fic: A Thousand Small Cruelties

[aenissesthai]

Fandom: Supernatural
Title: A Thousand Small Cruelties (2/4)
Genre: fic: gen, strong friendship, gentle hints of pre-slash 
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Sam, Bobby
Rating: PG-16 for language
Spoiler warning: Spoilers for Season 5, in particular Episode 4 (The End) and Episode 10 (Abandon All Hope)
Warnings: harsh language
Author note: I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.
Word Count: Chapter 2: 4050
Disclaimer: All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

Additional Note: Once again, one of my stories has grown past my expectations; thus, instead of consisting of two chapters, "A Thousand Small Cruelties" has expanded to three. Thanks for reading, and sorry for the "interlude-like" feel of this chapter. The final chapter will be posted next week.

Summary: Christmas Eve. Dean is troubled by Castiel’s recent aloofness-and he knows who is to blame.


Chapter 2.

Castiel sits with one of Bobby’s old texts balanced on his knees as he uses a cinnamon stick to poke suspiciously at the mound of whipped cream floating on top of his cider.

“Yeah, mix it in like that, Cas. Then you know what’s good? Drinking it through the cinnamon stick like a straw, but don’t do that just yet. I think it’s still too hot.” Dean is not hovering, not really; he just doesn’t want Castiel to burn his mouth and decide that hot cider sucks. ‘Cause apple cider is awesome.

There’s a snort from the direction of the kitchen. Dean sighs and goes over to deal with his brother. Gotta nip this shit in the bud.

Sure enough, Sam’s standing just out of Castiel’s line of sight, wearing Concerned Bitchface No. 52, but Dean can see the smartass smirk lurking around he edges. “Got a problem, Sammy?”

“Not me. It’s you-you forgot this.” Sam brandishes a teaspoon. “For spoonfeeding your angel. Give me a moment, and I’ll find you a burp cloth.”

“Fuck you, bitch. You’re the one who was griping just an hour ago that I was a dick to Cas. Now that I’m being nicer to him, you’ve got your princess panties all bunched up around your neck.”

“Look, Dean, most human behavior falls into this thing called a continuum. Normal people would’ve started out with a little more consideration, maybe even friendliness. Not you, though: you jump straight from being a dick to creepy angel-stalking, stopping just short of inappropriate touches-er, there hasn’t been any inappropriate touching yet, has there?”

“Laugh it up, asswipe. Glad to see you’re enjoying this.” Dean scowls at Sam’s smirk, but there’s no real anger behind it. Maybe because for the first time in weeks, things feel a little more normal between him and Sam. Between him and the world.

“Oh, I’m having a party, but the question is, what about Cas? I think you’re making him uncomfortable.”

Dean leans back to glance into the living room. Castiel has dispensed with the cinnamon stick and is setting the mug on the side table, his tongue darting out to clean the whipped cream from his lip. He turns a page and frowns slightly at the text. Dean stares, mesmerized for a moment, before he remembers that Sam is watching him watch Cas.

“Shut up,” he warns, flushing. “Cas is fine; I’m fine; you’re mental, but we all were told decades ago to treat you like a norm, so fa-la-la-la-la yourself, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam replies amiably, and there’s a brief slap fight between them before Bobby rolls in, clipping their ankles with his wheels.

“Idjits,” Bobby growls around their yelps of pain. “Either one of you princesses thought about starting dinner, or didja think you’d just bring groceries and leave me to do all the work?” He glares as they hang their heads and shuffle their feet. “That’s what I thought. Dean, light the stove and pull that damn turkey-with-gravy crap outta the freezer. Looks like cat food, but since you boys brought it, you better cook it. Sam, get the pot out and start the instant mashed potatoes-don’t give me that stupid look, boy! If you can put together a damn summoning spell, you can follow the directions on a box of potatoes! Chuckleheads.”

Dean hides his smile as he crouches down and touches his lighter flame to the pilot light. Bobby sounds like his normal crotchety self, which is a damn sight better than the deadness in his eyes and voice earlier today. All-in-all, this is shaping up to be the best Christmas Dean has had in years, if not ever. It might also be his last Christmas, but he refuses to let that drag him down. In his experience, last Christmases can be pretty damn cool.

Thinking back, he automatically reaches for the amulet around his neck and is slightly startled, as always, when it isn’t there. His mind jumps to Castiel and his God-quest and-

“Where the hell d’ya think you’re going?” Bobby brandishes a can of jellied cranberry sauce at Dean. “Don’t think you’re getting out of your share of the work here.”

“Just gonna check on Cas real quick. We’ve been ignoring him, and I want to make sure he hasn’t-“ Dean flutters his fingers.

“Carrying on like a hen with one chick, ya damn fool. Stay put; I’ll get your angel for you.” Bobby wheels himself to the doorway, making Dean dodge out of his way, and raises his voice above Sam’s guffaw. “Hey, Wings! Getcher ass in here and help out!” He glares in the direction of his living room. “If that angel’s spilled anything on my books, I swear I’ll-“

“I haven’t.”

Castiel’s voice comes from behind them, where he’s now watching Sam put water in a battered metal measuring cup. Sam startles and drops the cup in the sink, while Bobby flinches in his seat, muttering imprecations under his breath. Dean grins, tickled to see someone else freaked out by Castiel’s habit of popping up in unexpected places.

Bobby recovers quickly, however, wheeling aggressively toward Castiel and aiming directly, Dean swears, for the toes of his polished black shoes. He almost calls out a warning, but it’s too late: Bobby’s wheelchair fetches up against the sink cabinet with a firm thump, and Castiel’s shoes-

-are a safe two inches away from the wheels. Hmph. Dean didn’t see Castiel move, and apparently, neither did Bobby. Bobby doesn’t miss a beat, though, shoving the can of cranberry sauce and a manual can-opener against the midsection of the trench coat. “Get cooking, boy.”

Castiel stares down at the unfamiliar objects in his hands. “Angels don’t cook.”

“Rebel angels who spend Christmas with decrepit old hunters and idjit young hunters do. So get cracking, and no more backtalk.”

Only Bobby could treat a multimillennia-old Warrior of God like a juvenile delinquent, Dean reflects. Well, Bobby and himself, to be honest. In fact, the only one here who has treated Castiel with anything close to respect is Sam, who was probably inspired by the whole “smite you into your next life” attitude.

Right now, however, the only thing that Castiel looks as if he might smite is the canned cranberry sauce. Dean takes a step forward to show him how to operate the can opener but is stopped in his tracks by a glare from Bobby.

Castiel studies the can opener with the same rapt attention he gives to ancient texts. Lifting it up to eye level, he sights along it as if it were the barrel of a gun-then slams it down exactly on the edge of the can, spinning the crank with two fingers and sending the can into a rapid rotation until the lid pops free. He inverts the can into a bowl, applies the opener to the bottom, and removes that lid as well before pulling the can up with a quick flick of his wrist. A ruby-red cylinder of cranberry sauce stands quivering in the exact center of the bowl.

Silence.

“Show-off,” Bobby mutters at last, reversing his wheelchair and once again failing to run over Castiel’s shoes despite his best efforts. “Dinner better be ready in an hour!”

/-/-/
Dean stretches his legs out in front of him with a sigh. Life is good at the moment-and yeah, maybe only for this moment, but he’s learned through hard experience to savor these brief time-outs from the Apocalyptic shitstorm. Dinner was pretty good, even if it wasn’t anything Martha Stewart would’ve moistened her silkies over. Contrary to Bobby’s dire predictions, the turkey slices had turned out surprisingly tasty. Cas had whipped the sodden mess of instant mashed potatoes into light fluffiness, and Sam’s prissy addition of steamed asparagus had been rescued from hopeless wholesomeness by dumping a big hunk of butter on it. (“You just ruined the one healthy dish we had, Dean!” “Hey, loosen up, Samantha. Vitamins’re still gonna be there under the butter.”)

Adding even more to the evening’s enjoyment is the entertaining spectacle of Sam trying to decorate a small live tree with ancient Christmas lights he’s found in Bobby’s attic. Sam is assisted by Castiel, whose role appears to be observing closely as Sam keeps shocking himself with wires that end up exposed when the cracked insulation flakes off.

“Ow! Goddamn-I mean, goshdarn it! Shut up, Dean, this isn’t funny!”

“Nah, it’s not funny; it’s freaking hilarious!”

“Hey, if you think you can do a better job-”

Castiel picks up two strings of lights, examining them closely. “I believe I’ve located the problem.”

“No, Cas, don’t touch those wires together!”

Too late. A fountain of gold and green sparks shoots up from Castiel’s hands, and the entire house immediately plunges into darkness, accompanied by the acrid scent of overheated metal.

“We under attack, boys?” Bobby shouts from the back room.

“No, Bobby, it’s just us and the Christmas lights-I think we blew a fuse.”

That’s all that’s needed for Bobby to let out a string of expletives expounding on the relative IQs of idiot Winchester boys and their crackpot angel companions.

Dean would be amused under normal circumstances, but he has more immediate concerns. “Cas! Cas, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” The low voice is a lot closer than Dean expected, and he jumps a little. “However, my fingers have a strange smell.”

“You probably burned them, you dummy. Here, let me get some ointment from my kit, just as soon as I find the flashlight.”

“It doesn’t matter, Dean. They will heal soon enough.”

Another voice joins in from across the room. “How about Sam? Is Sam all right? Yeah, Dean, thanks for asking. Nice to know my brother’s so worried about my fate.”

“Ah, stop your bitching, princess; I could tell from your emo breathing that you were okay.”

“Emo this, jerk.” A large light spins towards him, winking in and out as it rotates through the darkness, but Dean has Winchester reflexes, so he easily snatches the flashlight from midair. “Your turn to replace the fuses,” Sam finishes smugly.

Dean opens his mouth to argue in their usual way, but for once his brain kicks in first, and he thinks, yeah, he really doesn’t want to send Sam down to the fuse box, which is located right next to the safe room. “All right, bitch, but then you gotta do this: go out to the Impala and get a roll of electrical tape from her trunk. That’s the way smart people deal with cracked wires, college boy.” Ignoring Sam’s muttered insults, he tugs at Castiel’s sleeve. “C’mon, Cas, it’s time you learned to change a fuse.”

The lesson takes less than five minutes, mostly due to Bobby’s habit of leaving replacement fuses taped to the inside of the box with small, neat labels indicating which fuses go where. Contrary to its surface chaos, Bobby’s house is, in reality, as carefully catalogued as a university library. In fact, university libraries could use someone as knowledgeable and organized as Bobby Singer, although the thought of the old hunter in his trucker’s cap sitting behind a circulation desk while calling all the students “idjits” makes Dean smirk.

“Okay, Cas, flick the wall switch, and let’s see how it goes.” He points the flashlight beam at the nearest light switch. Castiel does as requested, and the overhead lights come on, illuminating all the dark corners of the basement.

“Excellent work,” Castiel approves, and Dean grins, because yeah, mark down ‘changing fuses’ as yet another thing he’s awesome at.

Sam’s heavy footsteps creak on the floorboards overhead, Castiel turns toward the basement steps, and Dean is suddenly reminded of something he sucks at, something he really doesn’t want to do. But he’d promised himself earlier tonight that the moment he got some time alone with Cas, he was gonna suck it up and apologize for the way he’d treated him-and it looks like now is his only chance.

“Hey, Cas, wait a minute. I wanted to talk to you…” The words stick in his throat, and he swallows hard.

“About the deaths of Joanna and Ellen Harvelle,” Castiel finishes.

Dean pauses, reminded firmly that however naïve Castiel may be about certain human customs, he’s far from stupid-in fact, he’s sharp and intuitive on a scale that far surpasses almost anyone Dean’s ever known, and that includes Sam.

“Yeah, about that,” he replies huskily. “Cas, I wanted to say-”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel has turned so that he’s face-to-face with Dean, and there’s something in his expression that’s fierce and fearful at the same time. Dean stares at him, thrown by the emotion in his face, and for once, Castiel is the first to look away.

“In my previous life, my existence was guided by orders.” He glances at the safe room door, then quickly looks away, ending up staring down at his shoes. “My fellow soldiers and I felt joy when we succeeded, sorrow when we lost a brother or sister to battle. But we never felt-Orders came from Heaven, which made them just. Made us just.” He pauses as if searching for the right words.

“Cas, no, listen, I gotta tell you-”

“Dean.”

It’s only a single word, but Dean hears Castiel’s unspoken command, and shuts up.

Castiel licks his lips before continuing, one hand clenched around the edge of his trench coat. “Now I make my own choices. At times, wrong choices. I’ve learned to feel regret for my actions.” He finally lifts his eyes and meets Dean’s gaze directly, his words heavy, weighted with sorrow. “I shouldn’t have left them. Had I remained with Ellen and Joanna, they might still be alive. I offer my apologies, for what they’re worth.” Very softly. “For what little they’re worth.”

Anger lances through Dean like lightning, and he curls his hands into fists to keep from grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattle. He knows the only thing that would achieve is bruised hands for himself, but the idea is still tempting, so he deals by lashing out in his usual way. “I’ve never heard such complete and utter bullshit in my life!”

Castiel straightens and turns away to glare at the basement stairs, his jaw tight-and damn it, Dean rages, if this isn’t a fucking replay of five weeks ago, and fuck, fuck, fuck, but he’s fucking this up again, and the pressure’s building in his head and in his ears-

He leaps forward and grabs Castiel by both lapels. “Don’t you dare disappear on me, goddamnit! And look at me when I’m talking to you! Your apologies aren’t worth shit, because you have nothing to apologize for! When are you gonna get it through your thick angel skull that none of this is your fault? And yeah, I get it: I was the one who threw that crap at you in the first place, but you oughta know by now when I’m talking shit! Goddamnit, Cas, can’t you see? Lucifer killed Jo and Ellen, Lucifer and Meg and the fucking hellhounds!” And me, maybe, because I was the one who took them there in the first place, with one crappy plan and no exit strategy.

This isn’t the point he’s trying to make, so he takes a deep breath, keeping his death grip on Castiel’s lapels as if he can keep an angel from flying away with the strength of his hands alone. “You gotta listen to me. This is the way Lucifer works: he does his evil shit and kills the ones we care about, but he doesn’t stop there. He makes us feel lost and alone and inadequate, so we turn on each other and cut ourselves off. We finish the job for him-and we can’t afford to do that. We can’t let him win. At least not this way.”

“I’ve known of Lucifer and his strategies much longer than you, Dean; you don’t need to explain him to me.”

Dean lets go of Castiel’s lapels, relieved now that the angel is talking to him again. “Okay, fine. Then stop playing into his hands by taking responsibility for his crap. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to listen to you taking the blame for events you had no control over?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t think you do; otherwise you wouldn’t keep doing it! Honestly, if I have to listen to one more, ‘I’m sorry for all the bad things I couldn’t prevent, ‘cause I’m somehow responsible for the shit every evil bastard is out there wreaking on the world’, I think I might scream.”

“I understand.”

There’s something in Castiel’s reply, almost pointed in his tone…Dean stops and looks hard at him, at the apparently guileless blue gaze with just the slightest lift of one eyebrow. “Oh, no, you sneaky sonofabitch, we are not talking about me! This is about you and your problems with perspective, with-” and Dean knows he’s blustering and should just shut up, but really, he’s got to set Cas straight.

However, that’s hard to do when Castiel moves right up into his face, barely a hands-breadth between their noses (proving once and for all that Dean’s lectures on personal space mean fuck-all to the angel) until the only thing Dean can see is that intense stare boring into him, through him. “I’ve lost many of my abilities, but I can still see into you.”

Dean realizes he’s holding his breath, just as he had that long-ago night when Castiel had frightened him so badly with threats of throwing him back into Hell. Now it seems laughable that Dean had believed him; it’s been a long time since he was scared of Castiel in that way, so why is his heart pounding so hard?

Castiel’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch. “I see your pain, your guilt…and I feel the same reflected in me. If you are responsible for Lucifer’s actions, then I am even moreso. If I’m not responsible, then neither are you.”

“It’s not that simple, Cas.” Why the hell does his voice sound so small, so choked? “I’m the one who broke the first seal, remember?”

“And I’m the one who was sent to retrieve you before you could do so. Two full garrisons of angels, powerful beyond anything Hell had seen in millennia, yet I never once questioned how we could lose so many of us, how the demons knew to set up ambushes and wards against our surprise attack. Now I am filled with doubt. Were we betrayed to Lilith? Was it Uriel, my brother who fought beside me? Was it Zachariah? All I know for certain is that it took us twice as long as expected to reach you, for which you paid in agony and blood, and the world in the breaking of the first seal.”

Dean remains silent, because it’s too much to wrap his mind around: the battle between angels and demons in the bowels of Hell for the possession of his miserable soul. He thinks of Castiel trapped down there, caught between his orders and death, fighting, fighting, and for what? Did Castiel suspect that the one whom he ‘gripped tight and raised from perdition’ would repay that act by getting him cast out from everything he’d ever known?

“Stop it.” Castiel is still up in his face, but this time with added ‘I will smite thee’ in his eyes. “You’re right; self-recrimination is highly annoying to listen to.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, try listening to your own silent treatment some time!” and okay, that statement made absolutely no sense, but Dean’s not about to stop now that they’re clearing the air between them.

It’s weird, but the air really does feel clearer in his lungs, as if some constricting band around his chest is loosening, as if some magical mojo is working inside him, soothing him…He narrows his eyes at Cas, who looks wholly innocent as he steps back out of Dean’s personal space. “Yeah, now I know for certain. The annoying one is definitely you.”

“No, you.”

Dean blinks. “Dude, did you just seriously-Sam taught you to say that, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s eyes are tilted up in his “Aren’t I a sneaky angel?” expression, and Dean feels like grabbing him and-

--shaking that silly expression off his face. Yeah, shaking him, that’s what he was thinking. Hm.

The upshot is that things seem good again between him and Castiel. However, he’s well aware that Castiel let him off the hook far too easily, and that’s not necessarily a good thing. If there’s anything Dean knows, it’s his own shortcomings. He can shoot off his mouth in hurtful ways, and it’d be nice if Cas could help him out by stopping him before he goes too far. A thought occurs to him. “Do you know the biggest difference between you and Sam?”

Castiel crinkles his nose slightly. “That he is human and I’m an angel?”

“No! I mean, yeah, all right, technically it’s the biggest difference, but that’s not my point. It’s your behavior. When I start doing shit like lashing out the way I did after Carthage, instead of taking it, Sam calls me on it.”

“He phones you.”

Dean rubs three fingers against his brow and forces a patient tone. “No, he tells me to my face that I’m being a dick. You need to learn to do that whenever I’m unfair to you.”

Castiel tilts his head just the slightest bit and parts his lips, and fuck if Dean doesn’t feel this weird contraction in his chest, warm somehow, and-all right, now he’s getting so chick-like that he’s about to sprout boobs, so he’d better say something fast. “Say it, Cas. Say, ‘Dean, you’re being a dick.’”

More head tilt. “But you’re not.”

“I know, but this is practice. Try it. ‘Dean, you’re being a dick.’ C’mon, you can do it.”

“I don’t need to practice.”

“Yes, you do. Say it! Say-”

“Dean, you’re being a total dick.” Sam is standing at the top of the stairs. “Now stop being a dick and let poor Cas out of the basement; Christmas Eve is almost over, and I’m going to bed. We’re all going to bed…except maybe Cas.” He looks uncertain. “Not that you can’t go to bed, Cas; I’m not sure if you need to sleep, but you’re welcome to stay and if you want to go to bed, you can use mine, and I’ll-”

“I don’t believe it. My brother is propositioning an angel of the Lord on Christmas Eve.”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam is making Bitchface No. 12, which is one of Dean’s favorites, so this is turning out to be a pretty awesome Christmas already.

“Hey, I’m just trying to save your ass. I don’t particularly want to wake up on Christmas morning to find out my little brother got married to my angel during the night-“ and oh shit, he’s done it now. Sam’s smirking at full force, and he’s probably gonna run straight upstairs and write in his pink diary with the heart-shaped lock, ‘Nyah, nyah, Dean called Cas his angel’, then send Dean a reminder every week with flowers doodled all over it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of stealing from my brother,” Sam says in his earnest voice, ignoring Dean’s upraised middle finger. “Have fun, you two,” and leaves, parting shot accomplished.

Dean sneaks a peek at Castiel who, unsurprisingly, looks as if his angel Babelfish had just presented him with “My saxophone is velvet at your unicorn,” and he’s wondering which words, if any, are correct, and if the overall meaning is something dirty.

“Come on, Cas, let’s go upstairs. And pay no attention to the idiot who’s related to me.”

/-/-/
To be continued
/-/-/

Previous: Chapter One.  aenissesthai.livejournal.com/8149.html#cutid1

Next:  Chapter Three.  aenissesthai.livejournal.com/8593.html#cutid1