Supernatural Fic: Trials Borne Since Becoming Grown
Title: Trials Borne Since Becoming Grown
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. These characters belong to Erik Kripke and the various production crews.
Pairing: Castiel and Dean (pre-slash), John
Word Count: 4,844
Notes: Written for deancastiel's Renegade Angels fic exchange. I was a pinch hitter, but it turns out the original author showed back up. Ergo, I'm posting this here in my own journal. The prompt and recipient are at the end of the fic.
Castiel stood, still and silent over the bed. The figure sleeping in it brought a rare and careful smile to his lips. He was such a beautiful child. Overly long blonde hair fell in swatches over his smooth, freckled face, and the tiny lips, pink and flush with a life so grand it almost made Castiel feel, were parted just enough to let an occasional whistle of air through as the child breathed the deep and unconcerned breath of innocence.
Squatting next to the bed, Castiel reached out and touched the child's forehead, brushing the hair clear of his face. "Dean," he whispered, so softly as not to disturb the boy's rest.
Dean snuffled a breath and turned over, his bright green eyes sparkling in the blue moonlight that filtered through the window. "Daddy?"
Castiel slid his hand back over Dean's face. "No," he said. Then, shortly, and with a quiet authority, "Sleep, Dean."
The green eyes closed again, and Dean hummed as he rolled over and curled his little three-year-old fists under his chin, quiet again. Castiel touched his forehead, "Sweet dreams, Dean."
He breathed a ragged, tired breath and stood again, keeping a vigil over the little one's bed. Quietly behind him, the floor boards creaked.
"Hello, John," he said, not bothering to turn around.
"You know, I've caught you in here a couple times now. I think, maybe it's time you tell me who you are."
Castiel turned his head, blue eyes fixed on the figure that leaned against the threshold of the bedroom. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
John nodded, cast his eyes over his son, checking on him, the corner of his lip curling in an indulgent, grateful smile. "Try me," he said, "you'd be surprised at what I would believe."
At that, and the heavy eyebrow lifted in his direction, Castiel turned and faced John Winchester fully. "I'm an angel of the Lord."
John took a couple of breaths and straightened from his casual lean on the door jamb. As he passed Castiel on his way to Dean's bedside, he gave a brief smile, there and gone in a second. "Knew it had to be something like that. So what? My son's got some heavenly mission?"
His questions surprised Castiel. "Yes," he said, stunned.
"Figures," John said, and swiped his hand through Dean's hair, grabbing a strand and rubbing it gently between the pads of his fingers. "Mary, my wife," he whispered, his lips curving again in a private smile, "she's always telling Dean...he won't go to sleep sometimes. Cries and cries, and swears up and down that something's going to get him. Sometimes, more often lately now that Mary's pregnant, it's impossible to get him to even lie down. He's got to be near her, got to have his hand on her belly. 'I'm gonna perteck him' he says. And then refuses to go to bed. Mary gets tired, but Dean won't let her out of his sight. So she says, as she tucks him in, shoving sheets up under him to make him snug, 'Dean,' she says, 'I know, as long as you're around nothing bad's gonna happen to Sam. But you have to sleep to be a good big brother. Don't you worry, Dean,' she says, 'god's got his angels watching over all of us.'" John turned back to Castiel, question in his eyes that Castiel couldn't decipher, let alone fathom an answer.
"She is not wrong," is all he can say.
"Mary always tells me that Dean's special. And that Sam is special too. That's the new baby's name, Sam. And I tell her I know. But she always looks at me like I don't get it."
Castiel sighed. "It's very likely that you do not."
"Well, whatever," John said and turned back to watch Dean sleeping. "I love my kids. Even the one that's not here yet. I know they'll be special, even if they're just ordinary guys. Like me."
Castile almost laughed at that. "They are both far from ordinary, John."
John frowned. "Are?" he asked. "Don't you mean 'will be'?"
"There is much you don't understand. Much I can not tell you. But trust this John Winchester. Your sons are the world's hope," Castiel laid a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. He stared again at the sleeping Dean, and what little heart he'd grown, being in the presence of humans for such an extended period of time, beat hard against his ribs in fear for the child before him. He blinked, took a breath and spoke words he knew he shouldn't but couldn't help. "Very soon, the world you know is going to change-as it always does. Be mindful of destiny, John, and teach your sons to respect the world they do not see." And with a flutter of invisible wings, left the father to keep silent, careful vigil over the son.
***
John sat hunched in the booth, hands curved gracefully around the tumbler in front of him, fingers pushing down drops of condensation from the ice that rattled in the glass every time he raised it to his lips to fake a sip. The bottle of Jack Daniel's finest sat half empty in the middle of the table. He liked to keep his wits about him on a hunt, so the missing whiskey had mostly gone to other patrons of the seedy dive. Poor guys whose last pennies had long since been spent, but hadn't bought enough coverage for their sorrows. John was willing to subsidize. Sometimes sorrows just needed to be drowned in the cool amber liquid, and who was he to begrudge the need in others?
He kept a sharp eye on the bartender. She was beautiful, with long dark hair and shadowed dark eyes, body lithe in a way that was so different from anything Mary had been. Full ample curves that beckoned a man's touch, a man's infidelity. She was sin incarnate, and that was why John watched her. She had information he needed, and since he was a patient mother fucker when the situation warranted, he'd been sitting in the same booth for over four hours, waiting for the right moment to corner her.
He slid one hand off the table, resting it surreptitiously on his thigh, thumb ghosting over the rounded bulge of the rosary beads in his pocket. The bartender glanced his way, flashed her ten thousand watt smile in his direction. John smiled back, and shuddered inside at the lascivious light that gleamed in her eyes. He watched her serve the last of the patrons and wipe down the bar, then she hopped up onto the bar and swiveled her long legs over to hop down and make her way over to John's table. He tracked the sway of her hips, the slight bounce of her breast and thought to himself that whatever evil son of a bitch that had hitched a ride in her body got one hell of a deal.
She slowed to a stop at the edge of his table and leaned over, her cleavage almost spilling out of the skin tight red t-shirt she wore. "Hey, sugar. What can I get you?"
John met her eyes. "Nothing," he said, his voice rough and unused. Then he pointed at the half empty bottle. "Got what I need right here."
She lifted a perfectly groomed brow, and quirked a smile. "You sure?" she asked, standing up and canting a hip.
John made a show of eyeballing her, making his gaze a tangible thing as he traced over her curves and leered at her. "Maybe later?" he asked, keeping his eyes on her breasts. She really was an attractive woman.
She winked at him. "You just let me know, cowboy," she said and sauntered away from the table, hips swaying with every step.
John nodded. "Count on it."
The air around him fluttered silently.
"What are you doing here?" John asked not bothering to look up at the figure standing beside the table.
"You've left Dean alone again." The angel said.
"Yeah. I do that a lot. He's a big boy; I think he can handle it," John says, and pours himself a finger of whiskey, then chugs it down with a sucked in breath at the burn in his throat.
"He can. More than you know." Castiel slides easily into the booth, and John squints his eyes at the easy grace that the angel has.
John slams the glass back down on the table, "So why the hell are you here? If my son is so damned capable, what's he need an angel following him around for? And do you even have a name? It occurs to me that I've been calling you 'the angel' for the better part of 20 years, and I'd really like something other than 'the angel' to call you."
The angel's eyes slide over the bar, slick in their observance, but John didn't doubt for a minute that he missed any detail of either the bar or the clientele. "You may call me..."
"Ishmael?"
The angel frowned, then said, "No. Castiel."
"Well, alright, Castiel. You just come to bust my chops about my boys?"
"You do them a great disservice, John."
John sniffed and poured another shot of whiskey and offered it to Castiel who simply stared at him. "What disservice is that?"
"You're their father," Castiel said, and John winced at the reverence in the word.
He knew he was a shitty father. Had been since that night he'd watched his wife burn, stuck on the ceiling of his son's room. The people he'd met on his mission, the ones he'd trusted enough to keep Sam and Dean, the one's he'd learned so much from often called him obsessive. But they'd said it knowingly, like it was to be expected. And every time there'd been the thread of regret hanging in their words, regret for the fact that he did have two very young boys to take care of.
Even worse was the disappointment. Other hunters looking at him like he'd done the entirely wrong thing, bringing his boys along. Hunting isn't a life for two sons. He knew that. Still, he'd taken them on the road with him; their home the backseat of a 30 year old car, because he couldn't bear to leave them with anyone else. They were his boys. Mary's children. They were beautiful and perfect, and he'd be damned if he ever gave them up.
He knew that whatever had killed Mary wouldn't stop until it had Sam and Dean too. No way was he letting that happen. Nothing was ever going to take anyone he loved away from him again. And if that meant he had to carry Sam and Dean with him on this mission, then that's what he'd do.
Shrugging off the guilt, he swallowed the shot that Castiel had turned down. Then he said, "And how exactly can I change what our life is like. You know, you have to know, what happened. I can't just..." He took a deep breath and scanned the bar's crowd again. "I can't just let that go."
"I know."
John frowned at those quiet words, full of shared regret. "Then what Castiel? What am I supposed to do?" He turned the tumbler in his hand, watching the last drop of amber liquid run along the bend in the glass. Chasing itself around the circle of the bottom. "I can't leave them behind. They're as much a part of me as Mary was. As she still is. They're mine, Castiel. I'm not letting them go. I...I love 'em too much."
"Sam's leaving," Castiel said, his eyes a clear, level blue, regarding John as though testing him.
"Yeah. He seems to think so," John said, setting the glass down hard on the table and leaning back in the booth. He can still hear his son yelling at him that he was going to do this and there was nothing John could do to stop him. It hurt, echoing in his head like thunder. But even worse is the sound of his own voice telling his son, his baby boy, that if he walked out that door that he shouldn't ever bother coming back, and the echoing slam of the hotel door as John left.
He slammed his eyes shut, shaking himself out of the memory to pick up what Castiel was saying to him.
"No. He's leaving right now. Dean is trying to stop him, but your Sam is determined. There is only one thing that will stop him."
"Yeah," John asked, "what's that?"
"You."
"Sammy and I...Castiel, we are what we are. He's a stubborn kid. He wants what he wants for the moment. He'll figure out college isn't for him and he'll be back." John said, and he was pretty sure he sounded confident in his reasoning, until Castiel looked him in the eye. Then he knew the statement for the lie it was. He cleared his throat. "Sammy never liked this life. Isn't cut out for it. He's too much his mother's son," he said, then frowned at the quick smirk that tugged at Castiel's mouth.
He shook his head. "Anyway, Sammy's gonna do what Sammy's gonna do. Nothing I can do to stop him."
"That is not exactly true."
"Just...will you be around? Like Mary said? Will you watch over him?"
At that Castiel frowned. "I'm afraid Sam is not my...responsibility."
"But you can still...I don't know...check in on him...from time to time?"
"No."
"That's pretty goddamn blunt." John said, angry now. "Why not?"
"I have other charges. Sam will be watched, just...not by me."
John sighed. "Can you at least tell him I love him. That I didn't really mean what I said earlier?"
"No. He will not hear that from me. These are words only you can say for yourself."
John made a dry and humorless sound, less like a chuckle than a choked off huff of despair. "Believe me, he wouldn't hear it from me either."
"Go home, John. Go to your son."
John looked at him. "You mean sons."
Castiel shook his head. "No, I mean son. Sam is gone. Dean just dropped him off and is now alone."
"Sam's gone?"
"Yes. And if you don't go soon, you'll lose Dean. He..." Castiel looked down at the table, lips pursed.
John stared at him a moment, wondering why this angel, this messenger, looked so concerned about his son. What was the connection? "He what?"
"Dean...doesn't do well on his own. He is..." Castiel continued to stare at the water rings and cigarette burns on the table's surface, and for the first time since John had known him, the angel struggled to find the words. "Both of your sons, John, have destinies. Dean's is...a lonely one. And until the time comes for him to embrace it, he needs someone to connect to. For now, that someone has to be you."
John shuddered. "That someone has always been Sammy."
Castiel nodded. "I know. And it will be again, but right now, you are all that he has left in the world." He looked up at John again, eyes imploring. "Go home, John." And it was more than a request. More than an observation.
Before he could even think, John had wrapped his hand around his journal, reaching to tuck it into his jacket pocket. "What about...?" he inclined his head toward the bar.
Castiel actually smiled. "She will be taken care of."
"Okay," John said, and slid out of the booth. Before he left, he tapped the table to garner Castiel's attention one last time. "One thing about destinies, Castiel"
"Yes?"
John chuckled. "The Winchesters have never been good about being obedient to forces beyond our control. If Dean or Sammy don't agree with what fate has in store for them, then they'll make their own way. Destiny be damned."
If he'd thought to startle Castiel, or shock him, it didn't work. Castiel just quirked another of those secretive grins and said, "Here is hoping you are right, John. If there is one thing I have learned, it's the stubbornness of the Winchester brothers."
"Well alright, then. I guess I'll see you around."
"Good-bye, John."
***
Dean slept fitfully, twitching in his sleep, moaning as though in pain every few seconds, then again in what sounded like pleasure. Once, Castiel had looked into what Dean dreamt about. Only once. He'd known, in words only what Dean had been through and done in Hell, and had, for the first time in a millennia, been curious. What he had seen of Dean's dreams reminded him why curiosity was not something to be indulged. Images of Dean covered in blood, both his and other souls', the sounds of torture and pleasure combined, the wretched and painful expressions on Dean's face as he was tortured, then the intense, almost sexual pleasure that rushed through him when he tortured had been enough for Castiel to pull away and leave Dean's memories to him.
He knew that if Dean were to heal, he was going to have to face the thing that had been done to him and the things he'd done. Knowing Dean, the difficulty would be in facing the doing. And Castiel also knew that Dean would never confide in him. He hoped that Sam would be safe enough for Dean to confide in, but the longer they continued to carry on like they were, the less possible it seemed that Dean would be telling Sam anything of his time in hell.
So until that time arrived, Castiel would keep watching Dean as he slept, and when the nightmares became to much, when they images threatened to break his charge, Castiel would brush his hand over Dean's forehead. He'd whisper, "Peace," and then sit next to Dean's sleep-warm body until the nightmares fled. Then Dean would wake up, and Castiel would be gone.
But this morning, the images fled on their own, and the transition from sleeping to awake was so subtle, that Castiel didn't see it. He had his hand on Dean's temple, fingers threading through the soft short hair there, and he smiled, remembering many midnight vigils over three-year-old Dean's bed. He glanced up to Dean's face, expecting to see the freckles and smooth skin of youth, but instead was pierced with vivid green eyes and an arched eyebrow.
"Well. This is new," Dean said, voice rough and soft with sleep. "You do this often?"
Castiel pulled his hand away from Dean. He couldn't lie to Dean, but the truth wasn't something he was particularly willing to share either, so he tried to keep silent. But Dean raised his eyebrows at him and said, "Well?" and he was compelled to speak.
"Yes."
Dean sat up slowly, letting the bed clothes fall away from his body. "You..." he frowned, "you've been keeping the nightmares at bay." It wasn't a question.
Again, despite his desire to remain silent, Castiel was compelled to tell the truth. "Yes."
Dean was silent for a few minutes, the myriad of emotions crossing over his face, and Castiel worried about which one he'd settle on. Finally, Dean gave a tight, resigned smile and said, "Well, thanks."
"You're welcome," came the automatic response.
Dean stood and stretched, arching his back and yawning, and Castiel stared at him. He wanted to touch Dean's skin. He looked warm and soft and there were red lines in his skin where the sheets had wrinkled beneath him as he slept, where the pillow had creased under his face, and Castiel wondered if those faint red lines would feel warmer than the rest of him.
Sometimes, he felt so cold here on earth, in this vessel that contained him, but didn't house him. He'd thought, when he'd pulled Dean from hell that he'd be able to reveal himself. But it proved impossible. Being trapped in a vessel, not in his true form, meant that everything he experienced was second hand. Nothing touched him. He touched nothing. If he did reach out and touch Dean, it would be with Jimmy Novak's hands, Jimmy Novak's skin. Castiel wouldn't feel anything, and there was a part of him that resented that.
"What?" Dean asked.
Castiel glanced up at him. "I don't understand."
"You're frowning so hard with that face that I think you're going to break it."
"It's nothing."
"Didn't look like nothing," Dean said sitting at the small table in the room.
"It is...inconsequential."
Dean shrugged. "Anything you say, man. I see Sammy's not here, as usual." He sighed. "What's on the agenda?"
Just then the door opened, and Sam came in, bearing coffee and several containers of what looked like breakfast. "You're up," he said, when he saw Dean seated at the table. Then he glanced around the room and saw Castiel sitting on the bed. "And you have company," he said, a smile forming slowly on his face.
"Hello, Sam," Castiel said, and returned Sam's smile with a brief one of his own.
"Yeah, woke up, and, uh, Cas was there."
Castiel wondered at the slow creeping flush that traveled over Dean's neck and face.
Sam chuckled. "Well, I have coffee and ah, food, if you want any." He glanced over at Castiel. "Sorry, Cas, I didn't know you'd be here or I'd have picked up something for you too."
Dean opened one of the containers, and sighed at whatever was in it. It smelled like some sort of meat and something sweet, and Dean said, "Sammy, you're my favorite brother, you know that?"
"He is your only brother, Dean," Castiel said, confused.
Sam laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too, jerk."
"Bitch," Dean said with a careful smile.
Castiel looked between them, still confused. Sam chuckled again. Then he stepped toward Dean. He put a hand on his shoulder and said, "I was going to wake you before I left," and Dean glanced up at him. A significant look passed between them, but Sam continued, "but it seemed...You looked...comfortable, and I know you like to sleep in when you can, so I let you sleep."
Dean swallowed the bite he'd been chewing. "Thanks, Sammy."
"You're welcome." And it seemed, again, like there were things being said that Castiel wasn't privy to. "I'm going to take a shower," Sam said and nodded at Castiel as he went into the bathroom.
The door snicked shut and a heavy silence descended in the room. Dean continued to eat, and Castiel continued to watch him. Eventually, Dean finished his breakfast, took the last sip of coffee and said, "I told Sam. About hell."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
Castiel nodded, understanding the silent discussion between the two brothers earlier. "That is...good to hear, Dean."
"I thought he'd be...I don't know, clingy and concerned and wanting to fix everything, but he just...he just listened and it was. It was good to tell somebody."
"And the nightmares are less troublesome."
"Yeah," Dean said, frowning. "How'd you know?"
"It was an invasion of your privacy."
"You peeked into my dreams?" Dean asked, incredulous.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To see if I could help." Castiel stood and walked to the table, to Dean. "And I could. So I did."
"Cas, that's a little creepy. No. On second thought, that's a lot creepy."
Castiel watched Dean's face go through his emotions. He smiled. Of all his charges over all his millennia, he finally had to admit that Dean was his favorite. "Your father loved you," he said, eyes wide when he recognized the words that he never, ever meant to utter in Dean's presence.
"What?" Dean asked, voice low and tight.
"You are my charge, Dean. Always have been. I've watched you since...since the beginning." Castiel knelt in front of him. "You were three the first time I met your father. You were sleeping, and I was standing by your bed. Your mother was pregnant with Sam and your father came in to check on you. Usually, I'd hear him and leave before he got there, but he was stealthy and I was...distracted."
"Distracted?"
"You were...beautiful."
"Sick, Cas."
Castiel glowered at him. "You still are beautiful. Dean. You have always been beautiful."
"Okay, first, you can't call me beautiful. I'm a sick, twisted mess of a man. A product of the hell my life was and the life that hell was for me. I can't be beautiful, and even if I could be, I wouldn't want to be." Dean said, almost angry.
Castiel placed a hand on Dean's knee and felt, with wonder and an inexplicable pleasure, the heat of Dean's skin. It wasn't filtered through anyone else. Castiel felt Dean.
"You can not help what you are, and nothing you experience is going to change it. You are beautiful. The part of you that lives beneath what you have cultivated here on earth is...Dean. It's a divine spark, and it's why God has plans for you. Why else would I be here?"
Dean stared down at Castiel's hand on his knee. His breath came in quick snatches and his eyes were wide. "You watched me as a kid. You knew my father, and you pulled me out of hell." He caught Castiel's eyes with his own. "And now you say I'm beautiful."
"Yes."
"After...after everything I've done," he whispered.
Castiel leaned forward, into Dean's space. "Especially after everything you've done." He smiled. "You think you're so bad, so unworthy, but everything you've done, every life you've taken, every soul you tore apart weighs on you, hurts you like nothing else. Anyone else in the world perhaps would have moved on, let go, died a little bit every day until there was nothing left, but you feel it all."
Dean stared into his eyes, breathing heavily now, and Castiel knew he felt laid bare. There was nothing so threatening to his charge than to be emotionally naked. Even with people he trusted. Angels he trusted. "And what makes you beautiful is that you choose to feel it and would every time. You would never let yourself get so cold, so distant that killing or hurting someone couldn't hurt you."
"Cas," Dean said.
"That is why our Father chose you."
"And if I don't want to be chosen?"
"All the more reason to be."
"That sucks," Dean said. "No choice."
Castiel chuckled. "You made your choice a long time ago, Dean. This is merely the consequence of it."
"Still."
"Still," Castiel said.
"So what is this horseshit about my dad?"
"Oh. Well. Your mother always told you there were angels watching over you, over Sam. That was me. And several times, your father and I crossed paths. He loved you, you and Sam. I told him once, the night Sam left for Stanford, that he should tell you - tell you both."
"Yeah, well, Dad was never big on the emotional displays," Dean said, a wry twist to his face.
"He was very stoic."
"To say the least," Dean said. "But I know why. Hunting isn't a life for kids. Yeah, we thought it was an adventure - new places, new people, now nightmares all the time. But I got older and saw the looks we got from people. Dad should have left us behind. No. He shouldn't have...I can't believe I'm actually going to say this."
"It's all right, Dean."
"He never should have started. Mom was dead, nothing could bring her back. He should have...he should have left it alone. Let us grow up normal, be a normal family."
Castiel shook his head.
Destiny had a way of creeping up on people. Castiel knew this, and while he could admire Dean making his own way, fighting his destiny and choosing a different path every chance he could, sometimes, God was going to have his say. Dean's path was laid out for him eons ago, yesterday, twenty-seven years ago, and in that moment when John Winchester met Mary Campbell.
"Dean," he said, "there's something you need to see."
~fin~
Notes: Now, I've played with the timeline a bit, having Dean fess up about his experience in hell BEFORE going back in time, but umm, I think that's okay. If not, then, I'm sorry.
Written for shadowbyrd from the following prompt: Castiel back in time, speaking with John (sometime season 1) about the boys (mainly Dean). Bonus points if you can include John asking him to tell the boys how much he loves them and Castiel pointing out he still has time and he should tell them himself.
I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. These characters belong to Erik Kripke and the various production crews.
Pairing: Castiel and Dean (pre-slash), John
Word Count: 4,844
Notes: Written for deancastiel's Renegade Angels fic exchange. I was a pinch hitter, but it turns out the original author showed back up. Ergo, I'm posting this here in my own journal. The prompt and recipient are at the end of the fic.
Castiel stood, still and silent over the bed. The figure sleeping in it brought a rare and careful smile to his lips. He was such a beautiful child. Overly long blonde hair fell in swatches over his smooth, freckled face, and the tiny lips, pink and flush with a life so grand it almost made Castiel feel, were parted just enough to let an occasional whistle of air through as the child breathed the deep and unconcerned breath of innocence.
Squatting next to the bed, Castiel reached out and touched the child's forehead, brushing the hair clear of his face. "Dean," he whispered, so softly as not to disturb the boy's rest.
Dean snuffled a breath and turned over, his bright green eyes sparkling in the blue moonlight that filtered through the window. "Daddy?"
Castiel slid his hand back over Dean's face. "No," he said. Then, shortly, and with a quiet authority, "Sleep, Dean."
The green eyes closed again, and Dean hummed as he rolled over and curled his little three-year-old fists under his chin, quiet again. Castiel touched his forehead, "Sweet dreams, Dean."
He breathed a ragged, tired breath and stood again, keeping a vigil over the little one's bed. Quietly behind him, the floor boards creaked.
"Hello, John," he said, not bothering to turn around.
"You know, I've caught you in here a couple times now. I think, maybe it's time you tell me who you are."
Castiel turned his head, blue eyes fixed on the figure that leaned against the threshold of the bedroom. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
John nodded, cast his eyes over his son, checking on him, the corner of his lip curling in an indulgent, grateful smile. "Try me," he said, "you'd be surprised at what I would believe."
At that, and the heavy eyebrow lifted in his direction, Castiel turned and faced John Winchester fully. "I'm an angel of the Lord."
John took a couple of breaths and straightened from his casual lean on the door jamb. As he passed Castiel on his way to Dean's bedside, he gave a brief smile, there and gone in a second. "Knew it had to be something like that. So what? My son's got some heavenly mission?"
His questions surprised Castiel. "Yes," he said, stunned.
"Figures," John said, and swiped his hand through Dean's hair, grabbing a strand and rubbing it gently between the pads of his fingers. "Mary, my wife," he whispered, his lips curving again in a private smile, "she's always telling Dean...he won't go to sleep sometimes. Cries and cries, and swears up and down that something's going to get him. Sometimes, more often lately now that Mary's pregnant, it's impossible to get him to even lie down. He's got to be near her, got to have his hand on her belly. 'I'm gonna perteck him' he says. And then refuses to go to bed. Mary gets tired, but Dean won't let her out of his sight. So she says, as she tucks him in, shoving sheets up under him to make him snug, 'Dean,' she says, 'I know, as long as you're around nothing bad's gonna happen to Sam. But you have to sleep to be a good big brother. Don't you worry, Dean,' she says, 'god's got his angels watching over all of us.'" John turned back to Castiel, question in his eyes that Castiel couldn't decipher, let alone fathom an answer.
"She is not wrong," is all he can say.
"Mary always tells me that Dean's special. And that Sam is special too. That's the new baby's name, Sam. And I tell her I know. But she always looks at me like I don't get it."
Castiel sighed. "It's very likely that you do not."
"Well, whatever," John said and turned back to watch Dean sleeping. "I love my kids. Even the one that's not here yet. I know they'll be special, even if they're just ordinary guys. Like me."
Castile almost laughed at that. "They are both far from ordinary, John."
John frowned. "Are?" he asked. "Don't you mean 'will be'?"
"There is much you don't understand. Much I can not tell you. But trust this John Winchester. Your sons are the world's hope," Castiel laid a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. He stared again at the sleeping Dean, and what little heart he'd grown, being in the presence of humans for such an extended period of time, beat hard against his ribs in fear for the child before him. He blinked, took a breath and spoke words he knew he shouldn't but couldn't help. "Very soon, the world you know is going to change-as it always does. Be mindful of destiny, John, and teach your sons to respect the world they do not see." And with a flutter of invisible wings, left the father to keep silent, careful vigil over the son.
***
John sat hunched in the booth, hands curved gracefully around the tumbler in front of him, fingers pushing down drops of condensation from the ice that rattled in the glass every time he raised it to his lips to fake a sip. The bottle of Jack Daniel's finest sat half empty in the middle of the table. He liked to keep his wits about him on a hunt, so the missing whiskey had mostly gone to other patrons of the seedy dive. Poor guys whose last pennies had long since been spent, but hadn't bought enough coverage for their sorrows. John was willing to subsidize. Sometimes sorrows just needed to be drowned in the cool amber liquid, and who was he to begrudge the need in others?
He kept a sharp eye on the bartender. She was beautiful, with long dark hair and shadowed dark eyes, body lithe in a way that was so different from anything Mary had been. Full ample curves that beckoned a man's touch, a man's infidelity. She was sin incarnate, and that was why John watched her. She had information he needed, and since he was a patient mother fucker when the situation warranted, he'd been sitting in the same booth for over four hours, waiting for the right moment to corner her.
He slid one hand off the table, resting it surreptitiously on his thigh, thumb ghosting over the rounded bulge of the rosary beads in his pocket. The bartender glanced his way, flashed her ten thousand watt smile in his direction. John smiled back, and shuddered inside at the lascivious light that gleamed in her eyes. He watched her serve the last of the patrons and wipe down the bar, then she hopped up onto the bar and swiveled her long legs over to hop down and make her way over to John's table. He tracked the sway of her hips, the slight bounce of her breast and thought to himself that whatever evil son of a bitch that had hitched a ride in her body got one hell of a deal.
She slowed to a stop at the edge of his table and leaned over, her cleavage almost spilling out of the skin tight red t-shirt she wore. "Hey, sugar. What can I get you?"
John met her eyes. "Nothing," he said, his voice rough and unused. Then he pointed at the half empty bottle. "Got what I need right here."
She lifted a perfectly groomed brow, and quirked a smile. "You sure?" she asked, standing up and canting a hip.
John made a show of eyeballing her, making his gaze a tangible thing as he traced over her curves and leered at her. "Maybe later?" he asked, keeping his eyes on her breasts. She really was an attractive woman.
She winked at him. "You just let me know, cowboy," she said and sauntered away from the table, hips swaying with every step.
John nodded. "Count on it."
The air around him fluttered silently.
"What are you doing here?" John asked not bothering to look up at the figure standing beside the table.
"You've left Dean alone again." The angel said.
"Yeah. I do that a lot. He's a big boy; I think he can handle it," John says, and pours himself a finger of whiskey, then chugs it down with a sucked in breath at the burn in his throat.
"He can. More than you know." Castiel slides easily into the booth, and John squints his eyes at the easy grace that the angel has.
John slams the glass back down on the table, "So why the hell are you here? If my son is so damned capable, what's he need an angel following him around for? And do you even have a name? It occurs to me that I've been calling you 'the angel' for the better part of 20 years, and I'd really like something other than 'the angel' to call you."
The angel's eyes slide over the bar, slick in their observance, but John didn't doubt for a minute that he missed any detail of either the bar or the clientele. "You may call me..."
"Ishmael?"
The angel frowned, then said, "No. Castiel."
"Well, alright, Castiel. You just come to bust my chops about my boys?"
"You do them a great disservice, John."
John sniffed and poured another shot of whiskey and offered it to Castiel who simply stared at him. "What disservice is that?"
"You're their father," Castiel said, and John winced at the reverence in the word.
He knew he was a shitty father. Had been since that night he'd watched his wife burn, stuck on the ceiling of his son's room. The people he'd met on his mission, the ones he'd trusted enough to keep Sam and Dean, the one's he'd learned so much from often called him obsessive. But they'd said it knowingly, like it was to be expected. And every time there'd been the thread of regret hanging in their words, regret for the fact that he did have two very young boys to take care of.
Even worse was the disappointment. Other hunters looking at him like he'd done the entirely wrong thing, bringing his boys along. Hunting isn't a life for two sons. He knew that. Still, he'd taken them on the road with him; their home the backseat of a 30 year old car, because he couldn't bear to leave them with anyone else. They were his boys. Mary's children. They were beautiful and perfect, and he'd be damned if he ever gave them up.
He knew that whatever had killed Mary wouldn't stop until it had Sam and Dean too. No way was he letting that happen. Nothing was ever going to take anyone he loved away from him again. And if that meant he had to carry Sam and Dean with him on this mission, then that's what he'd do.
Shrugging off the guilt, he swallowed the shot that Castiel had turned down. Then he said, "And how exactly can I change what our life is like. You know, you have to know, what happened. I can't just..." He took a deep breath and scanned the bar's crowd again. "I can't just let that go."
"I know."
John frowned at those quiet words, full of shared regret. "Then what Castiel? What am I supposed to do?" He turned the tumbler in his hand, watching the last drop of amber liquid run along the bend in the glass. Chasing itself around the circle of the bottom. "I can't leave them behind. They're as much a part of me as Mary was. As she still is. They're mine, Castiel. I'm not letting them go. I...I love 'em too much."
"Sam's leaving," Castiel said, his eyes a clear, level blue, regarding John as though testing him.
"Yeah. He seems to think so," John said, setting the glass down hard on the table and leaning back in the booth. He can still hear his son yelling at him that he was going to do this and there was nothing John could do to stop him. It hurt, echoing in his head like thunder. But even worse is the sound of his own voice telling his son, his baby boy, that if he walked out that door that he shouldn't ever bother coming back, and the echoing slam of the hotel door as John left.
He slammed his eyes shut, shaking himself out of the memory to pick up what Castiel was saying to him.
"No. He's leaving right now. Dean is trying to stop him, but your Sam is determined. There is only one thing that will stop him."
"Yeah," John asked, "what's that?"
"You."
"Sammy and I...Castiel, we are what we are. He's a stubborn kid. He wants what he wants for the moment. He'll figure out college isn't for him and he'll be back." John said, and he was pretty sure he sounded confident in his reasoning, until Castiel looked him in the eye. Then he knew the statement for the lie it was. He cleared his throat. "Sammy never liked this life. Isn't cut out for it. He's too much his mother's son," he said, then frowned at the quick smirk that tugged at Castiel's mouth.
He shook his head. "Anyway, Sammy's gonna do what Sammy's gonna do. Nothing I can do to stop him."
"That is not exactly true."
"Just...will you be around? Like Mary said? Will you watch over him?"
At that Castiel frowned. "I'm afraid Sam is not my...responsibility."
"But you can still...I don't know...check in on him...from time to time?"
"No."
"That's pretty goddamn blunt." John said, angry now. "Why not?"
"I have other charges. Sam will be watched, just...not by me."
John sighed. "Can you at least tell him I love him. That I didn't really mean what I said earlier?"
"No. He will not hear that from me. These are words only you can say for yourself."
John made a dry and humorless sound, less like a chuckle than a choked off huff of despair. "Believe me, he wouldn't hear it from me either."
"Go home, John. Go to your son."
John looked at him. "You mean sons."
Castiel shook his head. "No, I mean son. Sam is gone. Dean just dropped him off and is now alone."
"Sam's gone?"
"Yes. And if you don't go soon, you'll lose Dean. He..." Castiel looked down at the table, lips pursed.
John stared at him a moment, wondering why this angel, this messenger, looked so concerned about his son. What was the connection? "He what?"
"Dean...doesn't do well on his own. He is..." Castiel continued to stare at the water rings and cigarette burns on the table's surface, and for the first time since John had known him, the angel struggled to find the words. "Both of your sons, John, have destinies. Dean's is...a lonely one. And until the time comes for him to embrace it, he needs someone to connect to. For now, that someone has to be you."
John shuddered. "That someone has always been Sammy."
Castiel nodded. "I know. And it will be again, but right now, you are all that he has left in the world." He looked up at John again, eyes imploring. "Go home, John." And it was more than a request. More than an observation.
Before he could even think, John had wrapped his hand around his journal, reaching to tuck it into his jacket pocket. "What about...?" he inclined his head toward the bar.
Castiel actually smiled. "She will be taken care of."
"Okay," John said, and slid out of the booth. Before he left, he tapped the table to garner Castiel's attention one last time. "One thing about destinies, Castiel"
"Yes?"
John chuckled. "The Winchesters have never been good about being obedient to forces beyond our control. If Dean or Sammy don't agree with what fate has in store for them, then they'll make their own way. Destiny be damned."
If he'd thought to startle Castiel, or shock him, it didn't work. Castiel just quirked another of those secretive grins and said, "Here is hoping you are right, John. If there is one thing I have learned, it's the stubbornness of the Winchester brothers."
"Well alright, then. I guess I'll see you around."
"Good-bye, John."
***
Dean slept fitfully, twitching in his sleep, moaning as though in pain every few seconds, then again in what sounded like pleasure. Once, Castiel had looked into what Dean dreamt about. Only once. He'd known, in words only what Dean had been through and done in Hell, and had, for the first time in a millennia, been curious. What he had seen of Dean's dreams reminded him why curiosity was not something to be indulged. Images of Dean covered in blood, both his and other souls', the sounds of torture and pleasure combined, the wretched and painful expressions on Dean's face as he was tortured, then the intense, almost sexual pleasure that rushed through him when he tortured had been enough for Castiel to pull away and leave Dean's memories to him.
He knew that if Dean were to heal, he was going to have to face the thing that had been done to him and the things he'd done. Knowing Dean, the difficulty would be in facing the doing. And Castiel also knew that Dean would never confide in him. He hoped that Sam would be safe enough for Dean to confide in, but the longer they continued to carry on like they were, the less possible it seemed that Dean would be telling Sam anything of his time in hell.
So until that time arrived, Castiel would keep watching Dean as he slept, and when the nightmares became to much, when they images threatened to break his charge, Castiel would brush his hand over Dean's forehead. He'd whisper, "Peace," and then sit next to Dean's sleep-warm body until the nightmares fled. Then Dean would wake up, and Castiel would be gone.
But this morning, the images fled on their own, and the transition from sleeping to awake was so subtle, that Castiel didn't see it. He had his hand on Dean's temple, fingers threading through the soft short hair there, and he smiled, remembering many midnight vigils over three-year-old Dean's bed. He glanced up to Dean's face, expecting to see the freckles and smooth skin of youth, but instead was pierced with vivid green eyes and an arched eyebrow.
"Well. This is new," Dean said, voice rough and soft with sleep. "You do this often?"
Castiel pulled his hand away from Dean. He couldn't lie to Dean, but the truth wasn't something he was particularly willing to share either, so he tried to keep silent. But Dean raised his eyebrows at him and said, "Well?" and he was compelled to speak.
"Yes."
Dean sat up slowly, letting the bed clothes fall away from his body. "You..." he frowned, "you've been keeping the nightmares at bay." It wasn't a question.
Again, despite his desire to remain silent, Castiel was compelled to tell the truth. "Yes."
Dean was silent for a few minutes, the myriad of emotions crossing over his face, and Castiel worried about which one he'd settle on. Finally, Dean gave a tight, resigned smile and said, "Well, thanks."
"You're welcome," came the automatic response.
Dean stood and stretched, arching his back and yawning, and Castiel stared at him. He wanted to touch Dean's skin. He looked warm and soft and there were red lines in his skin where the sheets had wrinkled beneath him as he slept, where the pillow had creased under his face, and Castiel wondered if those faint red lines would feel warmer than the rest of him.
Sometimes, he felt so cold here on earth, in this vessel that contained him, but didn't house him. He'd thought, when he'd pulled Dean from hell that he'd be able to reveal himself. But it proved impossible. Being trapped in a vessel, not in his true form, meant that everything he experienced was second hand. Nothing touched him. He touched nothing. If he did reach out and touch Dean, it would be with Jimmy Novak's hands, Jimmy Novak's skin. Castiel wouldn't feel anything, and there was a part of him that resented that.
"What?" Dean asked.
Castiel glanced up at him. "I don't understand."
"You're frowning so hard with that face that I think you're going to break it."
"It's nothing."
"Didn't look like nothing," Dean said sitting at the small table in the room.
"It is...inconsequential."
Dean shrugged. "Anything you say, man. I see Sammy's not here, as usual." He sighed. "What's on the agenda?"
Just then the door opened, and Sam came in, bearing coffee and several containers of what looked like breakfast. "You're up," he said, when he saw Dean seated at the table. Then he glanced around the room and saw Castiel sitting on the bed. "And you have company," he said, a smile forming slowly on his face.
"Hello, Sam," Castiel said, and returned Sam's smile with a brief one of his own.
"Yeah, woke up, and, uh, Cas was there."
Castiel wondered at the slow creeping flush that traveled over Dean's neck and face.
Sam chuckled. "Well, I have coffee and ah, food, if you want any." He glanced over at Castiel. "Sorry, Cas, I didn't know you'd be here or I'd have picked up something for you too."
Dean opened one of the containers, and sighed at whatever was in it. It smelled like some sort of meat and something sweet, and Dean said, "Sammy, you're my favorite brother, you know that?"
"He is your only brother, Dean," Castiel said, confused.
Sam laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too, jerk."
"Bitch," Dean said with a careful smile.
Castiel looked between them, still confused. Sam chuckled again. Then he stepped toward Dean. He put a hand on his shoulder and said, "I was going to wake you before I left," and Dean glanced up at him. A significant look passed between them, but Sam continued, "but it seemed...You looked...comfortable, and I know you like to sleep in when you can, so I let you sleep."
Dean swallowed the bite he'd been chewing. "Thanks, Sammy."
"You're welcome." And it seemed, again, like there were things being said that Castiel wasn't privy to. "I'm going to take a shower," Sam said and nodded at Castiel as he went into the bathroom.
The door snicked shut and a heavy silence descended in the room. Dean continued to eat, and Castiel continued to watch him. Eventually, Dean finished his breakfast, took the last sip of coffee and said, "I told Sam. About hell."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
Castiel nodded, understanding the silent discussion between the two brothers earlier. "That is...good to hear, Dean."
"I thought he'd be...I don't know, clingy and concerned and wanting to fix everything, but he just...he just listened and it was. It was good to tell somebody."
"And the nightmares are less troublesome."
"Yeah," Dean said, frowning. "How'd you know?"
"It was an invasion of your privacy."
"You peeked into my dreams?" Dean asked, incredulous.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To see if I could help." Castiel stood and walked to the table, to Dean. "And I could. So I did."
"Cas, that's a little creepy. No. On second thought, that's a lot creepy."
Castiel watched Dean's face go through his emotions. He smiled. Of all his charges over all his millennia, he finally had to admit that Dean was his favorite. "Your father loved you," he said, eyes wide when he recognized the words that he never, ever meant to utter in Dean's presence.
"What?" Dean asked, voice low and tight.
"You are my charge, Dean. Always have been. I've watched you since...since the beginning." Castiel knelt in front of him. "You were three the first time I met your father. You were sleeping, and I was standing by your bed. Your mother was pregnant with Sam and your father came in to check on you. Usually, I'd hear him and leave before he got there, but he was stealthy and I was...distracted."
"Distracted?"
"You were...beautiful."
"Sick, Cas."
Castiel glowered at him. "You still are beautiful. Dean. You have always been beautiful."
"Okay, first, you can't call me beautiful. I'm a sick, twisted mess of a man. A product of the hell my life was and the life that hell was for me. I can't be beautiful, and even if I could be, I wouldn't want to be." Dean said, almost angry.
Castiel placed a hand on Dean's knee and felt, with wonder and an inexplicable pleasure, the heat of Dean's skin. It wasn't filtered through anyone else. Castiel felt Dean.
"You can not help what you are, and nothing you experience is going to change it. You are beautiful. The part of you that lives beneath what you have cultivated here on earth is...Dean. It's a divine spark, and it's why God has plans for you. Why else would I be here?"
Dean stared down at Castiel's hand on his knee. His breath came in quick snatches and his eyes were wide. "You watched me as a kid. You knew my father, and you pulled me out of hell." He caught Castiel's eyes with his own. "And now you say I'm beautiful."
"Yes."
"After...after everything I've done," he whispered.
Castiel leaned forward, into Dean's space. "Especially after everything you've done." He smiled. "You think you're so bad, so unworthy, but everything you've done, every life you've taken, every soul you tore apart weighs on you, hurts you like nothing else. Anyone else in the world perhaps would have moved on, let go, died a little bit every day until there was nothing left, but you feel it all."
Dean stared into his eyes, breathing heavily now, and Castiel knew he felt laid bare. There was nothing so threatening to his charge than to be emotionally naked. Even with people he trusted. Angels he trusted. "And what makes you beautiful is that you choose to feel it and would every time. You would never let yourself get so cold, so distant that killing or hurting someone couldn't hurt you."
"Cas," Dean said.
"That is why our Father chose you."
"And if I don't want to be chosen?"
"All the more reason to be."
"That sucks," Dean said. "No choice."
Castiel chuckled. "You made your choice a long time ago, Dean. This is merely the consequence of it."
"Still."
"Still," Castiel said.
"So what is this horseshit about my dad?"
"Oh. Well. Your mother always told you there were angels watching over you, over Sam. That was me. And several times, your father and I crossed paths. He loved you, you and Sam. I told him once, the night Sam left for Stanford, that he should tell you - tell you both."
"Yeah, well, Dad was never big on the emotional displays," Dean said, a wry twist to his face.
"He was very stoic."
"To say the least," Dean said. "But I know why. Hunting isn't a life for kids. Yeah, we thought it was an adventure - new places, new people, now nightmares all the time. But I got older and saw the looks we got from people. Dad should have left us behind. No. He shouldn't have...I can't believe I'm actually going to say this."
"It's all right, Dean."
"He never should have started. Mom was dead, nothing could bring her back. He should have...he should have left it alone. Let us grow up normal, be a normal family."
Castiel shook his head.
Destiny had a way of creeping up on people. Castiel knew this, and while he could admire Dean making his own way, fighting his destiny and choosing a different path every chance he could, sometimes, God was going to have his say. Dean's path was laid out for him eons ago, yesterday, twenty-seven years ago, and in that moment when John Winchester met Mary Campbell.
"Dean," he said, "there's something you need to see."
~fin~
Notes: Now, I've played with the timeline a bit, having Dean fess up about his experience in hell BEFORE going back in time, but umm, I think that's okay. If not, then, I'm sorry.
Written for shadowbyrd from the following prompt: Castiel back in time, speaking with John (sometime season 1) about the boys (mainly Dean). Bonus points if you can include John asking him to tell the boys how much he loves them and Castiel pointing out he still has time and he should tell them himself.
I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing.