other thoughts in Castiel’s
head. It was a horrible sound, something that he never wanted to hear from the
boy’s mouth again. He had only ever heard Sam cry once, back at the house, and
even that was nothing compared to the broken wails coming from the other side
of the room. The woman was beginning to get things moving again and Castiel
could hear people walking around the room.
Suddenly, Castiel was being lifted into the air. A choked whimper tore its way
from his throat as he was settled against a warm body, arms wrapped gently
around him, hands barely there against his back. The hands were unfamiliar,
calloused and rough. It had to be Bobby. He had no idea how to react to that
knowledge, having never been touched by the older man before, but he didn’t
think about it. He had caught on when the woman said they didn’t want him to
have more seizures. If he did that would just make things more difficult.
Castiel didn’t let himself dwell on it, choosing to think instead about the
fact that he was actually leaving.
He had never thought this day would come. At one point, he knew that he trusted
that the three humans would come for him, he just figured that they would end
up coming too late. He had never expected to survive all this, especially when
things started getting worse purely because he was. Castiel had fully expected
to die as soon as John Winchester had him in his trunk. He’d had no hope of
making it out and yet here he was, being carried through the halls that he
hadn’t seen since the first day that he had come in.
The cold air struck Castiel harshly. Breathing hurt as the coldness rushed into
his system. He’d forgotten that the seasons had been changing when he went in.
He could hear snow crunching underfoot as he was held to Bobby’s chest, his
head lolling with his movement. He couldn’t even lift his arms to wrap around
the man for balance and they sat uselessly squished between their chests. Or
what was left of Castiel’s.
He felt himself being switched to someone else. The car doors had been opened
and Castiel was being settled roughly onto someone’s lap. It was clear that
Bobby did not think they had time to waste. Castiel hadn’t heard any sign of
the woman since coming outside, but that was a thought in the back of his mind.
He was more focused on the warm body he was being held against and the shut of
the door that closed out the cold. He could hear Sam’s muffled crying in the
front and Bobby had just let him go, so this had to be Dean. Dean was holding
him. Castiel recognized his hands.
Castiel couldn’t tell if he was comforted or alarmed by the yelling exchanged
by Bobby and Dean, especially since he was still unable to see. He couldn’t see
their facial expressions and had no idea if they were actually angry or if they
were simply speaking loudly. Castiel’s limbs hung uselessly wherever they had
landed, the same for his body. He tried to lift them, but found that he could
not summon the energy.
The angel felt soft tugs at the back of his head and suddenly the blindfold
fell away and he was staring at Dean’s face. His eyes flickered over the man’s
features, the only part of him that he could move with no resistance. He took
in the gentle freckles over his nose and the curve of his jaw. The perfect line
of his nose and the outline of his lips. Finally, his eyes, greener than
Castiel had ever seen and filled with too many emotions for Castiel to name.
Finally, his voice.
Castiel had heard that voice so many times over the course of the two weeks
that he had been gone, but never once had it said his name. Now Castiel was
sitting here on top of Dean, looking at his face, hearing his voice. This was
really happening. The thermos was pressed up against his cracked lips and
Castiel parted them slowly. He tasted the familiar taste of the palm frond tea
and just like that first night, he felt the intense feeling of warmth and grace
rushing through him. He almost fell back with the pure force of it, the tea
working double time to replenish an almost completely depleted supply. Even
when he had come to the house the first time he had more grace than this.
Castiel didn’t take his eyes away from Dean’s, working up to something, waiting
for the thermos to be pulled away. He swallowed roughly, the action hurting his
throat, but Castiel didn’t care.
“Hello, Dean,” he breathed, the action of speaking taking more work than he had
thought, but he didn’t care.
The smell of old rust, unbrushed teeth, sweat and rotting flesh hit him when he
capped the thermos and set it in the tote. Even something salty that he was too
afraid to name. It didn't bother him, though he looked forward to bathing
Castiel when they got home. He already decided that, and wouldn't ask
permission. It would be a disservice to bring the angel into the house in his
condition and not properly clean him. Once they were all calm and safe, he
guessed that both Bobby and Sam would recall what the doctor had said and help
him to use the salves and bandages in the zip lock bag.
Sam's hyperventilation descended into weepy sobs, as if there was entirely too
much pain involved in the past forty minutes for him to process. The only other
time he'd seen his brother cry like that was on one of his first hunts. Dean
suffered a gruesome bite, which he still bore the scars of, and it got
infected. Freaking out like the nine year old he was, he cried the entire way
to the emergency room. Dad had failed miserably in calming him down, and Dean
saw no purpose in asking him to be quiet. From the parental standpoint he'd
earned in their relationship, he knew his brother needed to feel what he would.
That same philosophy was applied now, despite how difficult it was to drown out
the noisy tears. At one point Bobby even turned on the radio to classic rock.
All we are is dust in the wind... Well, that didn't help.
Against his chest and biceps Castiel trembled. Suddenly Dean remembered what
Bobby instructed him to do. It was uncomfortable; he knew the angel didn't want
to be touched. If he hadn't wanted to be touched weeks ago when this whole
ordeal started, he sure as Hell wouldn't want to be close to Dean now. He
figured it was the pure necessity for warmth, the inability to move, that kept
him pressed contently against his achy torso.
Carefully he fluffed the pillows and lay down on his back, blankets soft
beneath him, head and shoulders propped up by the cushions. Castiel's bones
needed a slight shift-- the boys lay chest to chest so his shredded wings could
fan out beneath the blanket that Dean surreptitiously placed over them. If
someone had asked him the night he left Bobby's to drive out and see Dad how
he'd feel about being sandwiched with an angel between two blankets he would
have told them to fuck off. While he still considered the affair outrageous, he
saw the purpose.
Instinctively he began to trace the quivering, prominent knots of Castiel's
spine with his fingertips and thumbs. The waist was immeasurably small, the
ribs and pelvis also painfully obvious, even through the skin of his back. When
he felt the holes that he could only assume nails had dug into the skin, he
felt his throat tighten. It became difficult to breathe because of the
emotional wave. Not here, he begged himself. The evening they'd climbed into
the van, what must have only been sixteen hours ago, he committed to being
strong for the angel. He had failed too many times with Castiel. They'd reached
a critical point and he refused to fail again.
To steady his racing mind he continued to rub comforting circles, hoping the
angel hadn't noticed him falter with the realization of previously undiscovered
abuse. He had a sick feeling he would discover a lot more when he was able to
put him in the bath. Accepting that, he inhaled a familiar scent-- something
else to remind him this was truly the one he'd come to claim. It was a downy
scent, like the feathers that should have lined his wings. Breathing in
Castiel's hair fooled him into thinking that everything was alright. His
brother's tears became quieter, hours later intermittent. The music Bobby
played on the stereo was easy for him to hum along to. Eventually he began to
sing into the dark hair at the crown of the boy's head.
With his warm arms wrapped nearly double around the insignificant body, he
stopped singing to say. "Gonna be a long trip. You can sleep now, Castiel. Just
promise me you'll wake up."
The van rocked gently as Bobby sped away from the facility, not wanting to give
them any chance of getting caught. Castiel doubted he would live to see the
next morning if they were, not to mention hunters that helped liberate angels
were most likely frowned upon. Getting caught was something that absolutely
could not happen.
It was strange. For two weeks, Castiel had felt nothing but the cool tile of
the floor and the walls. He had smelled nothing but the smell of his own blood
and vomit. Now he was surrounded by the clean scent of detergent and the
familiar scent of old car. All he could feel was the soft blankets on top of
him and the warm, firm body below him. Nothing existed for him outside of this
heavenly bubble. It was just him and Dean.
Somewhere in his mind, alarm bells were ringing out of control. He wasn’t
supposed to be this close to humans. A human holding him like this was
dangerous. It meant pain and events that came rushing through Castiel’s brain
one after the other. Images, faces, and words when spinning around his mind,
causing him to shake slightly though he thankfully remained mostly calm. If he
had the energy and ability, Castiel would be on the other side of the car, no
matter than they had just saved him. That didn’t undo years of previous
experience.
Dean laid them down gently, shifting Castiel only when it was necessary. The
trembling angel made no noise or protest. Even in all the pain he was in now,
it was nothing compared to what he had felt in the facility. There, there had
been nothing to distract him from the injuries that riddled his body. Here at
least there was warmth and comfort. He focused all his energy on that, rather
than on the burns on his legs or the holes and tears in his body.
Soft hands ran up and down his back, faltering briefly before continuing. From
what Castiel had seen of humans, this was meant to be a comforting notion. He
did not understand the concept exactly, but he appreciated the attempt from
Dean. They truly wanted him to feel safe and taken care of. Castiel figured he
would feel that way no matter where he was as long as it wasn’t that facility.
He spared a thought for all the angels they had left behind, but he knew that
it was illogical to try and save them all. The quickest way to ease them of
their pain would be to continue with the reversal plan, however Castiel could
feel that it would be a while before he could help with that once more.
He listened as Dean sang into his hair and felt his eyes drifting shut. For the
first time in two weeks, he wasn’t really worried. He didn’t dread the opening
of the door to see what they had imagined for him that day. He didn’t worry
about if that would be the night he froze to death or if his grace would
finally just run out. Castiel just focused on now and now he was safe. Though
breathing was still difficult, it had even out, become calmer. He felt himself
drifting off slowly, Dean’s voice in his ear.
“Promise,” he barely managed to whisper before he was asleep, curled against
Dean’s chest.
Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so easily. The drugs were
slowly leaking out of his system having not been refreshed for almost a full
day by that point. His thoughts were becoming clearer and he was beginning to
have more control over them, choosing what he would and would not think about.
It was his body that showed no change. He was still amazingly weak, though he
could feel the tea rushing to try and help his grace. In truth, it was hardly
even Castiel’s grace. He had been injected with so many of his brothers and
sisters’ healing essence, that there could only be a few drops of his own true
grace left.
He woke once with a small whimper, but not for long. Dean had sat them up
slightly, just enough so he could give Castiel more to drink. He pulled out a
few plain crackers from a bag and broke them into pieces for Castiel. The angel
closed his eyes again but parted his lips enough so that Dean could place the
cracker pieces on his lips since he couldn’t lift his arms to place them in his
mouth himself. Castiel guided them in weakly with his tongue, allowing each
piece to sit in his mouth and grow soft until he could swallow it. He couldn’t
even summon enough energy to true. He only managed to finish two crackers
before closing his mouth again and going to sleep, Dean’s hands still tracing
patterns on his back as he settled them down.
He slept almost the entire ride home. There were a few moments were he was
roused and lucid, but he did not open his eyes. He listened blearily to mumbled
conversation between Dean and Bobby. He did not hear Sam speak, but he did not
hear him crying either and hoped that the other boy was okay. The radio played
softly from the front as the van raced back to Bobby’s home.
Castiel woke on instinct when the van stopped moving.
“Home sweet home,” Bobby said roughly, almost as if he was unsure if the
sentiment was welcome. Castiel opened his eyes and looked up at Dean, the only
thing he could really see from his position. The back of the truck opened and
there was Sam and Bobby. The two of them picked up all the bags and totes that
rested in the back to clear the way for Dean to get out. Dean didn’t let go of
Castiel. He simply scooted them out, taking his arms out from under the
blankets so he could secure his arms around Castiel and keep the blankets in
place. Castiel was cradled against Dean’s chest as he was carried inside. Sam
and Bobby went in ahead of them and placed the bags in the living room before
retreating to the kitchen. Castiel was immediately taken upstairs and into the
bathroom. He was placed into the empty bathtub and the blankets taken away from
their spots around his emaciated body. A flash of the showerhead from the room
and being hosed off everyday flashed through his mind and Castiel silently
began to panic a bit because he knew that there was no other reason for him to
be in the bathroom besides being hosed off. Castiel didn’t think he could take
that again and he watched Dean warily, tracing the man’s movements with his
eyes as he waited to see what would happen.
The blankets unraveled and he lifted Castiel and sat him on the closed toilet
bowl, moved the covers out of the cramped bathroom. When he returned from the
bedroom he twisted the faucet knobs, let the water warm up properly before
plugging the drain. He turned with a worn expression to the angel, as sorry as
he was the first night. "I gotta clean you, dude. You're gross right now, ain't
no nicer way I could say it. 'n listen, I know you're not gonna be happy, but I
swear to God once this is over I'm not gonna touch you for, like, ever." He
opened the bathroom door and called down for someone to bring the tote up. Sam
did, and he pulled from it the zip lock bag and thermos. As the tub filled and
steam rose around them, he let Castiel drink what was left of that batch of
tea.
He removed the torn boxers, which he vaguely recognized as once his, and lifted
Castiel into the tub. It was difficult to get him to fit with the wings-- he
had to turn the body sideways-- even though they were mangled and as a result
half their normal size. Dean lathered soap on a washcloth and began to gently
dab it in the warm water and wipe away blood, sweat, dried skin, marks of other
people. It didn't bother him that Castiel was naked. He'd bathed Sam a million
times when they were younger and in his mind, a human body was a human body.
Even if there was something supernatural inside. What bothered him were the
bruises, the pocked skin, the strange swollen spots, hard to the touch.
All the while he sang gently, more for himself than anyone else. Combing the
knots out of Castiel's hair and getting it to come clean was work enough to
tire him, especially considering how careful he had to be not to cause the
angel any more pain. Snowy white daylight poured in through the tiny second
story window, and he took a pair of scissors from the cabinet and cut the
shaggy hair while he still had the chance. It was short, so it wouldn't be in
his face all the time, but still an inch or two, and framed his face in a sweet
way. After that he took a toothbrush and toothpaste and worked as delicately as
he could.
As expected, there were far more injuries than he originally anticipated. The
bandages Sam and Sheridan put on earlier were removed now, the wounds inspected
and flushed again. Finally he drained the water and dried Castiel tenderly with
plush towels. He squeezed water from his hair with a small terrycloth and
redressed the large cuts. The angel was seated on the toilet seat again, a dull
expression on his sunken face. With one palm Dean rubbed burn salve into his
skin, looked up into his face. There was so much he wanted to give the other-
- the truth, emotions, thoughts. So much he wanted to ask. He withheld it
still, knowing neither of them were ready.
He didn't say a thing until he set Castiel down on the bed, pulled dry boxers,
sweatpants, shirts and a strategically snipped sweater onto his frail body,
over his wings. When he was snug and sitting up, Dean called down for Sam to
bring up food and tea. While they waited, he sat tiredly on the floor and gazed
up again. "I'm sorry." It was a loaded phrase; admittedly all the meaning
behind it surely wouldn't be delivered with just one utterance. Regardless, he
felt obligated, and knew nothing else to say. "I'm sorry for everything, 'n I'm
glad you're home."
Castiel stared at Dean from his spot on the bed. He felt as though he was
swimming in fabric with all the layers that he had piled onto him, however, he
couldn’t complain. There was nothing to complain about. This was more than he
had ever had in his life, especially these past two weeks. Castiel had
experienced more pain than he had ever thought possible. He had given up hope
of living on this earth as an angel and had taken solace in the fact that he
was going to die. Now it was different.
Now Dean was here, telling him that he was sorry for all that he’d been through
and that he was home. Castiel was home. That was a word the angel hadn’t used
since the fall. Heaven was his home and none of the angels spoke about Heaven
anymore. It was too painful to remember where they should be compared to where
they were. Castiel had come to terms with the fact that he was homeless, just
like all the other angels. He had never even considered creating a home for
himself on earth.
“Dean,” Castiel breathed, staring at the man in front of him. Violent images
flashed into his mind that made his body visibly jerk slightly, but he tried to
push them away. He couldn’t say for sure which of his memories were true and
which were false. His mind was still messed up in that sense, but he knew what
was happening. Castiel knew that right now in this moment, Dean was sitting in
front of him. He had just gotten a bath and was now drowning in piles of
fabric. This was real and because of that, all of his memories were irrelevant.
Sam came into the room then, carrying a tray of food and another mug of tea.
They were all mostly soft foods like soup, and more crackers. There wasn’t a
lot of it either. His body had gone into starvation mode, even more severely
than when he had first come to Bobby’s and it wouldn’t do well to try and
overload his stomach by filling it full of food. Starting off slow was the key
and building Castiel’s appetite back up.
“Bobby made you chicken soup,” he said softly, voice cracking over a few spots
as he handed the tray over to Dean. He gave a weak smile before leaving the
room again. Something must have happened, more than simply what happened to
Castiel. The angel could feel that Sam’s emotions had more to do than just him.
He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t push the words past his torn up throat, still
something that was having a hard time healing.
Dean scooted a little further up the bed and began to feed Castiel, just like
he had in the car. It made him feel useless. In the facility, Castiel hadn’t
cared that he couldn’t do anything. There was nothing for him to do, no reason
for him to need to do anything. Here it was different. Here they intended to
care for him and that meant getting meals and being clean. Not being able to do
those things for himself was frustrating and Castiel resolved to do anything he
could to even try to lift a spoon on his own. He wouldn’t remain dependent. He
couldn’t. Dean’s promise never to touch him again echoed through his mind.
Castiel knew that this should be a good thing, something to be celebrated and
yet he was unsure. Dean’s was the only kind touch that Castiel had ever known.
Even still, that shouldn’t matter and his uncertainty only served to make
Castiel more confused.
Just like in the car, Castiel barely managed a few mouthfuls of soup and a
cracker or two before he was slowly shaking his head. He couldn’t eat anymore.
He drank about a third of the tea as well, knowing that he at least had to make
sure to get that down. Dean left the food on the bedside table before helping
Castiel lay down and get under the covers on the bed. He had no wings to wrap
around him now. Not really. Castiel kept his eyes trained on the man as he
walked towards the door and flicked the light out. He wanted to say thank you,
but the words all stuck together in his chest. There was so much more he wanted
to say but couldn’t. He supposed they would just have to wait. He was safe now.
He was somewhere where the people wanted to help him and see him healthy. They
had plenty of time to say what needed to be said. Those were Castiel’s last
thoughts before he drifted off into a fitful sleep. Everything was going to be
okay.
End Notes
     I had thought of separating this into chapters, but I just couldn't
     find the right places to break it. Okay, that's a lie, there were a
     few places that I thought while writing would work, but I'm gonna be
     honest, I didn't want to re-read it to break it up because I had
     almost cried while writing this and I didn't want to experience that
     again. So, I just broke it up into two big chunks. I edited the best
     I could for grammar, but if there were any serious things wrong just
     tell me.
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