Hands, From Which All Things Are Built (Part I) - Dean/Castiel & Team Free Will
Title: Hands, From Which All Things Are Built (Part I)
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Words: 14620
Note: Takes place after 08.17 Goodbye, Stranger. This was written to three songs, more or less on repeat at any given time: Drake's Brand New, Lykke Li's Unrequited Love, and mostly The Avett Brothers' Yardsale, from which the title of the fic also comes.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. I do not own the above-linked songs or their lyrics. No harm intended.
«»
Cas travels.
He intends to stay "under the radar" which means sealing his mind off from heavenly chatter. Easily done; as soon as he was free from Naomi's command, his internal controls did that for him. No senses reaching out for his brothers or sisters, only a sense of vibration on a very low frequency. A constant scan for danger.
At first, it means no flying, too. He discovers that, with the weight of the tablet on his very being, he cannot fly far, anyway. As if it carries some latent sentience, the tablet is sure Castiel can keep it safe and seems to resonate some little instruction on how to do so. There is a certain feel to having the tablet in hand. A mild protective aura to it, or just some fading old feeling. Perhaps a worn-out blessing. It is hard to be certain of that, but Castiel thinks he feels it.
He boards a bus. One bus connects to another. He decides to take a train in yet another direction.
On the third day, he is at another terminal in Maine. He is waiting for the next bus and thinks to cross to the small park on the other side of the parking lot. He stops and watches a light rain crawl down the windows of a humble old car. He does not know what kind it is offhand, but he knows it is the kind a Winchester would drive, were a Winchester inclined to drive oneself.
There are other people milling about the parking lot. More gathered under a plastic citybus shelter to his left. A woman in a red sweater hugging a slim youth in front of the door of the terminal. Cas proceeds to the park.
It is nice despite being mildly wet. No bees; two dogs, their owners.
One of the dogs likes Castiel. His owner only lights a cigarette as Cas pets the long, gold hair of the animal and gets his hand licked, his knees knocked into.
That's how it is for a while. At one stop, a very young girl frets about crossing a large intersection. Castiel helps her cross the street. On one bus there is a woman with turquoise stones adorning nearly everything she owns and wears. Cas maintains a polite conversation with her, though he doesn't feel especially compelled to do so. He would be interested, but feels the burden in his bag and thinks it safer not to be too charitable with his conversation.
In a bus station in Virginia one night, there is a girl with a bruised, bloody soul and slow eyes. Her smile matches Meg's and she has the same tendency for attempting to elicit a blush from a soft-spoken, suited man whom Cas recognizes as mirroring himself in some ways. At least aesthetically.
Castiel has washed his sword in the blood of so many of his own kin.
Meg's loss is a throb in him - not that the boys would have appreciated the parallel - akin to losing Bobby Singer a second time. It is there, but the noise of this death just adds to the cacophony. Another long-awaited casualty. An expected, eventual fatality. Like his own. Like anyone's.
(Something will eventually kill Sam. Someone will eventually kill Dean.)
The tableau of the dark girl and her well-dressed companion compels Castiel to fake sleep in a pair of chairs while he waits for another ride.
«»
Castiel does not want company on this trek. He wants to think about finding suitable hiding places. He wants to make a lot of trips out of his way. He wants to confuse his trail. He wants to focus on doing this right.
But time goes slowly here on the surface of the earth. Time is so.
Long.
And people on busses and in trains, people hitchhiking or fixing flats on the sides of roads are all alone like him. But they've elected to be solitary. While Castiel feels he should be alone (in fact, he should probably be more alone, even when he's not toting around a holy tablet) he would not choose to be alone right now.
When people try to talk to him, it only feels worse. He has spent more than two weeks on his own, always on the move, or waiting to hit the road again. None of these people - whose conversation he cannot welcome for his own self-preservation, for the protection of the tablet - none of them know what he is. Who he is. What kind of great wars are waged in their blind-spots. They would have no love for any of the gruff, bloodstained hunters who have banished the demons who would rule their bodies or the monsters who would eat them given half a chance.
Pious people, like those who wander "saving" souls, with whispered songs and blissed-out expressions and multicolored pamphlets. They think on angels in no way that Castiel has ever felt; he knows no angel who would answer these particular prayers. If he were colder he might laugh at them. He sees himself, instead, as if from afar. When they start in on Jesus, he frowns and makes some escape. Begs off to use the restroom, or excuses himself as if he spotted a face he recognized.
Civilians, he can almost hear Dean say.
Castiel takes the widest possible route around the Winchesters’ last known location to move back towards the Rockies.
«»
HLN is a vile excuse for a news network. It's on in a large truck stop in Idaho. There are no details provided on a "bizarre killing" in Oklahoma that, even on the surface, smacks of demonic handiwork. The abrupt end to the string of murders also likely means hunter involvement.
Ultimately, it's not HLN's lackluster reporting that does it, but a family in the attached diner. Castiel is considering trying his hand at hitchhiking and he knows a truck driver would help him in his purpose.
He spots several lone candidates with nothing on their minds but the food and the road. Nothing untoward. Then from the parking lot there comes a man from his rig with two small sons. Rolled up jeans and branded hats of their own, making the most of their journey. Their father worn, tired, but smiling at them. The boys jockey for booth space like old hands and the older of the two lets his younger brother win the spot he wants.
Castiel is out of the building before he even knows it. He pauses to ensure that his compulsion to flight doesn't overtake his better senses and goes to sit down in the sun at an unused picnic bench across the lot.
He had emptied his pockets into a trashcan in Michigan over a week ago. He purchased a plain, middling-quality cell phone with no money at all on his next stop. He paid with Influence for his bus tickets. Suggestion. It was easy in the presence of the tablet. It took almost no convincing and precious little actual communication, which he was grateful for. The fewer words the better.
Until right this moment.
The phone flashes the time at him, almost midday.
He has seen billions of bees on his trip. He has listened to all the different birds sing in all the different states. He has met people and simply shared space with others. He misses his family.
Castiel types on his new phone.
A text message.
«»
Dean gets a text from an unfamiliar number:
i need to talk.
Dean frowns and closes the laptop. Sam glances up for barely a moment as Dean retreats towards their kitchen, then sinks automatically back into the book he's scribbling notes from.
Dean tries to call the number first. It doesn't pick up.
who is this? He texts.
i need to talk to you.
Wrong number, for sure, Dean thinks and snorts.
sure. what are you wearing? Dean replies flippantly. He's found that people tend to check the number they've dialed when they get dirty talk in reply.
the same thing i've been wearing since the day i met you.
This gives Dean pause. He knows who he wishes this was. He doesn't know who else this could apply to.
If. IF this is Cas. Then he's being vague for a reason. If he thinks it's his new mission in life or whatever to protect that damn tablet, then he's going to try to protect his information.
They should both protect their identities right now. Crowley's on their ass at every turn and new creeps have started to bubble to the surface. Possibly - probably - hitmen for Naomi. But Dean also needs to know. He has to know this is real.
prove it, he sends.
There is a long moment. Rather than doubt what he's got in his hand right now, he places the phone on the kitchen counter and starts idly pulling out bread and things for a sandwich. He comes back to the kitchen counter to hover over his phone. He doesn't get the plate or the ham or fuck around looking for mayo. He's got to know. He stands and waits.
The screen lights up.
this is your problem, comes the answer, you have no faith.
The reply is not immediate. Dean sweeps his palms dry on the seat of his jeans. He has to stop what he's typing and restart several times.
where are yo-
call me-
come meet-
are you okay?
He sends this.
The reply is a longer time in coming. Dean eventually puts his phone down, fills a glass with water, then retreats down the hall entirely to throw water on his face in the bathroom. He checks the phone multiple times, hopes it's because he's getting a long reply. He's to the point of halving his sandwich, over ten full minutes later when he receives the text.
no. i need you.
Then come home, is all Dean wants to say. Instead:
i'm here.
«»
Texting is still not something either of them are used to but it gets easier with practice.
Cas asks dumb stuff. Like how his brother is, what he's doing, all the vague little stuff he can, before they have to find a way to get into information that shouldn't be sent out floating the airwaves with names and locations attached.
Dean knows Cas won't answer if he asks, point-blank, where he is or where he's been or what his purpose is in leaving in the first place. He still wants to know why Cas thinks the tablet needs to be kept from them.
He dithers over some words, tries to figure out what the hell to even say. Eventually he puts the phone in his pocket, drops the sandwich down in front of Sam, and retreats to his own room. He sits poised on the edge of the bed, trying to think.
say something, he finally demands.
Cas says: there is a lot more road than i ever noticed before.
Dean wonders how Castiel is paying his way. Or if maybe this is obfuscation and he's actually holed up somewhere in hiding. All alone.
He considers commiserating about how lonely it is to be a wanderer, or providing tips, or asking if he's driving himself.
He can't. He can't humor this. The next message is constructed carefully, and, he thinks ruefully, still probably doesn't get his point across.
you don't have to do this on your own. we should be working on this together. we will be careful. everything goes faster when we work together.
Dean waits. He opens another blank. Please. I need you here.
Before he can hit 'send,' there is a new message. He deletes his unsent.
i'm the only one who can do this part, Cas says.
No, Dean thinks. You're really not.
But he can't feel angry right now. It's just not coming to him. Dean palms his own jaw roughly, remembering the feel of it knitting back together under Castiel's hand.
be careful. call if you need backup. Dean doesn't know what else to say. He changes the last word to me. And sends it.
«»
Castiel doesn't know what else to say. He won't be calling. He can't. He turns off his phone for the day.
«»
Dean prefers to keep in touch with Cas on Cas's time. If he were to send a message that wasn't answered for a day he would end up feeling stupid. Stupid because he's begging for more attention from someone who never gets to be himself. Stupid because what he has to say is barely important. Stupid because an angel measures time and personal problems on a planet-wide scale and all Dean can do is worry about Sam and miss Cas.
It feels vain, but what more could he possibly do? How much more clear could he be? I need you, he'd said. He'd said it. He needs Cas and if that need means nothing to him, he can't push it, won't push it. If Cas doesn't need them.
If Cas doesn't need him.
Well, that's just that, isn't it?
«»
Castiel decides to go directly from one coast to the opposite. It takes a few days.
When they text next, Castiel is in Arizona and Dean's report of the weather implies that he's somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. They have to go see Kevin soon. he has info on what's behind door number two. Sam will soon have to complete another task.
Closing off hell is important. If Castiel finds a place to hide the stone slab he's carrying before Sam begins the third task, he can be of more use to the Winchesters. The demons will come after them with more intent than ever before and Sam will be even less able to defend himself after he goes through 'door number two.'
Crowley is one of Castiel's top priorities right now. He's been given too many opportunities to destroy the bastard without actually doing so. He swears he will follow through and soon. Creating chaos by eliminating Crowley's leadership will only make hell easier to defeat and eventually close off. Perhaps his first move, once the tablet is secure, should be to locate and monitor Crowley for a clear shot at a kill.
His eyes are turned blindly to the desert passing him by outside the train. Castiel has set aside the issue of the tablet's security for a while to focus on building up wrath against the King of Hell.
One delicate string of prayer crosses his mind. It is sent out with clear intent, specifically to him. Dean probably can't even help himself. Please don't let my brother be suffering.
An image of Sam Winchester passed out in the passenger seat. The fabric of his coat over the left wrist spattered with blood. The unhealthy rasp of breath that struggles out of his lungs in sleep.
But he doesn't know how to help Sam.
Castiel's palm falls to the flat top of his bag. The stone seeks his attention.
He lifts his hand. Looks down to the bag.
Who is in control of him now?
«»
"I thought we had a no-lies-no-secrets policy," Sam says, facing the passing countryside and not Dean.
Dean glances at him and back to the road. Sam's left knee is up, an old barrier, and he speaks to Dean as if the words will bounce back at him from the passenger-side window.
"You see me acting shady over here?"
"No, Dean, I see you checking your phone for a new text so often I'm thinking about hiding it to see if you go through the DTs."
Okay. So, Sam's right. He has to protect Cas's and his own identity on the phone. He's not even sure why, just that Cas seems to think it necessary. But he's got no reason to keep it from Sam.
He drives one-handed for a minute, digs out his phone, and waves it in Sam's airspace. He doesn't notice at first, not expecting Dean to actually give in on this without some fuss. But it's Winchester Honesty Hour for at least the next month. So it goes, he thinks.
Sam drops his knee and takes the phone.
"The number, that random 269 area code."
"Yeah?" Sam asks.
"Cas."
Sam doesn't say anything and Dean's busy trying to overtake a wide-load trailer. Sam reads for a while.
"Think he could possibly be any more vague?" Sam mumbles.
"Seriously. I think he's giving these mooks a little too much credit. I'm guessing he's the only guy in the garrison who even knows what texting is."
"Mm. Demons are a little more savvy," Sam allows. "If anyone could pick up tricks from Dick, it'd be them."
Sam keeps reading.
"You tried calling him?"
"At first. He won't pick up."
Sam drops the phone to his lap and thinks a minute, staring at the wide road in front of them.
"He said he couldn't trust you."
"No. No, he said he had to protect the tablet. From Naomi. And from me."
"From us."
Dean shrugs.
"Because we would use it to shut out heaven? Maybe? If that's even what it does."
"I don't know."
"Dean," Sam says and pauses again. "That tablet could send him home. To what would probably end up being an eternity of torture. Or it could seal us off from heaven. Leave him behind without the other angels. Or maybe kill all the angels. I mean, who knows. We need to know what it does."
"Sam. It's not like he's even giving me, like, code words to ask him about this shit."
"So ask point-blank."
"And have him never contact me again."
Sam tries to phrase this carefully. "We need him here."
Dean looks away from the road to shoot him an eye, like, Do you think I didn't tell him that?
"Oh, well, excuse me, Dean, for assuming that you're not conveying the entire message to Cas," Sam says, rolling his hands in front of himself. "Did it ever occur to you that your emotional constipation--"
"Wow. We are not talking about this. Gimme the phone," Dean keeps his eyes on the road and holds out his right hand.
"EITHER Cas trusts us or Cas doesn't trust us," Sam tries to spell out explicitly. "Are we gonna go 'round and 'round on this again? He can be with us, Dean. He's family, I know it. But if he doesn't trust us, how are we supposed to extend that trust back?"
"Hunt him. Are you saying we drop what we're doing when we're not closing hellgates and try to get his tablet? 'Cause I think we've got enough on our plates and I think he's drawing half the demons and probably all the angels off our tail while he runs around wherever."
Sam shakes his head. "Not that. No, not hunt him. But we need him here."
"Why?" Dean releases the wheel to throw his hands up for a second.
"You need him here."
Dean couldn't say anything to that if he wanted to. His throat closes up entirely.
"And to be honest it's got less to do with the tablets and more to do with the fact that you just need to know where he is at the end of every day. Man, he's on your radar like I am. Have you seen yourself without him?"
"I get it."
"Whiskey in every coffee. A beer in each hand."
"Yeah, I get it."
"You don't. You don't get it until you're both on the business ends of each other’s blades."
"Sam. Shut. Up."
"He needs you. Alright? How do you defend that, then? 'Are you okay? No, I need you,'" Sam quotes from the phone. "Man, he is out there, alone, trying--"
"Give me the fucking phone," Dean says coldly. Doesn't hold out a hand, just stone-cold stares at the road.
Sam swallows. He shakes his head. He could laugh at Dean. He could get him angrier. He could copy down the number, call Cas, and scream at the little shit for wringing his brother dry. He hands back the phone blindly. Dean glances at the screen before pocketing it again.
Dean checks it on the way into the diner. Dean checks it at the table during dinner once every four minutes. Every four goddamn minutes.
«»
Sam is smarter than him. Dean knows this in his bones. But he can't bring himself to demand that Cas call. He can't even bring himself to text out first.
The next morning he wakes up to two messages.
are you awake and i suppose you are not awake.
awake now, are you?, he replies to the last message, and gets up to dig in his bag for fresh clothes.
i am generally always awake.
Well, good morning, Dean thinks, what's for breakfast? because what even is the point of this if they're not sharing information?
is your brother alright?
Dean frowns. right now yes. he's sleeping. why? disturbance in the force?
i don't know that Sam could disturb mass and acceleration in such a way.
Wow. Math jokes. What the fuck.
are we going to talk about what is going on or not? Dean demands.
what about it, Cas fires back.
Dean sighs and sits back on the bed. about your mission. are you just travelling or looking for something?
Dean waits a minute until Cas replies, both.
we can help you. we have a car. we find stuff all the time, Dean finishes lamely. Sends it anyway.
I will handle it.
you shouldn't, Dean texts back instantly. And tacks on the next, you shouldn't have to handle it all on your own.
Dean waits several minutes. Assuming Cas has cut off communication because he's been pushy, Dean gives up and goes to take a shower.
Sam is up when he gets out, though barely. He looks pretty wrecked when he wakes up in the morning these days. Dean grabs his phone, wallet, keys and offers to go get them breakfast. Sam yawns wide enough to swallow the whole world and nods.
Dean starts the car with his other stuff thrown on the passenger seat next to him when his eye is drawn by the glow. because we are family, the screen on his phone says.
Dean blinks. Breathes. Yes.
He snaps up the phone. YES. he sends back.
There is no reply. There is no reply through the drive, his order, his wait, or his drive back to the motel. There's no reply through coffee or his breakfast burrito or the second cup of coffee. Sam watches him watching his phone.
"Shut up," he says to Sam before he can open his mouth.
Sam looks sadly at him and he doesn't want to hear it. "Don't you have a few jugs of holy water to make, lazyass?" Sam doesn't even debate it. He just gets up to go get the empty containers and rosaries out of the car.
Once Sam is out the door, Dean opens a new message, tries just one more time:
you're right. we're family. we can do this. He stares at the screen.
we need you. we miss you.
Dean doesn't send it. He stares at it until the screen idles to black. He stares at the amber gleam of the whiskey bottle sitting below the window. Nut up, Winchester. Fuck.
you're right. we're family. we can do this. we need you. i miss you.
He sends it.
«»
Texting with Dean teaches Castiel a very basic, human lesson: When you are lonely, you want to speak to someone, and then when you speak to someone, you are ready to be alone again.
«»
It is a week later and Castiel misses Sam and he misses Dean but he doesn't know what to say.
He tells Dean that Texas is everywhere and Dean commiserates that, yeah, it's the pits.
not that i'm in texas right now. it just feels as if everywhere is texas sometimes.
if you were in texas, what part of it would you be in? Dean asks.
utah, probably.
«»
my brother is broken.
Dean sits on the floor beside his bed and reads his own words and cannot send them. He keeps letting the screen time out and then lights it again to see the message. My brother is dying, he thinks of the black veins growing stark under the skin of his arms.
And he thinks of Balthazar of all fucking people- of all beings. Uriel. Samandriel.
Castiel has put down more of his own brothers than he'll ever even speak aloud. So it feels like Dean has no right to this grief in the face of that but the screen is so bright in his dark little room and there are tears building in his eyes anyway and it hurts this bad every time. Every time Sam goes through this. Has Cas killed as many brothers as Dean has seen his Sammy die?
The shaking in his thumb wins and the message zips out and away from him.
He only gasps once, sobs once. Then covers his face and wipes it dry with a hand. Breath may hiccup out of him but he's not fucking crying. Just not.
The screen glows, and it looks like it's calm and friendly or something.
Cas has replied:
tell me.
A huge breath erupts from him and he has to rest his head on a knee for a second. He carefully texts back Sam’s ailments as far as he knows them. Some he can neither see nor describe.
The pause is long. Of course, Dean thinks, because there's nothing Cas can do for him. He can't even lay hands on him and fucking try. He's too broken.
Instead a frigging page, a virtual wall of text pops up. Dean scrolls and reads for a moment. His naked feet nearly skid on the floor beneath him as he bounds up and out of his room to the library.
Messages keep appearing as he's running his hands down the spines of half the books in the room. He gathers a few of the vital ones and tries to keep up with the texts that are appearing. He scrawls a few of the names of protective symbols down, some ingredients. Cas types out some Enochian words phonetically that he can't convey otherwise that Sam will have to untangle in the morning.
There are a few wards, symbols that can be drawn on the skin to enhance strength. A few bags of herbs and things that can be worn around the neck to purify the blood and slow Sam's (they don't say "decay"). Prayers that can be recited and directed to Mary or the Saints to keep the angels from hearing them directly.
what about to you? Dean asks, hoping he hasn't been blowing up Castiel's spot by letting a prayer of his own slip through in the past few weeks he's been on the run.
But, i will always hear you, Cas assures him.
It's nearly sunrise when Dean unearths a restorative charm necklace from one of the boxes of objects the Men of Letters hoarded away. He saw the little picture in one of the books Cas had recommended and dove straight into the pile, knowing he'd come across it before.
He holds the thin chain up to the light and stares through the little Egyptian sigil. Awe and disbelief and pure, sweet relief at how even this little bit could help Sam stay alive. I love you, you son of a bitch, he thinks, before he can help himself.
The last text they exchanged was an hour ago. He's too tired to tell if he just aimed that thought at Sam or at Cas.
Part II | Part III
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Words: 14620
Note: Takes place after 08.17 Goodbye, Stranger. This was written to three songs, more or less on repeat at any given time: Drake's Brand New, Lykke Li's Unrequited Love, and mostly The Avett Brothers' Yardsale, from which the title of the fic also comes.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. I do not own the above-linked songs or their lyrics. No harm intended.
«»
Cas travels.
He intends to stay "under the radar" which means sealing his mind off from heavenly chatter. Easily done; as soon as he was free from Naomi's command, his internal controls did that for him. No senses reaching out for his brothers or sisters, only a sense of vibration on a very low frequency. A constant scan for danger.
At first, it means no flying, too. He discovers that, with the weight of the tablet on his very being, he cannot fly far, anyway. As if it carries some latent sentience, the tablet is sure Castiel can keep it safe and seems to resonate some little instruction on how to do so. There is a certain feel to having the tablet in hand. A mild protective aura to it, or just some fading old feeling. Perhaps a worn-out blessing. It is hard to be certain of that, but Castiel thinks he feels it.
He boards a bus. One bus connects to another. He decides to take a train in yet another direction.
On the third day, he is at another terminal in Maine. He is waiting for the next bus and thinks to cross to the small park on the other side of the parking lot. He stops and watches a light rain crawl down the windows of a humble old car. He does not know what kind it is offhand, but he knows it is the kind a Winchester would drive, were a Winchester inclined to drive oneself.
There are other people milling about the parking lot. More gathered under a plastic citybus shelter to his left. A woman in a red sweater hugging a slim youth in front of the door of the terminal. Cas proceeds to the park.
It is nice despite being mildly wet. No bees; two dogs, their owners.
One of the dogs likes Castiel. His owner only lights a cigarette as Cas pets the long, gold hair of the animal and gets his hand licked, his knees knocked into.
That's how it is for a while. At one stop, a very young girl frets about crossing a large intersection. Castiel helps her cross the street. On one bus there is a woman with turquoise stones adorning nearly everything she owns and wears. Cas maintains a polite conversation with her, though he doesn't feel especially compelled to do so. He would be interested, but feels the burden in his bag and thinks it safer not to be too charitable with his conversation.
In a bus station in Virginia one night, there is a girl with a bruised, bloody soul and slow eyes. Her smile matches Meg's and she has the same tendency for attempting to elicit a blush from a soft-spoken, suited man whom Cas recognizes as mirroring himself in some ways. At least aesthetically.
Castiel has washed his sword in the blood of so many of his own kin.
Meg's loss is a throb in him - not that the boys would have appreciated the parallel - akin to losing Bobby Singer a second time. It is there, but the noise of this death just adds to the cacophony. Another long-awaited casualty. An expected, eventual fatality. Like his own. Like anyone's.
(Something will eventually kill Sam. Someone will eventually kill Dean.)
The tableau of the dark girl and her well-dressed companion compels Castiel to fake sleep in a pair of chairs while he waits for another ride.
«»
Castiel does not want company on this trek. He wants to think about finding suitable hiding places. He wants to make a lot of trips out of his way. He wants to confuse his trail. He wants to focus on doing this right.
But time goes slowly here on the surface of the earth. Time is so.
Long.
And people on busses and in trains, people hitchhiking or fixing flats on the sides of roads are all alone like him. But they've elected to be solitary. While Castiel feels he should be alone (in fact, he should probably be more alone, even when he's not toting around a holy tablet) he would not choose to be alone right now.
When people try to talk to him, it only feels worse. He has spent more than two weeks on his own, always on the move, or waiting to hit the road again. None of these people - whose conversation he cannot welcome for his own self-preservation, for the protection of the tablet - none of them know what he is. Who he is. What kind of great wars are waged in their blind-spots. They would have no love for any of the gruff, bloodstained hunters who have banished the demons who would rule their bodies or the monsters who would eat them given half a chance.
Pious people, like those who wander "saving" souls, with whispered songs and blissed-out expressions and multicolored pamphlets. They think on angels in no way that Castiel has ever felt; he knows no angel who would answer these particular prayers. If he were colder he might laugh at them. He sees himself, instead, as if from afar. When they start in on Jesus, he frowns and makes some escape. Begs off to use the restroom, or excuses himself as if he spotted a face he recognized.
Civilians, he can almost hear Dean say.
Castiel takes the widest possible route around the Winchesters’ last known location to move back towards the Rockies.
«»
HLN is a vile excuse for a news network. It's on in a large truck stop in Idaho. There are no details provided on a "bizarre killing" in Oklahoma that, even on the surface, smacks of demonic handiwork. The abrupt end to the string of murders also likely means hunter involvement.
Ultimately, it's not HLN's lackluster reporting that does it, but a family in the attached diner. Castiel is considering trying his hand at hitchhiking and he knows a truck driver would help him in his purpose.
He spots several lone candidates with nothing on their minds but the food and the road. Nothing untoward. Then from the parking lot there comes a man from his rig with two small sons. Rolled up jeans and branded hats of their own, making the most of their journey. Their father worn, tired, but smiling at them. The boys jockey for booth space like old hands and the older of the two lets his younger brother win the spot he wants.
Castiel is out of the building before he even knows it. He pauses to ensure that his compulsion to flight doesn't overtake his better senses and goes to sit down in the sun at an unused picnic bench across the lot.
He had emptied his pockets into a trashcan in Michigan over a week ago. He purchased a plain, middling-quality cell phone with no money at all on his next stop. He paid with Influence for his bus tickets. Suggestion. It was easy in the presence of the tablet. It took almost no convincing and precious little actual communication, which he was grateful for. The fewer words the better.
Until right this moment.
The phone flashes the time at him, almost midday.
He has seen billions of bees on his trip. He has listened to all the different birds sing in all the different states. He has met people and simply shared space with others. He misses his family.
Castiel types on his new phone.
A text message.
«»
Dean gets a text from an unfamiliar number:
i need to talk.
Dean frowns and closes the laptop. Sam glances up for barely a moment as Dean retreats towards their kitchen, then sinks automatically back into the book he's scribbling notes from.
Dean tries to call the number first. It doesn't pick up.
who is this? He texts.
i need to talk to you.
Wrong number, for sure, Dean thinks and snorts.
sure. what are you wearing? Dean replies flippantly. He's found that people tend to check the number they've dialed when they get dirty talk in reply.
the same thing i've been wearing since the day i met you.
This gives Dean pause. He knows who he wishes this was. He doesn't know who else this could apply to.
If. IF this is Cas. Then he's being vague for a reason. If he thinks it's his new mission in life or whatever to protect that damn tablet, then he's going to try to protect his information.
They should both protect their identities right now. Crowley's on their ass at every turn and new creeps have started to bubble to the surface. Possibly - probably - hitmen for Naomi. But Dean also needs to know. He has to know this is real.
prove it, he sends.
There is a long moment. Rather than doubt what he's got in his hand right now, he places the phone on the kitchen counter and starts idly pulling out bread and things for a sandwich. He comes back to the kitchen counter to hover over his phone. He doesn't get the plate or the ham or fuck around looking for mayo. He's got to know. He stands and waits.
The screen lights up.
this is your problem, comes the answer, you have no faith.
The reply is not immediate. Dean sweeps his palms dry on the seat of his jeans. He has to stop what he's typing and restart several times.
where are yo-
call me-
come meet-
are you okay?
He sends this.
The reply is a longer time in coming. Dean eventually puts his phone down, fills a glass with water, then retreats down the hall entirely to throw water on his face in the bathroom. He checks the phone multiple times, hopes it's because he's getting a long reply. He's to the point of halving his sandwich, over ten full minutes later when he receives the text.
no. i need you.
Then come home, is all Dean wants to say. Instead:
i'm here.
«»
Texting is still not something either of them are used to but it gets easier with practice.
Cas asks dumb stuff. Like how his brother is, what he's doing, all the vague little stuff he can, before they have to find a way to get into information that shouldn't be sent out floating the airwaves with names and locations attached.
Dean knows Cas won't answer if he asks, point-blank, where he is or where he's been or what his purpose is in leaving in the first place. He still wants to know why Cas thinks the tablet needs to be kept from them.
He dithers over some words, tries to figure out what the hell to even say. Eventually he puts the phone in his pocket, drops the sandwich down in front of Sam, and retreats to his own room. He sits poised on the edge of the bed, trying to think.
say something, he finally demands.
Cas says: there is a lot more road than i ever noticed before.
Dean wonders how Castiel is paying his way. Or if maybe this is obfuscation and he's actually holed up somewhere in hiding. All alone.
He considers commiserating about how lonely it is to be a wanderer, or providing tips, or asking if he's driving himself.
He can't. He can't humor this. The next message is constructed carefully, and, he thinks ruefully, still probably doesn't get his point across.
you don't have to do this on your own. we should be working on this together. we will be careful. everything goes faster when we work together.
Dean waits. He opens another blank. Please. I need you here.
Before he can hit 'send,' there is a new message. He deletes his unsent.
i'm the only one who can do this part, Cas says.
No, Dean thinks. You're really not.
But he can't feel angry right now. It's just not coming to him. Dean palms his own jaw roughly, remembering the feel of it knitting back together under Castiel's hand.
be careful. call if you need backup. Dean doesn't know what else to say. He changes the last word to me. And sends it.
«»
Castiel doesn't know what else to say. He won't be calling. He can't. He turns off his phone for the day.
«»
Dean prefers to keep in touch with Cas on Cas's time. If he were to send a message that wasn't answered for a day he would end up feeling stupid. Stupid because he's begging for more attention from someone who never gets to be himself. Stupid because what he has to say is barely important. Stupid because an angel measures time and personal problems on a planet-wide scale and all Dean can do is worry about Sam and miss Cas.
It feels vain, but what more could he possibly do? How much more clear could he be? I need you, he'd said. He'd said it. He needs Cas and if that need means nothing to him, he can't push it, won't push it. If Cas doesn't need them.
If Cas doesn't need him.
Well, that's just that, isn't it?
«»
Castiel decides to go directly from one coast to the opposite. It takes a few days.
When they text next, Castiel is in Arizona and Dean's report of the weather implies that he's somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. They have to go see Kevin soon. he has info on what's behind door number two. Sam will soon have to complete another task.
Closing off hell is important. If Castiel finds a place to hide the stone slab he's carrying before Sam begins the third task, he can be of more use to the Winchesters. The demons will come after them with more intent than ever before and Sam will be even less able to defend himself after he goes through 'door number two.'
Crowley is one of Castiel's top priorities right now. He's been given too many opportunities to destroy the bastard without actually doing so. He swears he will follow through and soon. Creating chaos by eliminating Crowley's leadership will only make hell easier to defeat and eventually close off. Perhaps his first move, once the tablet is secure, should be to locate and monitor Crowley for a clear shot at a kill.
His eyes are turned blindly to the desert passing him by outside the train. Castiel has set aside the issue of the tablet's security for a while to focus on building up wrath against the King of Hell.
One delicate string of prayer crosses his mind. It is sent out with clear intent, specifically to him. Dean probably can't even help himself. Please don't let my brother be suffering.
An image of Sam Winchester passed out in the passenger seat. The fabric of his coat over the left wrist spattered with blood. The unhealthy rasp of breath that struggles out of his lungs in sleep.
But he doesn't know how to help Sam.
Castiel's palm falls to the flat top of his bag. The stone seeks his attention.
He lifts his hand. Looks down to the bag.
Who is in control of him now?
«»
"I thought we had a no-lies-no-secrets policy," Sam says, facing the passing countryside and not Dean.
Dean glances at him and back to the road. Sam's left knee is up, an old barrier, and he speaks to Dean as if the words will bounce back at him from the passenger-side window.
"You see me acting shady over here?"
"No, Dean, I see you checking your phone for a new text so often I'm thinking about hiding it to see if you go through the DTs."
Okay. So, Sam's right. He has to protect Cas's and his own identity on the phone. He's not even sure why, just that Cas seems to think it necessary. But he's got no reason to keep it from Sam.
He drives one-handed for a minute, digs out his phone, and waves it in Sam's airspace. He doesn't notice at first, not expecting Dean to actually give in on this without some fuss. But it's Winchester Honesty Hour for at least the next month. So it goes, he thinks.
Sam drops his knee and takes the phone.
"The number, that random 269 area code."
"Yeah?" Sam asks.
"Cas."
Sam doesn't say anything and Dean's busy trying to overtake a wide-load trailer. Sam reads for a while.
"Think he could possibly be any more vague?" Sam mumbles.
"Seriously. I think he's giving these mooks a little too much credit. I'm guessing he's the only guy in the garrison who even knows what texting is."
"Mm. Demons are a little more savvy," Sam allows. "If anyone could pick up tricks from Dick, it'd be them."
Sam keeps reading.
"You tried calling him?"
"At first. He won't pick up."
Sam drops the phone to his lap and thinks a minute, staring at the wide road in front of them.
"He said he couldn't trust you."
"No. No, he said he had to protect the tablet. From Naomi. And from me."
"From us."
Dean shrugs.
"Because we would use it to shut out heaven? Maybe? If that's even what it does."
"I don't know."
"Dean," Sam says and pauses again. "That tablet could send him home. To what would probably end up being an eternity of torture. Or it could seal us off from heaven. Leave him behind without the other angels. Or maybe kill all the angels. I mean, who knows. We need to know what it does."
"Sam. It's not like he's even giving me, like, code words to ask him about this shit."
"So ask point-blank."
"And have him never contact me again."
Sam tries to phrase this carefully. "We need him here."
Dean looks away from the road to shoot him an eye, like, Do you think I didn't tell him that?
"Oh, well, excuse me, Dean, for assuming that you're not conveying the entire message to Cas," Sam says, rolling his hands in front of himself. "Did it ever occur to you that your emotional constipation--"
"Wow. We are not talking about this. Gimme the phone," Dean keeps his eyes on the road and holds out his right hand.
"EITHER Cas trusts us or Cas doesn't trust us," Sam tries to spell out explicitly. "Are we gonna go 'round and 'round on this again? He can be with us, Dean. He's family, I know it. But if he doesn't trust us, how are we supposed to extend that trust back?"
"Hunt him. Are you saying we drop what we're doing when we're not closing hellgates and try to get his tablet? 'Cause I think we've got enough on our plates and I think he's drawing half the demons and probably all the angels off our tail while he runs around wherever."
Sam shakes his head. "Not that. No, not hunt him. But we need him here."
"Why?" Dean releases the wheel to throw his hands up for a second.
"You need him here."
Dean couldn't say anything to that if he wanted to. His throat closes up entirely.
"And to be honest it's got less to do with the tablets and more to do with the fact that you just need to know where he is at the end of every day. Man, he's on your radar like I am. Have you seen yourself without him?"
"I get it."
"Whiskey in every coffee. A beer in each hand."
"Yeah, I get it."
"You don't. You don't get it until you're both on the business ends of each other’s blades."
"Sam. Shut. Up."
"He needs you. Alright? How do you defend that, then? 'Are you okay? No, I need you,'" Sam quotes from the phone. "Man, he is out there, alone, trying--"
"Give me the fucking phone," Dean says coldly. Doesn't hold out a hand, just stone-cold stares at the road.
Sam swallows. He shakes his head. He could laugh at Dean. He could get him angrier. He could copy down the number, call Cas, and scream at the little shit for wringing his brother dry. He hands back the phone blindly. Dean glances at the screen before pocketing it again.
Dean checks it on the way into the diner. Dean checks it at the table during dinner once every four minutes. Every four goddamn minutes.
«»
Sam is smarter than him. Dean knows this in his bones. But he can't bring himself to demand that Cas call. He can't even bring himself to text out first.
The next morning he wakes up to two messages.
are you awake and i suppose you are not awake.
awake now, are you?, he replies to the last message, and gets up to dig in his bag for fresh clothes.
i am generally always awake.
Well, good morning, Dean thinks, what's for breakfast? because what even is the point of this if they're not sharing information?
is your brother alright?
Dean frowns. right now yes. he's sleeping. why? disturbance in the force?
i don't know that Sam could disturb mass and acceleration in such a way.
Wow. Math jokes. What the fuck.
are we going to talk about what is going on or not? Dean demands.
what about it, Cas fires back.
Dean sighs and sits back on the bed. about your mission. are you just travelling or looking for something?
Dean waits a minute until Cas replies, both.
we can help you. we have a car. we find stuff all the time, Dean finishes lamely. Sends it anyway.
I will handle it.
you shouldn't, Dean texts back instantly. And tacks on the next, you shouldn't have to handle it all on your own.
Dean waits several minutes. Assuming Cas has cut off communication because he's been pushy, Dean gives up and goes to take a shower.
Sam is up when he gets out, though barely. He looks pretty wrecked when he wakes up in the morning these days. Dean grabs his phone, wallet, keys and offers to go get them breakfast. Sam yawns wide enough to swallow the whole world and nods.
Dean starts the car with his other stuff thrown on the passenger seat next to him when his eye is drawn by the glow. because we are family, the screen on his phone says.
Dean blinks. Breathes. Yes.
He snaps up the phone. YES. he sends back.
There is no reply. There is no reply through the drive, his order, his wait, or his drive back to the motel. There's no reply through coffee or his breakfast burrito or the second cup of coffee. Sam watches him watching his phone.
"Shut up," he says to Sam before he can open his mouth.
Sam looks sadly at him and he doesn't want to hear it. "Don't you have a few jugs of holy water to make, lazyass?" Sam doesn't even debate it. He just gets up to go get the empty containers and rosaries out of the car.
Once Sam is out the door, Dean opens a new message, tries just one more time:
you're right. we're family. we can do this. He stares at the screen.
we need you. we miss you.
Dean doesn't send it. He stares at it until the screen idles to black. He stares at the amber gleam of the whiskey bottle sitting below the window. Nut up, Winchester. Fuck.
you're right. we're family. we can do this. we need you. i miss you.
He sends it.
«»
Texting with Dean teaches Castiel a very basic, human lesson: When you are lonely, you want to speak to someone, and then when you speak to someone, you are ready to be alone again.
«»
It is a week later and Castiel misses Sam and he misses Dean but he doesn't know what to say.
He tells Dean that Texas is everywhere and Dean commiserates that, yeah, it's the pits.
not that i'm in texas right now. it just feels as if everywhere is texas sometimes.
if you were in texas, what part of it would you be in? Dean asks.
utah, probably.
«»
my brother is broken.
Dean sits on the floor beside his bed and reads his own words and cannot send them. He keeps letting the screen time out and then lights it again to see the message. My brother is dying, he thinks of the black veins growing stark under the skin of his arms.
And he thinks of Balthazar of all fucking people- of all beings. Uriel. Samandriel.
Castiel has put down more of his own brothers than he'll ever even speak aloud. So it feels like Dean has no right to this grief in the face of that but the screen is so bright in his dark little room and there are tears building in his eyes anyway and it hurts this bad every time. Every time Sam goes through this. Has Cas killed as many brothers as Dean has seen his Sammy die?
The shaking in his thumb wins and the message zips out and away from him.
He only gasps once, sobs once. Then covers his face and wipes it dry with a hand. Breath may hiccup out of him but he's not fucking crying. Just not.
The screen glows, and it looks like it's calm and friendly or something.
Cas has replied:
tell me.
A huge breath erupts from him and he has to rest his head on a knee for a second. He carefully texts back Sam’s ailments as far as he knows them. Some he can neither see nor describe.
The pause is long. Of course, Dean thinks, because there's nothing Cas can do for him. He can't even lay hands on him and fucking try. He's too broken.
Instead a frigging page, a virtual wall of text pops up. Dean scrolls and reads for a moment. His naked feet nearly skid on the floor beneath him as he bounds up and out of his room to the library.
Messages keep appearing as he's running his hands down the spines of half the books in the room. He gathers a few of the vital ones and tries to keep up with the texts that are appearing. He scrawls a few of the names of protective symbols down, some ingredients. Cas types out some Enochian words phonetically that he can't convey otherwise that Sam will have to untangle in the morning.
There are a few wards, symbols that can be drawn on the skin to enhance strength. A few bags of herbs and things that can be worn around the neck to purify the blood and slow Sam's (they don't say "decay"). Prayers that can be recited and directed to Mary or the Saints to keep the angels from hearing them directly.
what about to you? Dean asks, hoping he hasn't been blowing up Castiel's spot by letting a prayer of his own slip through in the past few weeks he's been on the run.
But, i will always hear you, Cas assures him.
It's nearly sunrise when Dean unearths a restorative charm necklace from one of the boxes of objects the Men of Letters hoarded away. He saw the little picture in one of the books Cas had recommended and dove straight into the pile, knowing he'd come across it before.
He holds the thin chain up to the light and stares through the little Egyptian sigil. Awe and disbelief and pure, sweet relief at how even this little bit could help Sam stay alive. I love you, you son of a bitch, he thinks, before he can help himself.
The last text they exchanged was an hour ago. He's too tired to tell if he just aimed that thought at Sam or at Cas.
Part II | Part III