Episode 9: Sioux Falls
Title: Sioux Falls
Masterpost: Supernatural: Redemption Road (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)
Authors: nyoka and zatnikatel
Characters/Pairing: pre-Dean/Castiel, Sam, Bobby
Rating: R
Word Count: ~25,000
Warnings: language, violence, memories of Hell [torture/gore/suggestiveness with implications of dub/non-con between Dean/Alastair]
Betas: dotfic and murron
Art: Chapter banners by smilla02; digital painting by usarechan, which you can also find here (it contains spoilers for the episode).
Summary: December moves in, inevitable as it is grueling.
December moves in, inevitable as it is grueling. The winter season always arrives hard and fast in South Dakota, the snow coming down in blankets of white that cover the world for months on end. Bobby's old Ford truck struggles over the snow-packed highway, but Dean maneuvers it expertly, knowing these old country roads like he knows the back of his hand. Dean remembers a number of occasions growing up where John left him and Sam at Bobby's for the winter, when money was tight and things were getting bad, and the boys needed a safe place to keep warm.
Dean still thinks of Bobby's home in that way - a safe haven from the storm, a place to keep warm. It's been all those things in the last few weeks, as well as a place to heal up and recoup. Dean glances over at the passenger seat and sees Castiel quietly watching the falling snow, a deep furrow creasing his forehead as he takes in the bleached white sky. Dean thinks: four weeks and three days. That's how long Cas has been back. And it's been one hell of an intense month for everyone involved.
Dean's eyes return to the road, and he grips the steering wheel tighter as he takes in the rolling countryside. They're driving north of the city, the state highway tracing a path through long stretches of wheat fields covered in thick blankets of snowfall. Soto Peak is capped with ice, glistening atop the distant mountain range. Snow weighs the surrounding pine trees down, branches sloping so low they almost touch the ground.
He sighs as they pass a downed power line. "Good thing we got that oil," he says, voice cutting through the sound of the tires crunching over the freshly-plowed road leading to Singer Salvage. "Should keep the generator running through the next few weeks. If another blizzard comes through, we'll be better prepared." He slants his eyes over to his right, sees that Castiel is still miles away, reaches over and pokes his friend's thigh. "Did we get all the supplies on the list?"
"I checked everything myself," Castiel says, and his voice is rough from disuse and exhaustion. He's holding the crumpled supply list in his hand, and Dean smiles at the crossed out marks Castiel made on the paper with one of Sam's lime-green highlighters.
Castiel falls silent again, and Dean wonders if it's the stress or the exhaustion that's weighing the most on him. The skin beneath Castiel's eyes is bruised from lack of sleep. Dean thinks, not for the first time, that he's out of his league here. He doesn't know what he's doing when it comes to helping Cas, or Sam for that matter, recover. Dean doesn't know how to make them better. He sure as hell doesn't know how to fix all the things that are broken inside of them, how to help them become whole again. He's afraid that whatever he ends up doing will just fuck them up even worse than they already are.
"Dean?" Castiel is looking at him, his gaze troubled. "Is there something you think we forgot?"
"No, no," Dean says quickly, his thoughts returning to the matter at hand. "I think we'll have enough food to get us through the month if need be," he adds. For the past week he's been making these regular supply runs with just Castiel. After their run-in with the hellhounds, Bobby thought it safer to have the angel accompanying them on these trips in case anything unexpected happened again.
Dean, though, has learned that Castiel comes with his own set of limitations now. His powers are not back fully, and no one knows if they ever will be. Between its suppression by the monster souls and its stint in Purgatory, Castiel's grace must have undergone significant enough trauma to leave the angel near-human. Castiel's body now needs sleep, food, and nutrients to function. He feels pain, heat, and cold like a human. He can't heal his vessel automatically, and exerting too much of his angel mojo like he did in the hellhound attack drains him for days, making his healing and recovery time even longer. For all intents and purposes, Castiel is living the life of a human, albeit an abnormally strong one who happens to have wings that Dean sees glimpses of in the rare moments when Castiel loosens his hold over his self-control. Maybe it's Dean's own time in Purgatory - and seeing Cas in something akin to his true form - that's to blame for him sometimes being able to see parts of Castiel he never could before: a hint of white light pulsing under his skin, a flicker of multi-hued wings arching out all around him, and a bright blue flame behind his eyes.
Dean sighs, drumming a beat with his fingers against the steering wheel. The snow clicks softly against the windows, and the wipers swipe across the windshield slowly, clearing away the gathering flakes of ice. Dean turns up the heater, wanting to fight back the growing chill. The radio's broken, and the sound of their heavy breathing fills the cab of the truck.
They're close to Bobby's now. The land around them is flat and uniform, and the roads are narrow and winding. They pass a couple of the neighboring homesteads, their hulking farming equipment and storage barns covered in mounds of snow.
"There's another storm coming," Castiel says out of the blue, distracting Dean from the soft pull of the road.
"Did you pick that up using angel doppler radar or something?" Dean asks with a smirk.
"I read it in the newspaper," Cas says, pointing to the stack of local and national papers Dean had purchased, hoping to find something weird enough to let them know that supernatural baddies are still alive and kicking (so to speak). It's been all-too-quiet on the Western front, and from experience Dean knows that usually means something nasty is cooking.
A short time later they're turning into the salvage yard, driving through the rusted old gate and following the cleared private road up to the house itself. The snow's still coming down, and the way the daylight hits the icy shroud that covers the heaps of car scraps and metal has it glinting, shimmering over everything. Dean slides the truck between the ruins of a beautiful, cherry-red Pontiac GTO and the hulking remains of the blue Oldsmobile station wagon Bobby towed in before the storm.
When Dean pulls up in front of the house, Sam and Bobby are both standing on the porch, coats and gloves pulled on. Last week Bobby got a new dog, a massive rottweiler named Cheney, which greets their arrival now with a series of loud barks. Dean never did find out what happened to good ol' Rumsfeld, but he suspects the dog had been through a lot in its years living with Bobby.
Dean climbs out of the truck, Cas following his lead, and the frigid wind whips and tugs sharply at the collar of Dean's jacket. Castiel shivers, and Dean bites back a curse at the cold air, the way the wind seeps in through his layers. While in town, they picked up winter necessities from the thrift store. Cas needed winter clothes and a coat that actually fit him, and Dean and Sam were both due for new jackets and thermals.
Dean feels clumsy as he moves to unload the truck, his body sluggish after a long day of driving. He shakes it off, fighting the coldness and the stiffness trying to settle in his bones. He turns to Cas, smiling when he sees the angel trying to dust snowflakes out of his windblown hair.
"You missed one," Dean laughs, leaning in toward Castiel and attempting to flick an already-melted flake from a lock of dark hair falling limply over Castiel's forehead. Failing to do that, he tucks the lock behind one of Castiel's cold-flushed ears. "Sorry I forgot to get you a cap, man," he says, taking a moment to raise the collar of Castiel's wool coat.
Dean had Cas try on a few different coats to find the best fit. They chose a couple of heavy parkas, but Dean's favorite is the dark, black peacoat Cas is now wearing. A bit reminiscent of the trenchcoat, but sleeker, better-fitted. Castiel looks tall and lean in it, and the coat carries with it the sort of sophisticated look Dean would expect to see in some book-laden Northeast academic.
"I'm still trying to get used to feeling the cold," Castiel murmurs, and Dean can read all the other things unvoiced in that single confession. I'm trying to get used to being so human.
Dean clears his throat, steps closer to Cas, blocking a part of the wind. His boots crunch in the snow and ice, and it sounds like the snapping of old bones. "It's not so bad," Dean says, hand reaching up to brush a couple of big, fat flakes off of Castiel's shoulder before he can do it himself. "It gets easier."
"Made the trip okay?" a voice asks from behind them, and Dean steps back, flushing as he turns away from Cas and toward Sam and Bobby.
Dean nods. "We made it in good time despite only half of the roads being cleared," he reports. "Got enough supplies to last us through the month. Got canned milk as well, so no more emergency late-night trips to town for milk to feed Sammy's shameful cereal habit."
"My shameful cereal habit?" Sam snorts, shaking his head. "Dean, you and Cas cleaned out four boxes of Lucky Charms last week."
Dean shrugs, flashing his brother a cheeky smile. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Is this where I tell everyone about your Nutella addiction? I saw the empty jars in your room."
"It's really good!" Sam insists, before launching into his over-rehearsed spiel about the little-known health benefits of the hazelnut spread.
Dean can't pay attention though because Cheney's sniffing at his boots. Preferring to keep his distance, Dean doesn't bend down to pet the dog. He's been a bit wary of dogs since his stint in the Pit, memories of death by hellhound enough to birth a new phobia. Cas, though, is good with the dog, bending down even now to run his gloved hand behind Cheney's floppy ears. He's saying something to the dog in Enochian, and for a moment Dean wonders if it can understand Castiel's whispered angel-speak better than Bobby's slangy, shouted English commands.
"Bobby's got baked chicken and mashed potatoes on the stove for dinner," Sam's saying when Dean turns back to him, his broad arms loaded up with supplies.
"You're too good to us, Bobby," Dean calls out with a grin. Bobby's got his cap pulled low, but he's squinting over at Dean with a look that says, Oh, I know.
Between all four of them, they're able to unload the truck and get the supplies into the house in a matter of minutes. When the screen door closes shut behind Dean with a soft clack, he breathes in the warm, familiar scent of baking chicken. Bobby's house is dim and cluttered like always, not much light working its way in through the dingy windows. Dean finds Sam in the kitchen, unloading canned goods between the piles of books covering the dinner table.
Castiel is looking out of the kitchen window, his body quiet and still. He's been quiet all day in fact, and Dean knows that means something's on the angel's mind. If only Cas would talk to him about whatever it is.
"Cas, you okay?" Dean asks, and he's lost count of how many times he's asked that question in the course of any given day this past month.
"I think I'm tired," Castiel admits without meeting Dean's eyes. "I'll head upstairs now if you don't need me for anything else."
"We're good here," Dean says, watching the curve of Castiel's back as he disappears around the corner. There's a carefulness to his steps now, as if Cas is trying to find some new sort of balance, a new way of existing in his skin. Dean sighs, and when he turns around he finds Bobby watching him with a knowing look. He motions for Dean to follow him, and Dean nods.
"Hey, Sam, you think you can take care of putting everything away?" Dean asks, placing the can of pinto beans he'd been holding on to the kitchen table.
"No problem," Sam says, hair flipping into his face as he turns to look at Dean. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says. "Bobby just wants to get on my case for forgetting to stock up on his Werther's Originals."
Sam snorts, and Dean huffs a soft laugh as he exits the kitchen, remembering all the times he and Sam teased Bobby about his "old man" candy. Dean winds his way through the foyer and into the cavernous, dungeon-dark library where Bobby spends most of his waking hours. He's got the fireplace blazing, and it's casting a soft light in the room, revealing the devil's trap painted on the ceiling.
Bobby's sitting behind his large desk, face half-hidden by a tower of books. "How's feathers?" he asks when Dean settles in a chair in front of him.
"Still not sleeping much," Dean huffs, hand coming to rest on a book of Navajo folklore. He's taken to sleeping on the couch in Castiel's room, staying close in order to help Cas through the fits that sometimes hit late at night.
"And you?" Bobby asks, and Dean can tell there's a tired smile hidden somewhere behind his graying beard.
"Still not sleeping much," Dean laughs, shaking his head.
"I'm not surprised," Bobby mutters, sitting back in his chair. "You're running yourself ragged taking care of Cas, and Sam too. You think your own trauma is just gonna take a backseat to everyone else's? You've been to Hell too, boy. And to Purgatory."
Dean balls his hand into a fist and raises his head to look at Bobby. "This is how I deal, Bobby. And I am dealing."
Bobby sighs heavily. His eyes move over Dean, a soft affection lighting his face. "I don't think you are, kid. And that's what worries me."
Dean looks out of the library's only uncovered window; the snow's falling faster now, coming down in thick gusts and swirls. "Cas says there's another storm coming in soon," he says, needing to change the subject, needing not to focus on the cold shiver of fear that lies just beneath everything he does, everything he says.
"We ready for it?" Bobby asks, voice gruff.
"I think so," Dean says, shifting his legs. "More ready than we've been in the past."
Dean meets Bobby's eyes, and he knows that Bobby's aware that he's talking about more than a blizzard or ice storm.
Bobby nods his head, turning to stare at the fire. "Something's coming. I can feel it in my bones."
Dean closes his eyes, shivers; he can feel it too.
Dean refers to them as panic attacks, but this one isn't like the others. Castiel doesn't hear the endless, inchoate jeer of their voices, and doesn't feel them slithering through his consciousness, seeking nooks and crannies to taunt him through. This panic attack isn't a flashback, isn't a fever-phantasm of pain and horror, even if there is still a sense of dread lapping at the outer limits of the illusion he finds himself in.
This isn't a hallucination or a memory at all, he realizes. It's a dream, and for a moment it sends him off-kilter with the memory of falling slowly, like a feather on the breeze, maybe one of his own feathers that worked loose on his long, leisurely tumble to earth and wafted back and forth on the gentle breath of the wind. Castiel fell slowly, and humanity crept up on him just as gradually: a dry mouth that signaled thirst, a gnawing feeling in his stomach that he recognized as hunger, a tight band of pressure around his temples that he knew was anxiety, and a lack of surety that appalled him. And weariness. He had been endless, boundless energy, intent, impulse, and force of will, filling the sky and stretching to the stars and beyond, always on the move. But as his grace dwindled, gravity constrained him and the effort to stay airborne exhausted him, so he began to sleep like humans do. After a time, he began to dream like humans do.
And this is a dream, he's as sure as he can be of it.
Castiel is walking on a beach, wet hard-packed sand underfoot and a steady drizzle spattering his face with tiny, cold droplets. In his peripheral vision he can see a figure abreast of him, but he keeps his eyes fixed to the horizon as they meander along. Castiel doesn't have to turn and focus on his companion properly to know who is keeping step with him, because his brother's presence reverberates inside him. It fills him with joy even as the memory of what he did sends guilt and remorse crashing relentlessly through him in time with the waves breaking on the shoreline.
"You're dreaming, Castiel," Balthazar tells him after some time has passed. "Dreaming of the ocean. The water."
The sand feels icy cold between Castiel's bare toes, and his feet sink down into its grip, a suction that doesn't seem like it wants to let go, that might pull him down into the sludge so that it engulfs him. He stares out to sea, across the flat gray expanse that meets an equally dreary sky miles away, in a dark line that bisects the view, and he shivers because he can't get past the feeling that there is something out there watching him, waiting for him.
Balthazar folds an arm across his middle, tweaks at his chin with thumb and fingers as he mulls. "I suspect this dream means something," he supplies helpfully.
"I know that," Castiel says, slanting wary eyes towards his brother. "But what does it mean?"
Balthazar smirks and avoids answering. "Did you know dreams have the power to unify the body, mind, and spirit?" he deflects instead, his tone gone frosty as his lip curls up derisively. "And that dreams provide you with insight?"
Castiel does know this, because he remembers what it was like to dream before, in that other fall from grace, remembers how the transitional state before waking was filled with random, jumbled fantasies, a mixture of perfectly mundane doodles taken from the events of his long existence, and other more urgent images that often confused him but always transfixed him, visions that never failed to vividly express his concerns and preoccupations. Dean, always Dean, utterly consumed by Michael's light, Michael's single-mindedness, and Michael's divine justice, meted out obediently, as it ever was, because Michael was a hammer. The insight those dreams afforded Castiel after he woke came through his acknowledgment that he would die to protect Dean from his brother. And it was acknowledgment rather than dawning realization, because some small part of him had known, from the moment he first saw Dean's torn, damaged soul still glimmering in the murky smoke of the Pit, that he would give up everything he knew and was for it.
This isn't one of those dreams, even if it does vividly express his concerns and preoccupations, because he is lucid and aware in this dream. And aside from his preoccupation with the water, and the fear of being pulled into its darkness, it suddenly hits him that he's here in the dream with his brother, the brother he sacrificed so ruthlessly to his quest. He wants to believe that Balthazar's presence can mean only one thing, so he lets a wild hope flare up bright inside him. "You're dreamwalking me," he marvels. "That means you're-"
"Dead."
Balthazar cuts him off sharply, cuts the surge of relief off too. "Still dead. Thanks to you." He tsks. "I didn't see that coming. I have to hand it to you, Cas, that backstabbing was worthy of Zachariah at his most devious. But then, you were his protégé at one time weren't you? How ironic." He pauses, barks out a humorless chuckle. "If I'd known this would happen, I don't think I would have compromised my own position quite so thoroughly at your trial."
Castiel is young, and his goodness and compassion have misled him, Zachariah… Balthazar's voice had rung out as clear as a bell in the clamor, and all eyes had turned to him in his fervor and conviction. These are the same qualities that mark him as being among the very best of us.
The memory is scarlet agony, an explosion of grief as fiery and incandescent as his brother's grace when it twisted and burned like a supernova pinned on the blade of Castiel's sword. Castiel cries out his anguish and falls to his knees, prostrating himself there on the sand. "Forgive me," he chokes out. "It was the only way…I had to stop-"
"Foolish, foolish child," Balthazar chides. His eyes stay pale and frigid as he looks down, but his interruption is quiet and without the same scorn as before. "What have you done, Castiel?" he asks, and he shakes his head. "You stopped nothing."
As he registers what Balthazar said, uncertainty and confusion swell up inside Castiel, with fear close on their heels. But he retains enough presence of mind to question his brother's words. "What does that mean?" he repeats, an even more puzzled echo of what he asked a few moments before.
Balthazar sighs, and Castiel frowns because he can see there is sadness in his brother's expression now, but he doesn't understand why. "Balthazar, what does that mean?" he asks again, and now the world is shaking around him, and Balthazar is becoming translucent, flickering in and out like a mirage in the desert. "Wait," Castiel cries, his anxiety making him desperate as he reaches up. "What does that mean? And do you know what's coming from the darkness? Balthazar…"
His brother's voice is distant then, cutting in and out with a harsher sound, the sound of Castiel's name uttered urgently and tersely, but Castiel filters it out, strains to listen to Balthazar instead.
…who begins it, is the only one who can end it…
"Castiel. Cas, come on."
Castiel jolts to awareness abruptly, tracks his eyes along the forearm attached to the hand gripping his shoulder, up to stare at Bobby. He says the first thing that springs to mind, slurs it out thickly. "The dreamer has stopped sleeping."
Bobby raises an eyebrow. "Whatever you say." He jerks his head over toward the battered couch opposite the bed, where Dean is sprawled face-down in a cushion, fully clothed, boots and all, a hand dangling loosely off the edge. "He's dead to the world. And he needs the sleep." He releases Castiel's shoulder then, straightens, keeps his voice low. "If you're having screaming nightmares, best you take the couch downstairs from now on and let him have the bed. He's been up half the night dealing with you."
Castiel has only the barest memory of half-the-night, but he nods dumbly as he sits up. The fatigue he felt after he destroyed the hellhound is much less intense now; his body doesn't feel as leaden and exhausted as it did when Dean stumbled him up the stairs and ordered him to rest right after he flexed what's left of his grace. But even now, a little more than a week later, some degree of lethargy still lingers, made worse by the fact that his slumber is fitful at best, and he yawns widely.
Bobby rolls his eyes as he turns to head for the door. "You've been crashed out for near fourteen hours," he throws back over his shoulder in an impatient whisper. "Come on. Coffee's on, it'll give you a boost."
Castiel watches Bobby's back as he exits, listens to him creak slowly down the stairs. He shakes his head then, blinks eyes that are gritty with sleep. He glances over to the window, boarded up now and with thick clear plastic taped over the wood to keep the winter chill at bay. Weak sunlight seeps in between the pine slats, burnishing the air it beams through, and he leans over to swat his hand gently through a ray. For a moment he remembers gliding through the sky, the sun so close he could trail an idle finger through its fiery plasma, remembers basking in its scorching heat and watching as solar flares streaked out of its brilliance. He knows his grace is so fragile now that he might never soar so high again.
He pulls himself away from his regret, back to reality. He thinks he dreamed something that wasn't a vision of blood spilled by the abomination he was, is, but he can't recall it because his mind is unclear, draped in foggy bluish-gray that makes him think of drizzle, and dank, amorphous sea mist rolling in off some primeval ocean. He feels thirsty and his stomach feels hollow. How many days has it been since Purgatory?, he wonders, because he has lost track of time. Yet, he can feel himself weakening in microscopic increments, as this body's bones close around him, trapping him in their cage.
It is as it was then, he surmises, as it was when he was falling in the months before Stull Cemetery. It's no real surprise, because he knows he isn't what an angel should be. Soon the gaps between each ivory prison bar will be too narrow for his grace to squeeze through, soon he will gaze at the world with blinkered human eyes and rely on his fingertips to touch it, instead of feeling it electrify through every atom of his being simply by virtue of his presence on this plane. His light is dimming with each fraction of every passing second, the flame that blazed so bright in him little more than glowing embers now. His grace is tattered and frayed into rags. He's stained with the filth of the souls he carried inside himself, marked with their diamond-sharp teeth and polluted with their rank territorial pissing, and their lasting taint exiles him from his Father's kingdom as completely as he was cast out and cut off from it when Zachariah barred the gate to him.
Zachariah at his most devious…
Even through his melancholy, the random thought makes Castiel smile ruefully as he muses that Zachariah would likely be proud of him if he still existed. He gives voice to the irony. "I was his protégé at one time."
He shifts his legs over the side of the bed, plants his feet on the floor. The rug is grainy underfoot and for a second it feels like…sand? It makes no sense, and he dismisses the comparison as soon as it comes to mind. He looks down at himself. He's clad in soft plaid flannel pajama pants and a faded black t-shirt he recognizes as being one of Dean's. He can't remember putting them on, but he knows he's been waking up screaming, floundering and drenched in sweat so often it has become his norm, and the thought triggers a phantom memory of soothing words and capable hands cleaning him up. Almost without thinking, he fists a handful of the worn cotton shirt, closes his eyes, and buries his face in it, breathes in Dean, and it soothes and calms him.
A gauze dressing is still covering the slash where the hellhound's claws raked his belly, and Castiel picks at the tape, peels it away. The mark has been slow to heal; it's still puffy and inflamed with the contagion of brimstone. Unbidden, Castiel slides his hand up under the fabric of his shirt to the other new scar he bears, the raised red welt on the otherwise smooth skin of his chest. He fits his palm to it. A seal upon my heart, he finds himself thinking again, because he still can't believe this soul he redeemed was, in turn, his own salvation. Like the seal upon your arm.
The skin feels warmer there, feels as charged with static as it did when Dean pressed his own hand to it in the kitchen the first time Castiel ventured downstairs from his self-imposed exile. As he's remembering it, Castiel hears a stifled moan from the couch. He swivels his head to look, and Dean is shifting restlessly, rolling over onto his back. His body has tensed up, and his eyes are moving erratically under their lids. He looks annoyed, and he frowns in his sleep, makes another small, unintelligible noise that sounds like a protest as he flails a careless hand up and scrabbles at the top of his arm. He searches for a few seconds before his fingers fall still right where Castiel knows he left his own brand. And then Dean sighs out long and deep, and Castiel can see his muscles relax, see the crease between his eyes soften.
Castiel feels it again, a corresponding prickling, a smarting sensation in his own scar that has him gasping as it bursts into a tingle that simmers from the center of the mark out to its boundaries. He swallows, listens to Dean's breathing slow down again, studies Dean's face, flushed pink with the heat of sleep and looking too young in repose. "I'm here, Dean," he murmurs out loud.
Castiel's reverie is disturbed by a clatter from below and muffled cursing. More sounds drift up the stairs, drawers opening and closing, the clash of crockery, and as he pushes up to stand and pad over to the door, he can smell the rich, dark earthiness of coffee, hear the sizzle of oil in a skillet.
There is an open door opposite him, leading into the bathroom where Dean propped him up against the wall and used a wet washcloth to wipe sweat, tears, and putrid vomit from his face the week before. He shuffles in there, snaps on the light. The mirror has been replaced, and he studies his reflection again. He's used to seeing himself in the confines of his vessel, in the shape of a thirty-four-year-old human male. He looks and sees what other humans see - his eyes are a sharp shade of blue, and his dark hair is thick and tousled. He stares at his vessel, at himself, for soon he will be no more than this, and the eyes that look out of the mirror back at him are dull with guilt, and shadowed with the ashes of his grace.
Castiel can hear snoring from another room across the landing, the room Sam cleared out for himself the week before after too many nights folding his long limbs to fit the couch in the study. Castiel makes his way over to it, sneaks a look around the door to see a mattress on the floor, and a tuft of Sam's hair poking out from underneath a pile of blankets and comforters. One of Sam's bare feet is uncovered, and Castiel sidles closer, bends, and carefully rearranges the bedding to cover the extremity. Sam's hand is outflung too, seems to be reaching out in an unconscious imitation of the handshake he offered Castiel when they first met. Castiel studies it, sets his impression of the boy with the taint of demons against himself back then, so sure and so righteous, before setting it against himself in the present. "I'm the one with the taint now," he whispers.
Castiel shuffles back out, pulls the door closed, wincing as the hinge groans in protest, before he makes his stealthy way down the stairs. He hovers at the kitchen door and spies on Bobby for an uncertain moment, watching him bustle around the stove. It occurs to him that he hasn't spent any time alone with Bobby since returning from Purgatory, and the prospect makes him nervous and dry-mouthed. He's just debating slinking back up the stairs to wait for Dean to wake when Bobby sees him and nods briskly.
"Grub's up," he announces. "Sit." He heaps lurid yellow scrambled eggs onto two plates, and he swivels, sets the food down on the table before reaching back for a plate of toasted bread he positions dead center.
Castiel perches on the nearest chair as Bobby hooks the other one out with his boot. Bobby clears his throat as he reaches for a pot of coffee to his right, pours the steaming dark liquid into a mug and slides it towards Castiel before filling his own cup. Bobby raises it to his mouth, drinks long and deep, smacks his lips. "Jet fuel," he declares. "That'll wake you up."
Castiel remembers coffee from his previous attempt at becoming human, remembers its burnt, nutty taste on his palate, remembers how the buzz of caffeine set his heart racing and made him feel alert and restored. He hasn't had any since then, and it goes down hot and bitter, makes his eyes water. He sets down his mug, forks up a good-sized clump of his eggs, and tips it into his mouth. It's salty and drowned in butter, so much so he can imagine it clogging up his arteries. He muses briefly that he'll have to watch that in the near future.
Bobby winks at him. "Protein," he says around his own mouthful. "Looks like you need to build up some muscle, especially if your mojo is running low and we need you to break out the big guns." He grimaces. "You're no good to us if you can't fight."
That grates, and Castiel knows his response is testy. "Because without my mojo, I'm just a baby in a…" He glances down at his front. "In a… a…htabbas kcalb t-shirt." He frowns, momentarily perplexed. "I speak every language known to man, but I don't recognize that dialect. Perhaps I'm…" Oh. "Reading it back to front," he finishes off redundantly.
Bobby snorts, shakes his head. "Anyway, as I was saying. If you can't hold your own without your super powers, you could get one of us killed." His tone mellows then. "Or get yourself killed. Which would be a damn shame, considering."
There is a look in Bobby's eyes that might be kindness, and it disarms Castiel because he thinks it might be the first time he has ever seen Bobby's gaze fall on him and soften the way it often does when he directs it at the Winchesters. Perhaps it's an opening, and Castiel swallows, takes the leap, tumbles out words in a breakneck rush. "I'm sorry…for the things I did, for the lies, for your friend-"
Bobby holds up a hand to stop Castiel's breathless flow of words. "Stop." He lets out a long breath, his hand crumpling up a napkin, and it's clear to Castiel that he's having difficulty finding words. "We don't talk about her," he says finally. "It was wrong, what you did. You know that, and I ain't saying a damn thing to make you feel better about it. So it's best we don't talk about her. You're here, and I ain't kicking you out. So we just - we need to try to keep moving forward."
Castiel nods, swallowing around what feels like a lump of food stuck in his throat. "Dean said something similar. About not being able to excuse what I did, but needing to move forward."
Bobby nods. "Well, Dean would know something about moving past, about trying to forgive. He went through this with Sam, trying to get past the lies. And hell, I lied to Dean myself about his brother being topside for the best part of a year." He gives a wry huff, shrugs, and then returns to being as brusque as he ever was when he adds, "Now shut up and eat your eggs." He shovels in some more of his own, chews noisily as he reaches for a thick piece of toast and tears off a strip.
Aside from Bobby's usual stony glare, Castiel has never been really sure where he stands with the old man. Although he had come to feel welcome in Bobby's home, even going so far as to seek it out as a place of shelter when Rachel injured him, he has always sensed an underlying suspicion in Bobby's demeanor. Yet, Bobby trusted him enough to allow him to reach in and draw power from his soul, and sometimes he thinks Bobby may even think of him as a friend. But another part of Castiel fears that any familiarity Bobby directs his way is born of a grudging tolerance for his presence that is motivated by a practical, logical, and industrial appreciation of Castiel as a lethal weapon, rather than by real friendship. Bobby confuses Castiel, and right now Castiel's sheer bewilderment at the fact they're even sitting here together at all bubbles over into a frustration that means he can't shut up to order. "I don't know why you permit me to stay," he manages hoarsely, glancing up from examining his scrambled eggs.
Bobby's stare goes baleful. "It must be your sparkling personality." He reaches for the coffee pot, tops up first his mug and then Castiel's. "Stop wallowing," he growls. "You fucked up. Who in this house hasn't?" He spears a blob of egg with his fork. "Of course, on a scale of one to ten, you scored a goddamn billion with the crap you pulled. But there's no point bellyachin' like some bratty kid. It's over. Done."
It isn't so very different from Dean's summing up of their similarities as he raged against Castiel's apathy. "I take it you think I deserve saving as well," he mocks weakly.
"It don't always have to be an eye for an eye, son," Bobby says with what sounds like quiet exhaustion. "Despite what your holy how-to guidebook says."
Despite what everyone thinks, Castiel doesn't remember it all. He saw only appalling glimpses of the crap he pulled, but he knows that he doesn't deserve absolution or even mercy, knows the gruff dispensation, It's over, lobbed out with what seems like little thought and consideration, is a convenient dismissal of things Bobby's decent, human frame of reference can never comprehend and doesn't want to confront. And there is irony in the fact that the man's underestimation of Castiel's capacity for ruthlessness, even in the face of what he has done, suddenly irks him. I have killed tens of thousands, razed the cities of antiquity, destroyed entire civilizations, he wants to roar, while he unfurls his wings, draws his sword, and blazes fury and burning anger that leaves the world in desolation and causes the heavens to tremble. I have walked through the fires of Hell. "I'm not a child, Bobby," he says instead, and his voice comes out thin and dangerous. "You can never conceive the magnitude of my sins. They are beyond your scope." He pauses a beat. "And so, I don't know why you permit me to stay."
Bobby is chewing still, but he exhales deeply and sets his fork down beside his plate as he swallows his mouthful and washes it down with a sip of his coffee. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and his stare is level. "Maybe I let you stay because it matters to Dean," he says evenly. "Or maybe I have enough scope to see past your sins. Maybe I have enough scope to see a friend who made a fuckin' awful mistake and needs a hand up. And yeah - a friend who deserves saving."
Castiel watches him through a moment of strained silence, until the tension is broken by an alarmed shout that echoes out from above them. The thundering beat of boots sounds on the stairs, rising to a crescendo of frantic progress up the hallway until Dean crashes in through the half-open kitchen door. He skids to a clumsy halt on the linoleum as he yelps, "Bobby, where's…" He trails off then, panting, his eyes huge and panic-stricken as he looks from Castiel to Bobby, back and forth for a long few seconds. "My eggs," he covers stiltedly. "Eggs. Where's my eggs? Don't I get any?"
Since Castiel's appetite is gone, he pushes his plate over towards the empty seat at his right. "You can have the rest of mine," he mutters.
Dean recovers his poise, scrutinizes Castiel with narrowed eyes as he sits down. He looks at him for a long moment before he says, "You've been eating like a horse all this past week." He picks up Castiel's fork and starts picking at the leftovers. "So. Care to explain that?"
Castiel is thrown for a second, and he wonders if it might be a trick question. "But you want me to eat," he defends. "And sleep. You've been…" He pauses as the phrases intensely irritating and utterly infuriating compete to be first. "Most encouraging in that respect."
Dean is reaching for the coffee pot now, slopping the dregs in to supplement Castiel's half-empty mug. He takes a gulp of the brew before he replies. "Yeah, but I mean - it's been more than a week since you ganked Cujo, and you said you felt better. And since you're a t-"
"A tool you need to be able to use in your defense?" Castiel interrupts, pushing down his disappointment so he can see the sense in Dean's words. "I know this. But - I'm still damaged. Blemished. I'm not a weapon you can rely on, so-"
"You're not a tool," Dean interrupts, almost aggressively. His shoulders go rigid, and his eyes gleam with annoyance as he pulls his face into a frown. "Jesus, Cas, is that what you really think?" He glowers at Castiel for a brittle moment, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, until he slumps, and his look turns part-accusing, part-puzzled. "Come on, man," he appeals, his voice gone quiet and meaningful. "Do we really have to do this again? Remember what I said? I went after you. And it wasn't just because you're good in a fight."
Castiel is vaguely aware of Bobby in his side vision. His back is to them, and he's puttering at the sink, calculated, minimal movements Castiel can tell are designed to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Castiel turns his focus back to Dean, allows himself to take comfort in what he knows is the truth, allows himself to feel the warmth of Dean's assertion. It makes him feel like things can be as they once were, and he hesitates only briefly before he says, "I'm sorry."
Dean snorts, rolls his shoulders, and suddenly the strained awkwardness dissipates, and the atmosphere is looser again. "If I ever hear that word again, it'll be too soon," he declares, and then he smiles crookedly at Castiel. "You're not a tool. Not that kind of tool anyway. Target. You're a target. That's what I wanted to say."
Castiel knows that his eyes go guarded at that. Dean notices it too, he can tell, because his gaze turns speculative as he leans back in his chair.
"Those wards," Dean offers, with the kind of offhandedness that isn't at all casual. "I see you scribbled a few extra patterns in there." He's still looking right at Castiel, but he slides his eyes away to direct them at the window and up to the strip of wall above the curtain rod. "I couldn't figure out what that was, sat here last night staring at it until I went cross-eyed, and then I knew. It's the one you painted on Bobby's fridge that day you crash-landed here after your lieutenant went postal."
Over at the sink, Bobby chuckles. He turns around to lean back against the countertop and shakes his head at Castiel. "Boy always was good with sigils," he remarks, and he taps his temple with his index finger. "Only ever had to show him once, and it was locked in there."
Dean nods triumphantly. "I got skills," he drawls. "Anyway, it made me think of what you said, Cas, right after it all went down." He cocks his head at Castiel then. "About how you'd be cleaning house upstairs. And it's got me wondering if we're about to have a rage of pissed-off angels on our ass."
Bobby huffs. "We even tried summoning your buddy Balthazar for a sitrep, but he was a no-show. Think he'll come if you call him now?"
Castiel knows he flinches reflexively as he swallows past the sudden, sickly surge of pain and remorse that snakes through his gut. He doesn't meet Bobby's eyes, tries to make himself think of something else, even while he gropes for an answer. "Balthazar - won't come," he mutters finally, his voice faded and weary.
Dean is oblivious to Castiel's evasion, makes a dismissive clucking sound with his tongue. "Yeah, we noticed," he retorts acidly. "Knowing Balthazar, he's probably somewhere throwing a non-stop kegger." He blows out a sharp exhale and sidetracks abruptly. "So, we have angels who might be coming to kick your ass. How about Crowley? Did you take him out of the equation while you were juiced up?"
Castiel finds that the unexpected diversion from his friend to his nemesis is a relief for only a second at most before it launches a cascade of memories, images, and snatches of conversations, a too-detailed record of the temptation and weakness that brought him so low. After clearing his throat of the despair that blocks it, he manages, "Crowley still lives." He turns up a helpless hand at Dean's withering eyebrow-raise. "He wasn't a threat," he defends weakly. "It seemed strategically wise to leave him in charge of running Hell." He sees the demon's endless, meandering, docile line of damned souls in his mind's eye as he continues. "He had…a system that seemed to work, and his sense of self-preservation seemed to promise cooperation."
Over to their right, Bobby makes a formless, venomous noise that combines disgust and exasperation, before he reaches up to tweak his beard thoughtfully, flicking his gaze from Castiel to Dean. "Well, now we're on the subject, do you think it's possible Crowley might have sent that pack of hellhounds after you to draw Cas out?" he suggests.
The hand Dean has resting on the table clenches, and his expression goes dark and troubled as he considers it. "He's got to be after his pound of flesh, Cas," he offers somberly.
Castiel casts his eyes down and away, breathes through the turmoil of bad memories the demon's name triggered. "It's possible," he confirms reluctantly. "He'll be aware of my - demotion. But…" He pauses, as he recalls the hellhound's confusion and fear, its lack of focus. "But that said, the creature was behaving erratically," he finishes. "It was afraid. And we still don't know what killed its packmates."
Dean bites his lip. "Okay," he says tightly. "If it means you're out of commission for a week afterwards, then I don't want you going superman unless we're really in the shitter. But it means we'll need to get you up to speed on fighting dirty as a human in case Crowley or one of the God-squad gets the jump on us." He nods decisively at Castiel, pushes the chair back and stands. "And we need to hit the books some more, find out what's out there that can kill a pack of hellhounds."
It's a welcome distraction, Castiel thinks, something that doesn't tear at him inside, something through which he might start to atone for all he has done.
He can do this.
Episode 9: Sioux Falls (Continued)
Masterpost: Supernatural: Redemption Road (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)
Authors: nyoka and zatnikatel
Characters/Pairing: pre-Dean/Castiel, Sam, Bobby
Rating: R
Word Count: ~25,000
Warnings: language, violence, memories of Hell [torture/gore/suggestiveness with implications of dub/non-con between Dean/Alastair]
Betas: dotfic and murron
Art: Chapter banners by smilla02; digital painting by usarechan, which you can also find here (it contains spoilers for the episode).
Summary: December moves in, inevitable as it is grueling.
December moves in, inevitable as it is grueling. The winter season always arrives hard and fast in South Dakota, the snow coming down in blankets of white that cover the world for months on end. Bobby's old Ford truck struggles over the snow-packed highway, but Dean maneuvers it expertly, knowing these old country roads like he knows the back of his hand. Dean remembers a number of occasions growing up where John left him and Sam at Bobby's for the winter, when money was tight and things were getting bad, and the boys needed a safe place to keep warm.
Dean still thinks of Bobby's home in that way - a safe haven from the storm, a place to keep warm. It's been all those things in the last few weeks, as well as a place to heal up and recoup. Dean glances over at the passenger seat and sees Castiel quietly watching the falling snow, a deep furrow creasing his forehead as he takes in the bleached white sky. Dean thinks: four weeks and three days. That's how long Cas has been back. And it's been one hell of an intense month for everyone involved.
Dean's eyes return to the road, and he grips the steering wheel tighter as he takes in the rolling countryside. They're driving north of the city, the state highway tracing a path through long stretches of wheat fields covered in thick blankets of snowfall. Soto Peak is capped with ice, glistening atop the distant mountain range. Snow weighs the surrounding pine trees down, branches sloping so low they almost touch the ground.
He sighs as they pass a downed power line. "Good thing we got that oil," he says, voice cutting through the sound of the tires crunching over the freshly-plowed road leading to Singer Salvage. "Should keep the generator running through the next few weeks. If another blizzard comes through, we'll be better prepared." He slants his eyes over to his right, sees that Castiel is still miles away, reaches over and pokes his friend's thigh. "Did we get all the supplies on the list?"
"I checked everything myself," Castiel says, and his voice is rough from disuse and exhaustion. He's holding the crumpled supply list in his hand, and Dean smiles at the crossed out marks Castiel made on the paper with one of Sam's lime-green highlighters.
Castiel falls silent again, and Dean wonders if it's the stress or the exhaustion that's weighing the most on him. The skin beneath Castiel's eyes is bruised from lack of sleep. Dean thinks, not for the first time, that he's out of his league here. He doesn't know what he's doing when it comes to helping Cas, or Sam for that matter, recover. Dean doesn't know how to make them better. He sure as hell doesn't know how to fix all the things that are broken inside of them, how to help them become whole again. He's afraid that whatever he ends up doing will just fuck them up even worse than they already are.
"Dean?" Castiel is looking at him, his gaze troubled. "Is there something you think we forgot?"
"No, no," Dean says quickly, his thoughts returning to the matter at hand. "I think we'll have enough food to get us through the month if need be," he adds. For the past week he's been making these regular supply runs with just Castiel. After their run-in with the hellhounds, Bobby thought it safer to have the angel accompanying them on these trips in case anything unexpected happened again.
Dean, though, has learned that Castiel comes with his own set of limitations now. His powers are not back fully, and no one knows if they ever will be. Between its suppression by the monster souls and its stint in Purgatory, Castiel's grace must have undergone significant enough trauma to leave the angel near-human. Castiel's body now needs sleep, food, and nutrients to function. He feels pain, heat, and cold like a human. He can't heal his vessel automatically, and exerting too much of his angel mojo like he did in the hellhound attack drains him for days, making his healing and recovery time even longer. For all intents and purposes, Castiel is living the life of a human, albeit an abnormally strong one who happens to have wings that Dean sees glimpses of in the rare moments when Castiel loosens his hold over his self-control. Maybe it's Dean's own time in Purgatory - and seeing Cas in something akin to his true form - that's to blame for him sometimes being able to see parts of Castiel he never could before: a hint of white light pulsing under his skin, a flicker of multi-hued wings arching out all around him, and a bright blue flame behind his eyes.
Dean sighs, drumming a beat with his fingers against the steering wheel. The snow clicks softly against the windows, and the wipers swipe across the windshield slowly, clearing away the gathering flakes of ice. Dean turns up the heater, wanting to fight back the growing chill. The radio's broken, and the sound of their heavy breathing fills the cab of the truck.
They're close to Bobby's now. The land around them is flat and uniform, and the roads are narrow and winding. They pass a couple of the neighboring homesteads, their hulking farming equipment and storage barns covered in mounds of snow.
"There's another storm coming," Castiel says out of the blue, distracting Dean from the soft pull of the road.
"Did you pick that up using angel doppler radar or something?" Dean asks with a smirk.
"I read it in the newspaper," Cas says, pointing to the stack of local and national papers Dean had purchased, hoping to find something weird enough to let them know that supernatural baddies are still alive and kicking (so to speak). It's been all-too-quiet on the Western front, and from experience Dean knows that usually means something nasty is cooking.
A short time later they're turning into the salvage yard, driving through the rusted old gate and following the cleared private road up to the house itself. The snow's still coming down, and the way the daylight hits the icy shroud that covers the heaps of car scraps and metal has it glinting, shimmering over everything. Dean slides the truck between the ruins of a beautiful, cherry-red Pontiac GTO and the hulking remains of the blue Oldsmobile station wagon Bobby towed in before the storm.
When Dean pulls up in front of the house, Sam and Bobby are both standing on the porch, coats and gloves pulled on. Last week Bobby got a new dog, a massive rottweiler named Cheney, which greets their arrival now with a series of loud barks. Dean never did find out what happened to good ol' Rumsfeld, but he suspects the dog had been through a lot in its years living with Bobby.
Dean climbs out of the truck, Cas following his lead, and the frigid wind whips and tugs sharply at the collar of Dean's jacket. Castiel shivers, and Dean bites back a curse at the cold air, the way the wind seeps in through his layers. While in town, they picked up winter necessities from the thrift store. Cas needed winter clothes and a coat that actually fit him, and Dean and Sam were both due for new jackets and thermals.
Dean feels clumsy as he moves to unload the truck, his body sluggish after a long day of driving. He shakes it off, fighting the coldness and the stiffness trying to settle in his bones. He turns to Cas, smiling when he sees the angel trying to dust snowflakes out of his windblown hair.
"You missed one," Dean laughs, leaning in toward Castiel and attempting to flick an already-melted flake from a lock of dark hair falling limply over Castiel's forehead. Failing to do that, he tucks the lock behind one of Castiel's cold-flushed ears. "Sorry I forgot to get you a cap, man," he says, taking a moment to raise the collar of Castiel's wool coat.
Dean had Cas try on a few different coats to find the best fit. They chose a couple of heavy parkas, but Dean's favorite is the dark, black peacoat Cas is now wearing. A bit reminiscent of the trenchcoat, but sleeker, better-fitted. Castiel looks tall and lean in it, and the coat carries with it the sort of sophisticated look Dean would expect to see in some book-laden Northeast academic.
"I'm still trying to get used to feeling the cold," Castiel murmurs, and Dean can read all the other things unvoiced in that single confession. I'm trying to get used to being so human.
Dean clears his throat, steps closer to Cas, blocking a part of the wind. His boots crunch in the snow and ice, and it sounds like the snapping of old bones. "It's not so bad," Dean says, hand reaching up to brush a couple of big, fat flakes off of Castiel's shoulder before he can do it himself. "It gets easier."
"Made the trip okay?" a voice asks from behind them, and Dean steps back, flushing as he turns away from Cas and toward Sam and Bobby.
Dean nods. "We made it in good time despite only half of the roads being cleared," he reports. "Got enough supplies to last us through the month. Got canned milk as well, so no more emergency late-night trips to town for milk to feed Sammy's shameful cereal habit."
"My shameful cereal habit?" Sam snorts, shaking his head. "Dean, you and Cas cleaned out four boxes of Lucky Charms last week."
Dean shrugs, flashing his brother a cheeky smile. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Is this where I tell everyone about your Nutella addiction? I saw the empty jars in your room."
"It's really good!" Sam insists, before launching into his over-rehearsed spiel about the little-known health benefits of the hazelnut spread.
Dean can't pay attention though because Cheney's sniffing at his boots. Preferring to keep his distance, Dean doesn't bend down to pet the dog. He's been a bit wary of dogs since his stint in the Pit, memories of death by hellhound enough to birth a new phobia. Cas, though, is good with the dog, bending down even now to run his gloved hand behind Cheney's floppy ears. He's saying something to the dog in Enochian, and for a moment Dean wonders if it can understand Castiel's whispered angel-speak better than Bobby's slangy, shouted English commands.
"Bobby's got baked chicken and mashed potatoes on the stove for dinner," Sam's saying when Dean turns back to him, his broad arms loaded up with supplies.
"You're too good to us, Bobby," Dean calls out with a grin. Bobby's got his cap pulled low, but he's squinting over at Dean with a look that says, Oh, I know.
Between all four of them, they're able to unload the truck and get the supplies into the house in a matter of minutes. When the screen door closes shut behind Dean with a soft clack, he breathes in the warm, familiar scent of baking chicken. Bobby's house is dim and cluttered like always, not much light working its way in through the dingy windows. Dean finds Sam in the kitchen, unloading canned goods between the piles of books covering the dinner table.
Castiel is looking out of the kitchen window, his body quiet and still. He's been quiet all day in fact, and Dean knows that means something's on the angel's mind. If only Cas would talk to him about whatever it is.
"Cas, you okay?" Dean asks, and he's lost count of how many times he's asked that question in the course of any given day this past month.
"I think I'm tired," Castiel admits without meeting Dean's eyes. "I'll head upstairs now if you don't need me for anything else."
"We're good here," Dean says, watching the curve of Castiel's back as he disappears around the corner. There's a carefulness to his steps now, as if Cas is trying to find some new sort of balance, a new way of existing in his skin. Dean sighs, and when he turns around he finds Bobby watching him with a knowing look. He motions for Dean to follow him, and Dean nods.
"Hey, Sam, you think you can take care of putting everything away?" Dean asks, placing the can of pinto beans he'd been holding on to the kitchen table.
"No problem," Sam says, hair flipping into his face as he turns to look at Dean. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says. "Bobby just wants to get on my case for forgetting to stock up on his Werther's Originals."
Sam snorts, and Dean huffs a soft laugh as he exits the kitchen, remembering all the times he and Sam teased Bobby about his "old man" candy. Dean winds his way through the foyer and into the cavernous, dungeon-dark library where Bobby spends most of his waking hours. He's got the fireplace blazing, and it's casting a soft light in the room, revealing the devil's trap painted on the ceiling.
Bobby's sitting behind his large desk, face half-hidden by a tower of books. "How's feathers?" he asks when Dean settles in a chair in front of him.
"Still not sleeping much," Dean huffs, hand coming to rest on a book of Navajo folklore. He's taken to sleeping on the couch in Castiel's room, staying close in order to help Cas through the fits that sometimes hit late at night.
"And you?" Bobby asks, and Dean can tell there's a tired smile hidden somewhere behind his graying beard.
"Still not sleeping much," Dean laughs, shaking his head.
"I'm not surprised," Bobby mutters, sitting back in his chair. "You're running yourself ragged taking care of Cas, and Sam too. You think your own trauma is just gonna take a backseat to everyone else's? You've been to Hell too, boy. And to Purgatory."
Dean balls his hand into a fist and raises his head to look at Bobby. "This is how I deal, Bobby. And I am dealing."
Bobby sighs heavily. His eyes move over Dean, a soft affection lighting his face. "I don't think you are, kid. And that's what worries me."
Dean looks out of the library's only uncovered window; the snow's falling faster now, coming down in thick gusts and swirls. "Cas says there's another storm coming in soon," he says, needing to change the subject, needing not to focus on the cold shiver of fear that lies just beneath everything he does, everything he says.
"We ready for it?" Bobby asks, voice gruff.
"I think so," Dean says, shifting his legs. "More ready than we've been in the past."
Dean meets Bobby's eyes, and he knows that Bobby's aware that he's talking about more than a blizzard or ice storm.
Bobby nods his head, turning to stare at the fire. "Something's coming. I can feel it in my bones."
Dean closes his eyes, shivers; he can feel it too.
Dean refers to them as panic attacks, but this one isn't like the others. Castiel doesn't hear the endless, inchoate jeer of their voices, and doesn't feel them slithering through his consciousness, seeking nooks and crannies to taunt him through. This panic attack isn't a flashback, isn't a fever-phantasm of pain and horror, even if there is still a sense of dread lapping at the outer limits of the illusion he finds himself in.
This isn't a hallucination or a memory at all, he realizes. It's a dream, and for a moment it sends him off-kilter with the memory of falling slowly, like a feather on the breeze, maybe one of his own feathers that worked loose on his long, leisurely tumble to earth and wafted back and forth on the gentle breath of the wind. Castiel fell slowly, and humanity crept up on him just as gradually: a dry mouth that signaled thirst, a gnawing feeling in his stomach that he recognized as hunger, a tight band of pressure around his temples that he knew was anxiety, and a lack of surety that appalled him. And weariness. He had been endless, boundless energy, intent, impulse, and force of will, filling the sky and stretching to the stars and beyond, always on the move. But as his grace dwindled, gravity constrained him and the effort to stay airborne exhausted him, so he began to sleep like humans do. After a time, he began to dream like humans do.
And this is a dream, he's as sure as he can be of it.
Castiel is walking on a beach, wet hard-packed sand underfoot and a steady drizzle spattering his face with tiny, cold droplets. In his peripheral vision he can see a figure abreast of him, but he keeps his eyes fixed to the horizon as they meander along. Castiel doesn't have to turn and focus on his companion properly to know who is keeping step with him, because his brother's presence reverberates inside him. It fills him with joy even as the memory of what he did sends guilt and remorse crashing relentlessly through him in time with the waves breaking on the shoreline.
"You're dreaming, Castiel," Balthazar tells him after some time has passed. "Dreaming of the ocean. The water."
The sand feels icy cold between Castiel's bare toes, and his feet sink down into its grip, a suction that doesn't seem like it wants to let go, that might pull him down into the sludge so that it engulfs him. He stares out to sea, across the flat gray expanse that meets an equally dreary sky miles away, in a dark line that bisects the view, and he shivers because he can't get past the feeling that there is something out there watching him, waiting for him.
Balthazar folds an arm across his middle, tweaks at his chin with thumb and fingers as he mulls. "I suspect this dream means something," he supplies helpfully.
"I know that," Castiel says, slanting wary eyes towards his brother. "But what does it mean?"
Balthazar smirks and avoids answering. "Did you know dreams have the power to unify the body, mind, and spirit?" he deflects instead, his tone gone frosty as his lip curls up derisively. "And that dreams provide you with insight?"
Castiel does know this, because he remembers what it was like to dream before, in that other fall from grace, remembers how the transitional state before waking was filled with random, jumbled fantasies, a mixture of perfectly mundane doodles taken from the events of his long existence, and other more urgent images that often confused him but always transfixed him, visions that never failed to vividly express his concerns and preoccupations. Dean, always Dean, utterly consumed by Michael's light, Michael's single-mindedness, and Michael's divine justice, meted out obediently, as it ever was, because Michael was a hammer. The insight those dreams afforded Castiel after he woke came through his acknowledgment that he would die to protect Dean from his brother. And it was acknowledgment rather than dawning realization, because some small part of him had known, from the moment he first saw Dean's torn, damaged soul still glimmering in the murky smoke of the Pit, that he would give up everything he knew and was for it.
This isn't one of those dreams, even if it does vividly express his concerns and preoccupations, because he is lucid and aware in this dream. And aside from his preoccupation with the water, and the fear of being pulled into its darkness, it suddenly hits him that he's here in the dream with his brother, the brother he sacrificed so ruthlessly to his quest. He wants to believe that Balthazar's presence can mean only one thing, so he lets a wild hope flare up bright inside him. "You're dreamwalking me," he marvels. "That means you're-"
"Dead."
Balthazar cuts him off sharply, cuts the surge of relief off too. "Still dead. Thanks to you." He tsks. "I didn't see that coming. I have to hand it to you, Cas, that backstabbing was worthy of Zachariah at his most devious. But then, you were his protégé at one time weren't you? How ironic." He pauses, barks out a humorless chuckle. "If I'd known this would happen, I don't think I would have compromised my own position quite so thoroughly at your trial."
Castiel is young, and his goodness and compassion have misled him, Zachariah… Balthazar's voice had rung out as clear as a bell in the clamor, and all eyes had turned to him in his fervor and conviction. These are the same qualities that mark him as being among the very best of us.
The memory is scarlet agony, an explosion of grief as fiery and incandescent as his brother's grace when it twisted and burned like a supernova pinned on the blade of Castiel's sword. Castiel cries out his anguish and falls to his knees, prostrating himself there on the sand. "Forgive me," he chokes out. "It was the only way…I had to stop-"
"Foolish, foolish child," Balthazar chides. His eyes stay pale and frigid as he looks down, but his interruption is quiet and without the same scorn as before. "What have you done, Castiel?" he asks, and he shakes his head. "You stopped nothing."
As he registers what Balthazar said, uncertainty and confusion swell up inside Castiel, with fear close on their heels. But he retains enough presence of mind to question his brother's words. "What does that mean?" he repeats, an even more puzzled echo of what he asked a few moments before.
Balthazar sighs, and Castiel frowns because he can see there is sadness in his brother's expression now, but he doesn't understand why. "Balthazar, what does that mean?" he asks again, and now the world is shaking around him, and Balthazar is becoming translucent, flickering in and out like a mirage in the desert. "Wait," Castiel cries, his anxiety making him desperate as he reaches up. "What does that mean? And do you know what's coming from the darkness? Balthazar…"
His brother's voice is distant then, cutting in and out with a harsher sound, the sound of Castiel's name uttered urgently and tersely, but Castiel filters it out, strains to listen to Balthazar instead.
…who begins it, is the only one who can end it…
"Castiel. Cas, come on."
Castiel jolts to awareness abruptly, tracks his eyes along the forearm attached to the hand gripping his shoulder, up to stare at Bobby. He says the first thing that springs to mind, slurs it out thickly. "The dreamer has stopped sleeping."
Bobby raises an eyebrow. "Whatever you say." He jerks his head over toward the battered couch opposite the bed, where Dean is sprawled face-down in a cushion, fully clothed, boots and all, a hand dangling loosely off the edge. "He's dead to the world. And he needs the sleep." He releases Castiel's shoulder then, straightens, keeps his voice low. "If you're having screaming nightmares, best you take the couch downstairs from now on and let him have the bed. He's been up half the night dealing with you."
Castiel has only the barest memory of half-the-night, but he nods dumbly as he sits up. The fatigue he felt after he destroyed the hellhound is much less intense now; his body doesn't feel as leaden and exhausted as it did when Dean stumbled him up the stairs and ordered him to rest right after he flexed what's left of his grace. But even now, a little more than a week later, some degree of lethargy still lingers, made worse by the fact that his slumber is fitful at best, and he yawns widely.
Bobby rolls his eyes as he turns to head for the door. "You've been crashed out for near fourteen hours," he throws back over his shoulder in an impatient whisper. "Come on. Coffee's on, it'll give you a boost."
Castiel watches Bobby's back as he exits, listens to him creak slowly down the stairs. He shakes his head then, blinks eyes that are gritty with sleep. He glances over to the window, boarded up now and with thick clear plastic taped over the wood to keep the winter chill at bay. Weak sunlight seeps in between the pine slats, burnishing the air it beams through, and he leans over to swat his hand gently through a ray. For a moment he remembers gliding through the sky, the sun so close he could trail an idle finger through its fiery plasma, remembers basking in its scorching heat and watching as solar flares streaked out of its brilliance. He knows his grace is so fragile now that he might never soar so high again.
He pulls himself away from his regret, back to reality. He thinks he dreamed something that wasn't a vision of blood spilled by the abomination he was, is, but he can't recall it because his mind is unclear, draped in foggy bluish-gray that makes him think of drizzle, and dank, amorphous sea mist rolling in off some primeval ocean. He feels thirsty and his stomach feels hollow. How many days has it been since Purgatory?, he wonders, because he has lost track of time. Yet, he can feel himself weakening in microscopic increments, as this body's bones close around him, trapping him in their cage.
It is as it was then, he surmises, as it was when he was falling in the months before Stull Cemetery. It's no real surprise, because he knows he isn't what an angel should be. Soon the gaps between each ivory prison bar will be too narrow for his grace to squeeze through, soon he will gaze at the world with blinkered human eyes and rely on his fingertips to touch it, instead of feeling it electrify through every atom of his being simply by virtue of his presence on this plane. His light is dimming with each fraction of every passing second, the flame that blazed so bright in him little more than glowing embers now. His grace is tattered and frayed into rags. He's stained with the filth of the souls he carried inside himself, marked with their diamond-sharp teeth and polluted with their rank territorial pissing, and their lasting taint exiles him from his Father's kingdom as completely as he was cast out and cut off from it when Zachariah barred the gate to him.
Zachariah at his most devious…
Even through his melancholy, the random thought makes Castiel smile ruefully as he muses that Zachariah would likely be proud of him if he still existed. He gives voice to the irony. "I was his protégé at one time."
He shifts his legs over the side of the bed, plants his feet on the floor. The rug is grainy underfoot and for a second it feels like…sand? It makes no sense, and he dismisses the comparison as soon as it comes to mind. He looks down at himself. He's clad in soft plaid flannel pajama pants and a faded black t-shirt he recognizes as being one of Dean's. He can't remember putting them on, but he knows he's been waking up screaming, floundering and drenched in sweat so often it has become his norm, and the thought triggers a phantom memory of soothing words and capable hands cleaning him up. Almost without thinking, he fists a handful of the worn cotton shirt, closes his eyes, and buries his face in it, breathes in Dean, and it soothes and calms him.
A gauze dressing is still covering the slash where the hellhound's claws raked his belly, and Castiel picks at the tape, peels it away. The mark has been slow to heal; it's still puffy and inflamed with the contagion of brimstone. Unbidden, Castiel slides his hand up under the fabric of his shirt to the other new scar he bears, the raised red welt on the otherwise smooth skin of his chest. He fits his palm to it. A seal upon my heart, he finds himself thinking again, because he still can't believe this soul he redeemed was, in turn, his own salvation. Like the seal upon your arm.
The skin feels warmer there, feels as charged with static as it did when Dean pressed his own hand to it in the kitchen the first time Castiel ventured downstairs from his self-imposed exile. As he's remembering it, Castiel hears a stifled moan from the couch. He swivels his head to look, and Dean is shifting restlessly, rolling over onto his back. His body has tensed up, and his eyes are moving erratically under their lids. He looks annoyed, and he frowns in his sleep, makes another small, unintelligible noise that sounds like a protest as he flails a careless hand up and scrabbles at the top of his arm. He searches for a few seconds before his fingers fall still right where Castiel knows he left his own brand. And then Dean sighs out long and deep, and Castiel can see his muscles relax, see the crease between his eyes soften.
Castiel feels it again, a corresponding prickling, a smarting sensation in his own scar that has him gasping as it bursts into a tingle that simmers from the center of the mark out to its boundaries. He swallows, listens to Dean's breathing slow down again, studies Dean's face, flushed pink with the heat of sleep and looking too young in repose. "I'm here, Dean," he murmurs out loud.
Castiel's reverie is disturbed by a clatter from below and muffled cursing. More sounds drift up the stairs, drawers opening and closing, the clash of crockery, and as he pushes up to stand and pad over to the door, he can smell the rich, dark earthiness of coffee, hear the sizzle of oil in a skillet.
There is an open door opposite him, leading into the bathroom where Dean propped him up against the wall and used a wet washcloth to wipe sweat, tears, and putrid vomit from his face the week before. He shuffles in there, snaps on the light. The mirror has been replaced, and he studies his reflection again. He's used to seeing himself in the confines of his vessel, in the shape of a thirty-four-year-old human male. He looks and sees what other humans see - his eyes are a sharp shade of blue, and his dark hair is thick and tousled. He stares at his vessel, at himself, for soon he will be no more than this, and the eyes that look out of the mirror back at him are dull with guilt, and shadowed with the ashes of his grace.
Castiel can hear snoring from another room across the landing, the room Sam cleared out for himself the week before after too many nights folding his long limbs to fit the couch in the study. Castiel makes his way over to it, sneaks a look around the door to see a mattress on the floor, and a tuft of Sam's hair poking out from underneath a pile of blankets and comforters. One of Sam's bare feet is uncovered, and Castiel sidles closer, bends, and carefully rearranges the bedding to cover the extremity. Sam's hand is outflung too, seems to be reaching out in an unconscious imitation of the handshake he offered Castiel when they first met. Castiel studies it, sets his impression of the boy with the taint of demons against himself back then, so sure and so righteous, before setting it against himself in the present. "I'm the one with the taint now," he whispers.
Castiel shuffles back out, pulls the door closed, wincing as the hinge groans in protest, before he makes his stealthy way down the stairs. He hovers at the kitchen door and spies on Bobby for an uncertain moment, watching him bustle around the stove. It occurs to him that he hasn't spent any time alone with Bobby since returning from Purgatory, and the prospect makes him nervous and dry-mouthed. He's just debating slinking back up the stairs to wait for Dean to wake when Bobby sees him and nods briskly.
"Grub's up," he announces. "Sit." He heaps lurid yellow scrambled eggs onto two plates, and he swivels, sets the food down on the table before reaching back for a plate of toasted bread he positions dead center.
Castiel perches on the nearest chair as Bobby hooks the other one out with his boot. Bobby clears his throat as he reaches for a pot of coffee to his right, pours the steaming dark liquid into a mug and slides it towards Castiel before filling his own cup. Bobby raises it to his mouth, drinks long and deep, smacks his lips. "Jet fuel," he declares. "That'll wake you up."
Castiel remembers coffee from his previous attempt at becoming human, remembers its burnt, nutty taste on his palate, remembers how the buzz of caffeine set his heart racing and made him feel alert and restored. He hasn't had any since then, and it goes down hot and bitter, makes his eyes water. He sets down his mug, forks up a good-sized clump of his eggs, and tips it into his mouth. It's salty and drowned in butter, so much so he can imagine it clogging up his arteries. He muses briefly that he'll have to watch that in the near future.
Bobby winks at him. "Protein," he says around his own mouthful. "Looks like you need to build up some muscle, especially if your mojo is running low and we need you to break out the big guns." He grimaces. "You're no good to us if you can't fight."
That grates, and Castiel knows his response is testy. "Because without my mojo, I'm just a baby in a…" He glances down at his front. "In a… a…htabbas kcalb t-shirt." He frowns, momentarily perplexed. "I speak every language known to man, but I don't recognize that dialect. Perhaps I'm…" Oh. "Reading it back to front," he finishes off redundantly.
Bobby snorts, shakes his head. "Anyway, as I was saying. If you can't hold your own without your super powers, you could get one of us killed." His tone mellows then. "Or get yourself killed. Which would be a damn shame, considering."
There is a look in Bobby's eyes that might be kindness, and it disarms Castiel because he thinks it might be the first time he has ever seen Bobby's gaze fall on him and soften the way it often does when he directs it at the Winchesters. Perhaps it's an opening, and Castiel swallows, takes the leap, tumbles out words in a breakneck rush. "I'm sorry…for the things I did, for the lies, for your friend-"
Bobby holds up a hand to stop Castiel's breathless flow of words. "Stop." He lets out a long breath, his hand crumpling up a napkin, and it's clear to Castiel that he's having difficulty finding words. "We don't talk about her," he says finally. "It was wrong, what you did. You know that, and I ain't saying a damn thing to make you feel better about it. So it's best we don't talk about her. You're here, and I ain't kicking you out. So we just - we need to try to keep moving forward."
Castiel nods, swallowing around what feels like a lump of food stuck in his throat. "Dean said something similar. About not being able to excuse what I did, but needing to move forward."
Bobby nods. "Well, Dean would know something about moving past, about trying to forgive. He went through this with Sam, trying to get past the lies. And hell, I lied to Dean myself about his brother being topside for the best part of a year." He gives a wry huff, shrugs, and then returns to being as brusque as he ever was when he adds, "Now shut up and eat your eggs." He shovels in some more of his own, chews noisily as he reaches for a thick piece of toast and tears off a strip.
Aside from Bobby's usual stony glare, Castiel has never been really sure where he stands with the old man. Although he had come to feel welcome in Bobby's home, even going so far as to seek it out as a place of shelter when Rachel injured him, he has always sensed an underlying suspicion in Bobby's demeanor. Yet, Bobby trusted him enough to allow him to reach in and draw power from his soul, and sometimes he thinks Bobby may even think of him as a friend. But another part of Castiel fears that any familiarity Bobby directs his way is born of a grudging tolerance for his presence that is motivated by a practical, logical, and industrial appreciation of Castiel as a lethal weapon, rather than by real friendship. Bobby confuses Castiel, and right now Castiel's sheer bewilderment at the fact they're even sitting here together at all bubbles over into a frustration that means he can't shut up to order. "I don't know why you permit me to stay," he manages hoarsely, glancing up from examining his scrambled eggs.
Bobby's stare goes baleful. "It must be your sparkling personality." He reaches for the coffee pot, tops up first his mug and then Castiel's. "Stop wallowing," he growls. "You fucked up. Who in this house hasn't?" He spears a blob of egg with his fork. "Of course, on a scale of one to ten, you scored a goddamn billion with the crap you pulled. But there's no point bellyachin' like some bratty kid. It's over. Done."
It isn't so very different from Dean's summing up of their similarities as he raged against Castiel's apathy. "I take it you think I deserve saving as well," he mocks weakly.
"It don't always have to be an eye for an eye, son," Bobby says with what sounds like quiet exhaustion. "Despite what your holy how-to guidebook says."
Despite what everyone thinks, Castiel doesn't remember it all. He saw only appalling glimpses of the crap he pulled, but he knows that he doesn't deserve absolution or even mercy, knows the gruff dispensation, It's over, lobbed out with what seems like little thought and consideration, is a convenient dismissal of things Bobby's decent, human frame of reference can never comprehend and doesn't want to confront. And there is irony in the fact that the man's underestimation of Castiel's capacity for ruthlessness, even in the face of what he has done, suddenly irks him. I have killed tens of thousands, razed the cities of antiquity, destroyed entire civilizations, he wants to roar, while he unfurls his wings, draws his sword, and blazes fury and burning anger that leaves the world in desolation and causes the heavens to tremble. I have walked through the fires of Hell. "I'm not a child, Bobby," he says instead, and his voice comes out thin and dangerous. "You can never conceive the magnitude of my sins. They are beyond your scope." He pauses a beat. "And so, I don't know why you permit me to stay."
Bobby is chewing still, but he exhales deeply and sets his fork down beside his plate as he swallows his mouthful and washes it down with a sip of his coffee. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and his stare is level. "Maybe I let you stay because it matters to Dean," he says evenly. "Or maybe I have enough scope to see past your sins. Maybe I have enough scope to see a friend who made a fuckin' awful mistake and needs a hand up. And yeah - a friend who deserves saving."
Castiel watches him through a moment of strained silence, until the tension is broken by an alarmed shout that echoes out from above them. The thundering beat of boots sounds on the stairs, rising to a crescendo of frantic progress up the hallway until Dean crashes in through the half-open kitchen door. He skids to a clumsy halt on the linoleum as he yelps, "Bobby, where's…" He trails off then, panting, his eyes huge and panic-stricken as he looks from Castiel to Bobby, back and forth for a long few seconds. "My eggs," he covers stiltedly. "Eggs. Where's my eggs? Don't I get any?"
Since Castiel's appetite is gone, he pushes his plate over towards the empty seat at his right. "You can have the rest of mine," he mutters.
Dean recovers his poise, scrutinizes Castiel with narrowed eyes as he sits down. He looks at him for a long moment before he says, "You've been eating like a horse all this past week." He picks up Castiel's fork and starts picking at the leftovers. "So. Care to explain that?"
Castiel is thrown for a second, and he wonders if it might be a trick question. "But you want me to eat," he defends. "And sleep. You've been…" He pauses as the phrases intensely irritating and utterly infuriating compete to be first. "Most encouraging in that respect."
Dean is reaching for the coffee pot now, slopping the dregs in to supplement Castiel's half-empty mug. He takes a gulp of the brew before he replies. "Yeah, but I mean - it's been more than a week since you ganked Cujo, and you said you felt better. And since you're a t-"
"A tool you need to be able to use in your defense?" Castiel interrupts, pushing down his disappointment so he can see the sense in Dean's words. "I know this. But - I'm still damaged. Blemished. I'm not a weapon you can rely on, so-"
"You're not a tool," Dean interrupts, almost aggressively. His shoulders go rigid, and his eyes gleam with annoyance as he pulls his face into a frown. "Jesus, Cas, is that what you really think?" He glowers at Castiel for a brittle moment, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, until he slumps, and his look turns part-accusing, part-puzzled. "Come on, man," he appeals, his voice gone quiet and meaningful. "Do we really have to do this again? Remember what I said? I went after you. And it wasn't just because you're good in a fight."
Castiel is vaguely aware of Bobby in his side vision. His back is to them, and he's puttering at the sink, calculated, minimal movements Castiel can tell are designed to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Castiel turns his focus back to Dean, allows himself to take comfort in what he knows is the truth, allows himself to feel the warmth of Dean's assertion. It makes him feel like things can be as they once were, and he hesitates only briefly before he says, "I'm sorry."
Dean snorts, rolls his shoulders, and suddenly the strained awkwardness dissipates, and the atmosphere is looser again. "If I ever hear that word again, it'll be too soon," he declares, and then he smiles crookedly at Castiel. "You're not a tool. Not that kind of tool anyway. Target. You're a target. That's what I wanted to say."
Castiel knows that his eyes go guarded at that. Dean notices it too, he can tell, because his gaze turns speculative as he leans back in his chair.
"Those wards," Dean offers, with the kind of offhandedness that isn't at all casual. "I see you scribbled a few extra patterns in there." He's still looking right at Castiel, but he slides his eyes away to direct them at the window and up to the strip of wall above the curtain rod. "I couldn't figure out what that was, sat here last night staring at it until I went cross-eyed, and then I knew. It's the one you painted on Bobby's fridge that day you crash-landed here after your lieutenant went postal."
Over at the sink, Bobby chuckles. He turns around to lean back against the countertop and shakes his head at Castiel. "Boy always was good with sigils," he remarks, and he taps his temple with his index finger. "Only ever had to show him once, and it was locked in there."
Dean nods triumphantly. "I got skills," he drawls. "Anyway, it made me think of what you said, Cas, right after it all went down." He cocks his head at Castiel then. "About how you'd be cleaning house upstairs. And it's got me wondering if we're about to have a rage of pissed-off angels on our ass."
Bobby huffs. "We even tried summoning your buddy Balthazar for a sitrep, but he was a no-show. Think he'll come if you call him now?"
Castiel knows he flinches reflexively as he swallows past the sudden, sickly surge of pain and remorse that snakes through his gut. He doesn't meet Bobby's eyes, tries to make himself think of something else, even while he gropes for an answer. "Balthazar - won't come," he mutters finally, his voice faded and weary.
Dean is oblivious to Castiel's evasion, makes a dismissive clucking sound with his tongue. "Yeah, we noticed," he retorts acidly. "Knowing Balthazar, he's probably somewhere throwing a non-stop kegger." He blows out a sharp exhale and sidetracks abruptly. "So, we have angels who might be coming to kick your ass. How about Crowley? Did you take him out of the equation while you were juiced up?"
Castiel finds that the unexpected diversion from his friend to his nemesis is a relief for only a second at most before it launches a cascade of memories, images, and snatches of conversations, a too-detailed record of the temptation and weakness that brought him so low. After clearing his throat of the despair that blocks it, he manages, "Crowley still lives." He turns up a helpless hand at Dean's withering eyebrow-raise. "He wasn't a threat," he defends weakly. "It seemed strategically wise to leave him in charge of running Hell." He sees the demon's endless, meandering, docile line of damned souls in his mind's eye as he continues. "He had…a system that seemed to work, and his sense of self-preservation seemed to promise cooperation."
Over to their right, Bobby makes a formless, venomous noise that combines disgust and exasperation, before he reaches up to tweak his beard thoughtfully, flicking his gaze from Castiel to Dean. "Well, now we're on the subject, do you think it's possible Crowley might have sent that pack of hellhounds after you to draw Cas out?" he suggests.
The hand Dean has resting on the table clenches, and his expression goes dark and troubled as he considers it. "He's got to be after his pound of flesh, Cas," he offers somberly.
Castiel casts his eyes down and away, breathes through the turmoil of bad memories the demon's name triggered. "It's possible," he confirms reluctantly. "He'll be aware of my - demotion. But…" He pauses, as he recalls the hellhound's confusion and fear, its lack of focus. "But that said, the creature was behaving erratically," he finishes. "It was afraid. And we still don't know what killed its packmates."
Dean bites his lip. "Okay," he says tightly. "If it means you're out of commission for a week afterwards, then I don't want you going superman unless we're really in the shitter. But it means we'll need to get you up to speed on fighting dirty as a human in case Crowley or one of the God-squad gets the jump on us." He nods decisively at Castiel, pushes the chair back and stands. "And we need to hit the books some more, find out what's out there that can kill a pack of hellhounds."
It's a welcome distraction, Castiel thinks, something that doesn't tear at him inside, something through which he might start to atone for all he has done.
He can do this.
Episode 9: Sioux Falls (Continued)