Chapter 5
For the myth of the Angel and the Righteous Man to be believed, one must firstly assume that they do not live in a vacuum, and secondly assume that there are those who know their identity. For the names of these legendary figures to be hidden for so long, assuming that they were once real people, there must be a handful of confidants who have aided them in concealing their identities.
-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend
By Carver Edlund
Dean’s relaxing in the pilot’s seat listening to Castiel recount some of the legends of the angels (angels had a whole complex series of myths and legends and their own religion, go figure), and lets the soothing rumble of the engine do its work.
The IMPALA has always meant home and safety to him.
She’s a beautiful ship, hard lines and soft curves where most spaceships are utilitarian. Her interior is something Dean’s come to feel a sense of pride in. In the years since his dad died he’d molded her into something that retained all the good memories of his childhood, but was uniquely his.
Just before his dad passed away the man had trashed her, smashing up cabinets, destroying furniture that was bolted to the floor and burning the few possessions Dean and Sam had collected over the years.
Dean had been so angry. A few Vonnegut books, translated into Common from 20th Century English, painstakingly collected from over fifty worlds where paper books still had a use, a knitted blanket a kindly old schoolteacher had given him when he was ten and came into school without a coat, a photo of him and Sam at Ellen’s. Sam had been distraught at the loss of some of his nicer, home world clothes that he’d saved up for. That, and he’d lost a letter he’d been keeping safe from a sweet girl named Jess, the same Jess he met again at college.
After John Winchester’s death, Dean had taken the time to build his ship back up in the way he wanted. Gone was the harsh functionality of the IMPALA; the dirt and twisted metal, replaced with Dean’s own handiwork.
The kitchen at the back of the ship was kitted out with a mix of donated, collected and handcrafted utensils. None of it matched exactly, but they were close enough that it didn't matter. He’d spent a week cleaning and fixing all the battered appliances, a little longer finding replacement parts for what couldn't be salvaged.
He’d done the same to the rest of the IMPALA, scrubbing both dirt and memories from her interior. He repaired the broken lighting fixtures, fine-tuned both the gravity generator and the engine itself, redecorated Sam’s room (previously John’s) and tinkered with the computer so they couldn't be tracked.
His own room remained a work in progress, though he’d managed to start collecting Vonneguts again.
He’s not spoken since Zarus.
Dean types back responses to Cas, who’s integrated into his visual cortex. The angel is worrying about him, Dean can almost feel it. Cas has been gentle over the past week, asking simple questions and avoiding Sam completely.
He’s remained quiet as Dean’s flashbacks have increased, talked him down from multiple panic attacks, and coerced him into eating and sleeping. The nausea and nightmares alone make him want to give up, but Castiel has remained a rock.
He’s becoming the closest thing Dean has to a best friend.
Dean’s been flying aimlessly for the past week, updating their course as the mood takes him, sometimes manually flying. He has no real plan except to stay away from Sam. He has around fifty messages from him, unread in his inbox. He can’t face more incrimination. Look back on how badly he managed to fuck up.
He’s deleting a few of them when he notices an incoming request from Charlie. He answers immediately, missing his friend after so long without seeing her.
[This is Charlie, the one who taught me to hack.] He types to Cas.
I would love to meet more of the people you hold dear, Dean.
Dean winces slightly at his reply. Sam wasn't exactly the best introduction for Castiel. Hopefully Charlie would be a better example.
“Hey Dean!” she beams. “I heard you were kicking around in that tin can of yours! Where've you been the past four months?”
Her real time hologram dances in the middle of the display, and despite everything that’s going on, Sam, Cas, the daily reminders of Alastair, Dean can’t help but smile back at the sight of his friend.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He grimaces awkwardly, eyes flickering down as he blushes.
“Oh, Dean.”
He can hear the sympathy in her voice. It doesn't happen regularly, but when things get too much, Dean shuts down vocally. Charlie’s been there through some of the worst times: when Dad died; when Sam went missing; when Sam left for college; the ten year anniversary of his mom’s death. She’s used to it, and has never judged him.
“You lost your voice again?” she asks.
He nods, curling in on himself slightly.
“What happened?”
There’s a chill in the IMPALA. His skin erupts into goose bumps, hair on end. A shudder runs through him, but for once, he’s not pulled into a memory.
[I got involved with Revelation Industries to pay for Sam’s college tuition.] he types. [It was bad. I got out. I freaked out and hurt Sam. He doesn't want me around.] He keeps it brief and to-the-point. It’s all he can manage for now.
“Let me guess. He doesn't know any of this. He thinks you were off planet-hopping, correct?”
He nods miserably. Sam knows so little about what Dean had to do when they were kids. The homework he completed in the small hours of the morning, the days he went without food, the times he locked Sam in their room to keep him safe from a man with too much alcohol in his blood to realize that the thing he was lashing out at was his own child. Dean had dropped out of school to raise Sam. Not that Sam knew any of this.
“And he wasn't happy to see you, I take it? Still in his independent man-child years?” she jokes.
He gives her a wry smile and types back. [I guess.]
“He’ll come round Dean, he just needs to grow up a little,” Charlie reassures him. It’s almost a practiced conversation by now. Dean's long since given up hope.
“And have you talked to anyone yet? I know you. You said it was bad. That’s basically declaring that you were tortured within an inch of your life!”
He goes rigid in his seat. Breath coming in shallow gasps. He’s going to be sick.
She’s right, of course. But it’s not your fault, Dean. You’re okay.
Charlie has taken up a look of abject horror. “Fuck, Winchester. Tell me you weren't.”
He can’t meet her eyes. Tears well in his own and he wipes at his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. He can’t break down in front of Charlie like this. He just can’t.
“I’m so sorry, Dean. There are rumors about that company. But… I never believed them. But, you do know it’s not your fault right?” her tone is gentle but firm.
See. It’s not just your alien hitch-hiker that thinks that.
[I sold myself to them, Charlie. Whose fault is it? Mine.]
“Did you agree to anything they did?”
He shakes his head. His contract had been specific. The medical tests they wanted to run were detailed, but painless.
[Sometimes I said yes. Just to make the pain stop.] He has to show her how weak he was. Convince her to stay away.
“Then it’s not your fault. It’s theirs. Dean, whatever you’re blaming yourself for, it’s not your fault, okay?” There’s a slight pause in their conversation while what she said sinks in.
“Have you talked to Benny?”
Dean could almost kiss Charlie right now. How could he have forgotten Benny? The AI was intelligent and impartial. He always listened and had been Dean’s unofficial therapist for years.
“Judging by your reaction, you forgot all about him.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “What have you been doing in the spaceship of yours, Winchester? Talking to yourself?”
There’s a gruff chuckle in his head from Cas. It warms Dean to the core.
[Hey, Cas. Could I tell Charlie about you? She might have some idea of how to fix this?]
I don’t think that this is broken. But go ahead. From what you've told me she might be able to help us.
“Who’s Cas? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
He’s accidentally sent the message to Charlie. No going back now. He tells her a condensed version of his escape, glossing over Azazel, and sending his medical files over to her.
“Shit, Dean,” she says as he finishes. “If I had'’t seen the results myself, I’d think you were crazy!”
He shrugs at her.
Such nonchalance from someone who spent most of our first conversation convinced of his own insanity.
“Shut up, Cas.” The words escape before he can stop them.
“He speaks!” is Charlie’s chipper response. It may be slightly insensitive, but he prefers it to Sam’s tiptoeing.
“I've been thinking,” he begins, because he hasn't truly thought about how to get Cas out of his head and into a body of his own. He’s been busy trying to piece himself back together. “You said you need a psychic link to survive?”
Yes Dean?
He can hear the question in Cas’ tone of voice. The sliver of confusion that marks a lot of their conversations.
“So, in theory, you could hop back into that body Alastair had, but keep the connection with me? And that’d be okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, but what if the link doesn't work if you’re not in the same body?” Charlie butts in. “I’m not having you die on me, Winchester.”
I’m not sure. Our bond will work over narrow distances, but unless we remained joined physically, I’m not sure how it could possibly work. In addition to this problem, I thought you wanted rid of me? How is this any better?
“I've spent too long training you up as my apprentice to lose you in the final stages,” Charlie continues.
They all ignore Dean’s flinch at the word apprentice.
“Hang on guys! You’re both talking without giving me time to answer,” he manages to get out as both Charlie and Cas pause.
“Charlie, Cas answered that. It works over small distances, but we’d need to remain in physical contact with each other, which isn't any better. And Cas, just having your own meat-suit is a huge improvement. At least I could piss without having you stare at my junk. I can work with that,” he answers each of them calmly.
I do not stare at your penis. It is not of interest. However your plan still does not resolve the issue of distance. Or how we would acquire such a body.
He knows. It’s a pipe dream, but maybe there’s some way around the problem.
“Oh. Believe me, I have a plan for how to get a body.” Dean grins viciously at Charlie. “How about a little blackmail, Bradbury? I’m sure you can dig up a whole load of dirt on Alastair and his company.” He swallows the bile that rises at the mention of Alastair’s name.
Dean, I cannot ask you to do that.
“Dean, it would be my absolute pleasure.” Charlie replies, eyes glinting with barely suppressed malice.
“Excellent. Cas, you don’t have to ask. I want to,” he says, voice softening as he talks to his alien invader.
He shouldn't be this attached. It’s too soon, probably dangerous, but it’s necessary if they’re going to be spending an eternity in each other’s heads. It’s always been his curse. Exceptional empathy mixed with a transient lifestyle means he’s learnt to form strong connections rapidly. It ached when they moved on, and after a while he stopped actively trying, but he’s lost none of his skill.
“Look, Dean. If we’re going to do this, we’ll need a drop site. And a home base while we get this ball rolling. I’m sending you coordinates, meet me there,” Charlie says, moving out of frame as she inputs the coordinates into her own ship computer.
He’s kind of impressed that she can’t hack the IMPALA and find exactly where they are, but her choice of planet is far enough away from where they’re sitting that she can’t have known.
“It’ll take me a while to get there. A week, ten days, maybe more,” he says.
“That’s fine. I’ll be in an old lab. One of my early purchases. You know the one, the Batcave? Should have everything we need for your weird tinkering. Bradbury out.”
The connection dies before he can respond. He’d met Charlie when he was thirteen. He was a quiet kid back then, a world of responsibility on his shoulders. She’d sought him out and befriended him.
Charlie was a planet-hopper too. Whereas he had his Dad and Sammy, but no money so to speak of, Charlie had a lot of money in a trust fund, gifted to her when her entire family died as a result of a fast-acting biological agent that only she escaped from. Turns out not being able to get your space-suit helmet off was a blessing.
She’d been running from the UAP and they’d found kindred spirits in each other. Charlie was one of the few people he’d stayed in touch with. It had taken years for her to get him to open up about his projects. Dean was an incorrigible tinkerer. He’d spend weeks at a time working out new systems and hardware updates for the IMPALA, planning out clever toys to keep Sam occupied and building models in their room. He’d read any book about mechanics he could get his hands on, same with medical books, chemistry, physics. He wanted to know how everything worked, and spent hours taking electronics apart and back together again, often with improvements of his own design.
It had driven Sir mad, and Dean had learnt to hide his love of learning, of building and improving things. A secret compartment built into his and Sam’s room was used as a storage spot. Only Charlie had really known.
He’d just left Charlie when he received a heavily encrypted set of coordinates from her. The labs. It became a haven for him after John died. A stop point for the tempestuous months that followed.
None of this stopped Charlie from teasing him about his building projects. Particularly memorable was the time he’d accidentally programmed her PDA to ask increasingly lewd questions by mistake.
He punches in the location, a smile on his face as the IMPALA orients herself towards safety.
Dean. Even if we do get a functioning body, we will not be able to maintain the connection and then we will both end up dead.
“Such optimism, Cas. We’ll figure it out.”
You cannot be serious. You’re still recovering. You are in no position to be experimenting with your brain.
Dean flinches at Cas’ harsh tone. Castiel, as careful as he’s been, can, on occasion, be completely tactless.
Stilling his trembling hands by gripping the armrests, he snaps back, “Fuck you, Cas. I’m doing fine.”
Forgive me if I do not take your word at face value after a week of non-verbal communication.
“That’s how I deal with my shit Cas. I shut up, I think about it and I talk when I’m fucking ready.”
He’s angry. He feels it bubble up from his stomach, sitting hot and boiling in his rib-cage. It’s better than the paralyzing fear and panic that he’s used to. He’s been helpless for so long and he’ll be damned if Cas can stop him securing his freedom.
I know that Dean. And I’m not pushing for you to do so. I simply question if you’re in the right mind-set to build such complex equipment and toy with the inner workings of your mind. It could break you.
It was concern, rather than annoyance at his lack of progress that spawned Castiel's words then. Dean tries to grip onto his anger, keep its insulating warmth that’s a welcome respite from the cold apathy or crippling hurt he’s been oscillating between, but he can’t. It’s not how his anger works; it flares rapidly, hot and fiery before burning itself out. He’ll leave Sam for the slow burn rage, the cold anger that sizzles quiet and never-ending.
“I’m already broken, Cas. Does it really matter?” he says quietly. It’s the truth. He’s buried things. Repressed memories and emotions and hurt from way before Alastair, despite using Benny as a confidant. He’d been too scared that Sir or Sam would find out and realize he wasn't worthy of the small amount of love they could spare for him. The love he stored away and coveted, keeping it close to him as if it could be taken from him.
Alastair ripped them from him. Tearing down his walls one by one and twisting every hidden facet of him into something dark and hideous. He’d used every hurtful word Sir had thrown at him, every punch and beating. He’d used Sam’s innocence, Dean’s jealousy over how it was kept intact, his resentment that Sam would never know how much Dean lost for his little brother. He’d used the deep hurt of the loss of his mother that he’d been clinging to for so long. Tore it out of him, and with it, a piece of Dean’s soul.
He’s nothing. If only Castiel would see that.
Dean, my friend. How can you think that of yourself?
Castiel’s voice was soft, tinged with what Dean would have called sorrow.
“Do you really need me to answer that Cas? You've seen some of the things I've done. I’m nothing but a monster pretending to be human. I am coated in a layer of filth that I will never be able to wash off. I hurt everyone I touch. I was broken long before Alastair put his hands on me and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to stop dragging you down with me.”
Dean stops yelling when he feels the tell-tale trickle of tears running down his cheeks. His throat aches with the effort of trying to hold them back but he has to get Cas to understand how worthless and dangerous he is. How he rips the people he loves the most apart simply by being near them. How he sucks the life out of everyone he gets near with his pathetic need to be loved. He won’t let Cas get stuck in his orbit.
They may need the psychic link up and running, but the sooner Castiel has his own body, the sooner he gets away from Dean’s poisonous influence. He shouldn't have tried teaching Cas, or even talked to him, he’s probably wrecked him permanently.
“God, Cas. Can’t you just see I’m not good enough? At least let me do this,” he chokes out.
You do not and will not ever need my permission to do anything, unless it endangers us both. At this moment, my main concern is you. You may not ever be ready to hear this, Dean, but you are not the man you think yourself to be. You’re right. I have seen the things you have done, and the things that have been done to you. True, some of your memories remain untouched by me, and I am not going to change that, but I am yet to find fault. You forget that I do not have the petty constraints of your human morality, nor the inclination to lie to you.
Dean, your heart is filled with love that you grant freely to those who give you the barest hint of regard, whether or not they deserve such a gift. When it is not returned in kind, you see it as an inherent fault within yourself, rather than with them. Despite your loathing of societal conformation, you judge yourself by their standards rather than your own. You’re not broken, Dean. Damaged, and in need of a reprieve, yes. But not broken.
What Alastair did to you… That’s on him. He’s not a reflection of you. He didn't win. You’re scarred and hurt in so many ways, but you are still so noble and so whole. If you were truly the beast you think yourself to be, you’d be keeping me close to hurt and destroy me instead of pushing me away. That alone is proof of your inherent goodness. You might not be ready to hear that. You might never believe it. But I will stay with you and attempt to change this. You are righteous Dean, even if you do not see it.
Dean had done more damage than he thought if Castiel had that high of an opinion of him. But he knows he would not leave Cas unless he asked. He would stay with him and guide him because he craved that kind of devotion. He did not deserve it. He simply didn't deserve what Castiel was offering. But he would accept it. God help him, he wanted it.
The sincerity which dripped from every word of Castiel's little speech make him want to prove himself the man Cas sees. To be worthy of such devotion. (Unless he already is, and Dean’s got it wrong, but that can’t be true. Cas is not human. And doesn't understand enough about humanity to know what Dean truly is.) Those are treacherous thoughts. Ones he long ago consigned to the darkest, deepest recesses of him mind with his hopes and dreams.
“Thanks Cas,” he chokes out. “I don’t know what you see in me, Cas, but I’ll try to be to be this righteous man you seem to think I am. I can’t let you down like I've let down every other god-forsaken person in my life.” It’s at moments like this that Dean is very glad that Cas can’t (or doesn't) read his thoughts.
Just be yourself. That is all I ask.
Dean can feel a tried smile gracing his lips, Castiel is like nothing else he’s ever come across. He’s known him barely fourteen days, and in that time Cas has seen him at some of the lowest points in his life, yet still has faith. It’s something he can hold close as a buffer to the inevitable hurt that will come when Cas leaves. He gets attached too fast. All it took was a few words of comfort and affection for him to consider Castiel amongst his friends. An alien who lives in his head! If the situation wasn't so dire, so fraught with danger, he would laugh at the absurdity.
He needs… he needs an outside perspective. Which makes it a good thing that they’re going to visit Charlie, possibly for a while. He is usually good making quick connections with people, on fitting in seamlessly with their lives and society before leaving. He uses identities as a shield, wrapping himself in layer upon layer of bravado, jokes and idiocy to protect himself. He chooses very few people to trust, to let them see him. Sam had once counted among them, until he came to see his brother as a liability. At the moment, he only speaks to Cas, Charlie and Benny with complete honesty.
He needs to speak with Benny too. The AI unit has undoubtedly been watching all communications with Charlie, and Dean had long ago given him access to the computer main-frame, so he’ll see the anomalies in Dean’s brain-scans. But, later. For now, Dean needs more sleep. Sleep is meant to be healing according to the medical textbooks he reads when he has the time.
He makes his way to his room, just off the cockpit. The corridors on the IMPALA may be narrow, squeezed between giant engines and life-support systems, but the two bedrooms are of a decent size. They had to be with three grown men sharing them. His room is safety and home now. He carved out a space for himself when his dad died and Sam moved into that room. The sealed cupboards are filled with battered paper-backs, scavenged from whatever planet they stayed on in the couple of years following John’s death. There are a few filled with clothes, mostly colonizer gear, but more comfortable than the things he picked up from Alastair’s ship. There’s one filled with tools needed for a planet-hopping mechanical engineer with no qualifications.
It’s a comfort to have his bed. Though it doesn't stop the inevitable night terrors and resulting panic attacks, it means that when he does sleep, it’s as restful as possible.
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend
By Carver Edlund
Dean’s relaxing in the pilot’s seat listening to Castiel recount some of the legends of the angels (angels had a whole complex series of myths and legends and their own religion, go figure), and lets the soothing rumble of the engine do its work.
The IMPALA has always meant home and safety to him.
She’s a beautiful ship, hard lines and soft curves where most spaceships are utilitarian. Her interior is something Dean’s come to feel a sense of pride in. In the years since his dad died he’d molded her into something that retained all the good memories of his childhood, but was uniquely his.
Just before his dad passed away the man had trashed her, smashing up cabinets, destroying furniture that was bolted to the floor and burning the few possessions Dean and Sam had collected over the years.
Dean had been so angry. A few Vonnegut books, translated into Common from 20th Century English, painstakingly collected from over fifty worlds where paper books still had a use, a knitted blanket a kindly old schoolteacher had given him when he was ten and came into school without a coat, a photo of him and Sam at Ellen’s. Sam had been distraught at the loss of some of his nicer, home world clothes that he’d saved up for. That, and he’d lost a letter he’d been keeping safe from a sweet girl named Jess, the same Jess he met again at college.
After John Winchester’s death, Dean had taken the time to build his ship back up in the way he wanted. Gone was the harsh functionality of the IMPALA; the dirt and twisted metal, replaced with Dean’s own handiwork.
The kitchen at the back of the ship was kitted out with a mix of donated, collected and handcrafted utensils. None of it matched exactly, but they were close enough that it didn't matter. He’d spent a week cleaning and fixing all the battered appliances, a little longer finding replacement parts for what couldn't be salvaged.
He’d done the same to the rest of the IMPALA, scrubbing both dirt and memories from her interior. He repaired the broken lighting fixtures, fine-tuned both the gravity generator and the engine itself, redecorated Sam’s room (previously John’s) and tinkered with the computer so they couldn't be tracked.
His own room remained a work in progress, though he’d managed to start collecting Vonneguts again.
He’s not spoken since Zarus.
Dean types back responses to Cas, who’s integrated into his visual cortex. The angel is worrying about him, Dean can almost feel it. Cas has been gentle over the past week, asking simple questions and avoiding Sam completely.
He’s remained quiet as Dean’s flashbacks have increased, talked him down from multiple panic attacks, and coerced him into eating and sleeping. The nausea and nightmares alone make him want to give up, but Castiel has remained a rock.
He’s becoming the closest thing Dean has to a best friend.
Dean’s been flying aimlessly for the past week, updating their course as the mood takes him, sometimes manually flying. He has no real plan except to stay away from Sam. He has around fifty messages from him, unread in his inbox. He can’t face more incrimination. Look back on how badly he managed to fuck up.
He’s deleting a few of them when he notices an incoming request from Charlie. He answers immediately, missing his friend after so long without seeing her.
[This is Charlie, the one who taught me to hack.] He types to Cas.
I would love to meet more of the people you hold dear, Dean.
Dean winces slightly at his reply. Sam wasn't exactly the best introduction for Castiel. Hopefully Charlie would be a better example.
“Hey Dean!” she beams. “I heard you were kicking around in that tin can of yours! Where've you been the past four months?”
Her real time hologram dances in the middle of the display, and despite everything that’s going on, Sam, Cas, the daily reminders of Alastair, Dean can’t help but smile back at the sight of his friend.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He grimaces awkwardly, eyes flickering down as he blushes.
“Oh, Dean.”
He can hear the sympathy in her voice. It doesn't happen regularly, but when things get too much, Dean shuts down vocally. Charlie’s been there through some of the worst times: when Dad died; when Sam went missing; when Sam left for college; the ten year anniversary of his mom’s death. She’s used to it, and has never judged him.
“You lost your voice again?” she asks.
He nods, curling in on himself slightly.
“What happened?”
There’s a chill in the IMPALA. His skin erupts into goose bumps, hair on end. A shudder runs through him, but for once, he’s not pulled into a memory.
[I got involved with Revelation Industries to pay for Sam’s college tuition.] he types. [It was bad. I got out. I freaked out and hurt Sam. He doesn't want me around.] He keeps it brief and to-the-point. It’s all he can manage for now.
“Let me guess. He doesn't know any of this. He thinks you were off planet-hopping, correct?”
He nods miserably. Sam knows so little about what Dean had to do when they were kids. The homework he completed in the small hours of the morning, the days he went without food, the times he locked Sam in their room to keep him safe from a man with too much alcohol in his blood to realize that the thing he was lashing out at was his own child. Dean had dropped out of school to raise Sam. Not that Sam knew any of this.
“And he wasn't happy to see you, I take it? Still in his independent man-child years?” she jokes.
He gives her a wry smile and types back. [I guess.]
“He’ll come round Dean, he just needs to grow up a little,” Charlie reassures him. It’s almost a practiced conversation by now. Dean's long since given up hope.
“And have you talked to anyone yet? I know you. You said it was bad. That’s basically declaring that you were tortured within an inch of your life!”
He goes rigid in his seat. Breath coming in shallow gasps. He’s going to be sick.
She’s right, of course. But it’s not your fault, Dean. You’re okay.
Charlie has taken up a look of abject horror. “Fuck, Winchester. Tell me you weren't.”
He can’t meet her eyes. Tears well in his own and he wipes at his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. He can’t break down in front of Charlie like this. He just can’t.
“I’m so sorry, Dean. There are rumors about that company. But… I never believed them. But, you do know it’s not your fault right?” her tone is gentle but firm.
See. It’s not just your alien hitch-hiker that thinks that.
[I sold myself to them, Charlie. Whose fault is it? Mine.]
“Did you agree to anything they did?”
He shakes his head. His contract had been specific. The medical tests they wanted to run were detailed, but painless.
[Sometimes I said yes. Just to make the pain stop.] He has to show her how weak he was. Convince her to stay away.
“Then it’s not your fault. It’s theirs. Dean, whatever you’re blaming yourself for, it’s not your fault, okay?” There’s a slight pause in their conversation while what she said sinks in.
“Have you talked to Benny?”
Dean could almost kiss Charlie right now. How could he have forgotten Benny? The AI was intelligent and impartial. He always listened and had been Dean’s unofficial therapist for years.
“Judging by your reaction, you forgot all about him.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “What have you been doing in the spaceship of yours, Winchester? Talking to yourself?”
There’s a gruff chuckle in his head from Cas. It warms Dean to the core.
[Hey, Cas. Could I tell Charlie about you? She might have some idea of how to fix this?]
I don’t think that this is broken. But go ahead. From what you've told me she might be able to help us.
“Who’s Cas? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
He’s accidentally sent the message to Charlie. No going back now. He tells her a condensed version of his escape, glossing over Azazel, and sending his medical files over to her.
“Shit, Dean,” she says as he finishes. “If I had'’t seen the results myself, I’d think you were crazy!”
He shrugs at her.
Such nonchalance from someone who spent most of our first conversation convinced of his own insanity.
“Shut up, Cas.” The words escape before he can stop them.
“He speaks!” is Charlie’s chipper response. It may be slightly insensitive, but he prefers it to Sam’s tiptoeing.
“I've been thinking,” he begins, because he hasn't truly thought about how to get Cas out of his head and into a body of his own. He’s been busy trying to piece himself back together. “You said you need a psychic link to survive?”
Yes Dean?
He can hear the question in Cas’ tone of voice. The sliver of confusion that marks a lot of their conversations.
“So, in theory, you could hop back into that body Alastair had, but keep the connection with me? And that’d be okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, but what if the link doesn't work if you’re not in the same body?” Charlie butts in. “I’m not having you die on me, Winchester.”
I’m not sure. Our bond will work over narrow distances, but unless we remained joined physically, I’m not sure how it could possibly work. In addition to this problem, I thought you wanted rid of me? How is this any better?
“I've spent too long training you up as my apprentice to lose you in the final stages,” Charlie continues.
They all ignore Dean’s flinch at the word apprentice.
“Hang on guys! You’re both talking without giving me time to answer,” he manages to get out as both Charlie and Cas pause.
“Charlie, Cas answered that. It works over small distances, but we’d need to remain in physical contact with each other, which isn't any better. And Cas, just having your own meat-suit is a huge improvement. At least I could piss without having you stare at my junk. I can work with that,” he answers each of them calmly.
I do not stare at your penis. It is not of interest. However your plan still does not resolve the issue of distance. Or how we would acquire such a body.
He knows. It’s a pipe dream, but maybe there’s some way around the problem.
“Oh. Believe me, I have a plan for how to get a body.” Dean grins viciously at Charlie. “How about a little blackmail, Bradbury? I’m sure you can dig up a whole load of dirt on Alastair and his company.” He swallows the bile that rises at the mention of Alastair’s name.
Dean, I cannot ask you to do that.
“Dean, it would be my absolute pleasure.” Charlie replies, eyes glinting with barely suppressed malice.
“Excellent. Cas, you don’t have to ask. I want to,” he says, voice softening as he talks to his alien invader.
He shouldn't be this attached. It’s too soon, probably dangerous, but it’s necessary if they’re going to be spending an eternity in each other’s heads. It’s always been his curse. Exceptional empathy mixed with a transient lifestyle means he’s learnt to form strong connections rapidly. It ached when they moved on, and after a while he stopped actively trying, but he’s lost none of his skill.
“Look, Dean. If we’re going to do this, we’ll need a drop site. And a home base while we get this ball rolling. I’m sending you coordinates, meet me there,” Charlie says, moving out of frame as she inputs the coordinates into her own ship computer.
He’s kind of impressed that she can’t hack the IMPALA and find exactly where they are, but her choice of planet is far enough away from where they’re sitting that she can’t have known.
“It’ll take me a while to get there. A week, ten days, maybe more,” he says.
“That’s fine. I’ll be in an old lab. One of my early purchases. You know the one, the Batcave? Should have everything we need for your weird tinkering. Bradbury out.”
The connection dies before he can respond. He’d met Charlie when he was thirteen. He was a quiet kid back then, a world of responsibility on his shoulders. She’d sought him out and befriended him.
Charlie was a planet-hopper too. Whereas he had his Dad and Sammy, but no money so to speak of, Charlie had a lot of money in a trust fund, gifted to her when her entire family died as a result of a fast-acting biological agent that only she escaped from. Turns out not being able to get your space-suit helmet off was a blessing.
She’d been running from the UAP and they’d found kindred spirits in each other. Charlie was one of the few people he’d stayed in touch with. It had taken years for her to get him to open up about his projects. Dean was an incorrigible tinkerer. He’d spend weeks at a time working out new systems and hardware updates for the IMPALA, planning out clever toys to keep Sam occupied and building models in their room. He’d read any book about mechanics he could get his hands on, same with medical books, chemistry, physics. He wanted to know how everything worked, and spent hours taking electronics apart and back together again, often with improvements of his own design.
It had driven Sir mad, and Dean had learnt to hide his love of learning, of building and improving things. A secret compartment built into his and Sam’s room was used as a storage spot. Only Charlie had really known.
He’d just left Charlie when he received a heavily encrypted set of coordinates from her. The labs. It became a haven for him after John died. A stop point for the tempestuous months that followed.
None of this stopped Charlie from teasing him about his building projects. Particularly memorable was the time he’d accidentally programmed her PDA to ask increasingly lewd questions by mistake.
He punches in the location, a smile on his face as the IMPALA orients herself towards safety.
Dean. Even if we do get a functioning body, we will not be able to maintain the connection and then we will both end up dead.
“Such optimism, Cas. We’ll figure it out.”
You cannot be serious. You’re still recovering. You are in no position to be experimenting with your brain.
Dean flinches at Cas’ harsh tone. Castiel, as careful as he’s been, can, on occasion, be completely tactless.
Stilling his trembling hands by gripping the armrests, he snaps back, “Fuck you, Cas. I’m doing fine.”
Forgive me if I do not take your word at face value after a week of non-verbal communication.
“That’s how I deal with my shit Cas. I shut up, I think about it and I talk when I’m fucking ready.”
He’s angry. He feels it bubble up from his stomach, sitting hot and boiling in his rib-cage. It’s better than the paralyzing fear and panic that he’s used to. He’s been helpless for so long and he’ll be damned if Cas can stop him securing his freedom.
I know that Dean. And I’m not pushing for you to do so. I simply question if you’re in the right mind-set to build such complex equipment and toy with the inner workings of your mind. It could break you.
It was concern, rather than annoyance at his lack of progress that spawned Castiel's words then. Dean tries to grip onto his anger, keep its insulating warmth that’s a welcome respite from the cold apathy or crippling hurt he’s been oscillating between, but he can’t. It’s not how his anger works; it flares rapidly, hot and fiery before burning itself out. He’ll leave Sam for the slow burn rage, the cold anger that sizzles quiet and never-ending.
“I’m already broken, Cas. Does it really matter?” he says quietly. It’s the truth. He’s buried things. Repressed memories and emotions and hurt from way before Alastair, despite using Benny as a confidant. He’d been too scared that Sir or Sam would find out and realize he wasn't worthy of the small amount of love they could spare for him. The love he stored away and coveted, keeping it close to him as if it could be taken from him.
Alastair ripped them from him. Tearing down his walls one by one and twisting every hidden facet of him into something dark and hideous. He’d used every hurtful word Sir had thrown at him, every punch and beating. He’d used Sam’s innocence, Dean’s jealousy over how it was kept intact, his resentment that Sam would never know how much Dean lost for his little brother. He’d used the deep hurt of the loss of his mother that he’d been clinging to for so long. Tore it out of him, and with it, a piece of Dean’s soul.
He’s nothing. If only Castiel would see that.
Dean, my friend. How can you think that of yourself?
Castiel’s voice was soft, tinged with what Dean would have called sorrow.
“Do you really need me to answer that Cas? You've seen some of the things I've done. I’m nothing but a monster pretending to be human. I am coated in a layer of filth that I will never be able to wash off. I hurt everyone I touch. I was broken long before Alastair put his hands on me and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to stop dragging you down with me.”
Dean stops yelling when he feels the tell-tale trickle of tears running down his cheeks. His throat aches with the effort of trying to hold them back but he has to get Cas to understand how worthless and dangerous he is. How he rips the people he loves the most apart simply by being near them. How he sucks the life out of everyone he gets near with his pathetic need to be loved. He won’t let Cas get stuck in his orbit.
They may need the psychic link up and running, but the sooner Castiel has his own body, the sooner he gets away from Dean’s poisonous influence. He shouldn't have tried teaching Cas, or even talked to him, he’s probably wrecked him permanently.
“God, Cas. Can’t you just see I’m not good enough? At least let me do this,” he chokes out.
You do not and will not ever need my permission to do anything, unless it endangers us both. At this moment, my main concern is you. You may not ever be ready to hear this, Dean, but you are not the man you think yourself to be. You’re right. I have seen the things you have done, and the things that have been done to you. True, some of your memories remain untouched by me, and I am not going to change that, but I am yet to find fault. You forget that I do not have the petty constraints of your human morality, nor the inclination to lie to you.
Dean, your heart is filled with love that you grant freely to those who give you the barest hint of regard, whether or not they deserve such a gift. When it is not returned in kind, you see it as an inherent fault within yourself, rather than with them. Despite your loathing of societal conformation, you judge yourself by their standards rather than your own. You’re not broken, Dean. Damaged, and in need of a reprieve, yes. But not broken.
What Alastair did to you… That’s on him. He’s not a reflection of you. He didn't win. You’re scarred and hurt in so many ways, but you are still so noble and so whole. If you were truly the beast you think yourself to be, you’d be keeping me close to hurt and destroy me instead of pushing me away. That alone is proof of your inherent goodness. You might not be ready to hear that. You might never believe it. But I will stay with you and attempt to change this. You are righteous Dean, even if you do not see it.
Dean had done more damage than he thought if Castiel had that high of an opinion of him. But he knows he would not leave Cas unless he asked. He would stay with him and guide him because he craved that kind of devotion. He did not deserve it. He simply didn't deserve what Castiel was offering. But he would accept it. God help him, he wanted it.
The sincerity which dripped from every word of Castiel's little speech make him want to prove himself the man Cas sees. To be worthy of such devotion. (Unless he already is, and Dean’s got it wrong, but that can’t be true. Cas is not human. And doesn't understand enough about humanity to know what Dean truly is.) Those are treacherous thoughts. Ones he long ago consigned to the darkest, deepest recesses of him mind with his hopes and dreams.
“Thanks Cas,” he chokes out. “I don’t know what you see in me, Cas, but I’ll try to be to be this righteous man you seem to think I am. I can’t let you down like I've let down every other god-forsaken person in my life.” It’s at moments like this that Dean is very glad that Cas can’t (or doesn't) read his thoughts.
Just be yourself. That is all I ask.
Dean can feel a tried smile gracing his lips, Castiel is like nothing else he’s ever come across. He’s known him barely fourteen days, and in that time Cas has seen him at some of the lowest points in his life, yet still has faith. It’s something he can hold close as a buffer to the inevitable hurt that will come when Cas leaves. He gets attached too fast. All it took was a few words of comfort and affection for him to consider Castiel amongst his friends. An alien who lives in his head! If the situation wasn't so dire, so fraught with danger, he would laugh at the absurdity.
He needs… he needs an outside perspective. Which makes it a good thing that they’re going to visit Charlie, possibly for a while. He is usually good making quick connections with people, on fitting in seamlessly with their lives and society before leaving. He uses identities as a shield, wrapping himself in layer upon layer of bravado, jokes and idiocy to protect himself. He chooses very few people to trust, to let them see him. Sam had once counted among them, until he came to see his brother as a liability. At the moment, he only speaks to Cas, Charlie and Benny with complete honesty.
He needs to speak with Benny too. The AI unit has undoubtedly been watching all communications with Charlie, and Dean had long ago given him access to the computer main-frame, so he’ll see the anomalies in Dean’s brain-scans. But, later. For now, Dean needs more sleep. Sleep is meant to be healing according to the medical textbooks he reads when he has the time.
He makes his way to his room, just off the cockpit. The corridors on the IMPALA may be narrow, squeezed between giant engines and life-support systems, but the two bedrooms are of a decent size. They had to be with three grown men sharing them. His room is safety and home now. He carved out a space for himself when his dad died and Sam moved into that room. The sealed cupboards are filled with battered paper-backs, scavenged from whatever planet they stayed on in the couple of years following John’s death. There are a few filled with clothes, mostly colonizer gear, but more comfortable than the things he picked up from Alastair’s ship. There’s one filled with tools needed for a planet-hopping mechanical engineer with no qualifications.
It’s a comfort to have his bed. Though it doesn't stop the inevitable night terrors and resulting panic attacks, it means that when he does sleep, it’s as restful as possible.
Chapter 4
Chapter 6