Surviving a Blizzard At End Times, By Castiel
Author’s Note: Takes place a few months after The Epilogue in a Very Long Story, after or during (sometime around??) Author’s Notes. Sam and Cas hang out in a blizzard, playing board games. Super simple.
No big warnings here!! Wow!
Other than sadness, maybe, but mostly fuzzy happy thoughts.
Winter is always an unfortunate season, even before the fall and resurgence of mankind following Lucifer's demise. Just walking outside into that hazy white world is an exercise in stamina, or better yet, an exercise in futility - How long can I go before I run back inside? Not long for Castiel too, as much as he'd like to pretend being an angel gave him thicker skin for the frost and snow (it did... you know, while he was an angel). The temperatures are as bad for him as it is for any human lately, and he damns his natural body (not his, technically, he has to remind himself sometimes), and his chattering teeth, and the way his face burns in the winds whipping around outside. He would prefer to never leave his cabin, maybe hole up with some friends with benefits that are scattered about the camp (which is constantly changing, growing, altering itself to adapt to the world). He thinks maybe he should be alarmed that one of his great enjoyments is sliding into bed with someone else. He doesn't particularly care.
Today as it has been for many days beforehand, he's with Sam, and for the most part it's been a very quiet week inside Sam's little abode. The rough weather outside is just too much for most to handle, so everyone intelligent is burning their wood and drearily waiting for the springtime to come back around. For the kids it's exceptionally bad. There are only so many drawings they can make with dirty broken crayons before their minds start to roam into daydreams, the heat of Summer. Admittedly, Cas enjoys watching the children thrive in the spring and enjoy what was supposed to be the end of everything. Winter puts a damper on these things.
Dean is away on business. Mostly, that means the camp is low on supplies that are needed to push through to drier, warmer days. It's a general rule between Cas, Dean, and Chuck that Sam is not to leave with him, no matter how miserable the taller brother looks before the other goes. And trust when it's said that he looks particularly rejected and miserable. Dean thinks it's too much of a risk, though, because too many people still remember Sam's face out there. And Castiel hates to make Sam look like a scorned child in giant clothes, but he has to agree. It's just too dangerous.
It's hard enough not knowing which new campers will remember a time where Sam's body was not his own.
So here they are. It's already night time, and the oil lamps have been keeping them active, cast in an orange glow. They've ran through a few novels already in the quiet space, Sam eating up any kind of input so that he doesn't dwell on the thought of his brother out there in the blizzard (and really, Dean may not be in the blizzard, but stuck somewhere fretting angrily about not being within ten feet of his emotionally scarred brother, while nature tries to turn them all into one giant snow cone; or perhaps one of those odd little globes one would shake to see the snow fall; Castiel has it on his mantle, for some reason; where was he? Ah, yes, quality time with Sam Winchester). He would suggest taking up painting or any sort of art, but Sam is extremely focused on their current game, saying with a thin-lipped expression: "I can't draw worth a shit, Cas."
Cas drops a chipped red piece into the strange yellow board. "I can't either, but when I'm in a certain mood, it's nice to throw paint at people."
Connect Four is a sort of last resort. Other than Monopoly, and Sam seems adamant about not playing Monopoly.
He's still considering yoga, though. Marijuana has been a negotiation Cas cannot see ending anytime soon.
"That'd be a waste of good painting supplies," Sam points out. "We have some pretty good artists in the camp."
"If you're referring to Dean, his only experience in art has been to scribble multiple dicks on my face."
Sam's eyes twinkle, smiling very thinly, as if the muscles in his face are atrophied. "They were anatomically correct, right? He's got a gift."
Castiel remembers that moment well enough: Dean Winchester, fearless leader, playing a joke, lightening the mood - a ghost of the old Dean, appearing like a miracle. All done likely to make Sam smile, he realizes. Because no matter how small the grin from Sam, he has slowly become their core, their root digging deep into the earth while the tree sways. For the people who matter here, Sam's smile is bright in the wake of a grand storm. Sam, sitting here across from him, ducking his head and trying not to grin, Castiel thinks, is what hope feels like. He's sure of it. He knows Dean, for all his seriousness, feels the same. Losing Sam now would be a blow that would be too hard to face. It's something even Cas doesn't want to think about for long.
When Cas speaks again, it's with more fondness.
"I would say you qualify as one of his gifts as well, lately. Or perhaps a gift to me, since I don't have to deal with his mopey, dramatic personality nearly as much anymore, thanks to you. Here," Castiel says, gliding his finger along the game board. "Diagonally."
Sam's smile brightens, though the emotion behind his eyes is bittersweet, watery and expressive. He looks like he wants to say something, something that's too hard to get out, something important. The light around them is warm and safe.
Sam just ends up saying, "Pretty sneaky, sis."
He falls asleep sitting up halfway through monopoly.