Supernatural - Touched: Ch 7/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Story Title: Touched
Chapter Title: Chapter 7 The Child Who Would Be God
Rating: PG-13/Teen for violence and minor language
Link to Previous Chapter(s): PROLOGUE & CHAPTER 1 & CHAPTER 2 & CHAPTER 3 & CHAPTER 4 & CHAPTER 5 & CHAPTER 6
Spoilers: Spoilers for Season 6, but not for Season 7. AU past Season 6's finale.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the universe. I'm borrowing them for fun, not profit. All kudos and copyrights remain with Kripke.
Summary: Post Season 6. It was God who finished him, God who cleaned up the mess, or at least that's what the Winchesters thought when Castiel was suddenly… gone. Four years later, though, a small boy grabs hold of Dean's hand and stares up at the hunter with bright blue eyes. Dean knows those eyes: "Cas?" What does it mean? And why is there a demon coming for them? A demon they've never met before, one who knows their names, one who wants them dead, one who is bent on revenge.
Chapter 7: The Child Who Would Be God
At noon, the Chevy rolled into Singer's Auto. They were hours early, even by the estimate Sam had given when he'd last rambled over the phone, spouting out a grocery list worth of supplies they wouldn't be able to pick up before their arrival. Yet, Bobby was waiting for them, outside, the sun light casting down on his ball cap and leaving a dark shadow over his face.
Dean couldn't read him, not in the distance, but he could tell the older hunter was watching with a sharp eye. Vigilance was a constant and a comfort. Took Dean another second to realize Bobby hadn't been waiting outside, eager as a yard dog-there were bags at his feet. He'd just gotten in from his own errands. Must have stopped what he was doing as soon as he heard the car approaching.
The scratch at Dean's throat left him biting down a cough, a good enough excuse to stop his stare-down out the side window and find a bottle of water.
"You're awake." As if it were somehow a surprise.
"Guess you won't get to carry me in all princess-style after all, Sam." Dean smirked at the back of his brother's head. "Better luck next time."
Sam grumbled in reply but was already out of the car, headed toward Bobby and his pile of bags. Higher road and all that. Dean chuckled, then wished he hadn't shaken his back so much. White hot, the pain rolled all the way down his arm. So much for it going numb after a while.
The sigh was loud, intended purely to catch attention, and Dean could have sworn it belonged to Sammy, de-aged a good thirty years. "Grandma says cussing makes you sound stupid."
Dean jaw twitched. He bit off his initial response right before it could leave his mouth. Mainly because he'd almost brought up Sam's early morning vocabulary lesson on four-lettered words. Stupid higher road. "I wasn't cussing."
Cassidy, wide-eyed and messy-haired from his nap, was sitting against the opposite door, trying to work his buckle loose, and eying Dean. "You were gonna," he said. Insisted.
Dean rolled his eyes, pretended it, the fact that the kid was starting to be able to read him, didn't bother him. Pretended the comment was kiddie-intuition alone. "Yeah, yeah-you got me. Happy?"
Cassidy pursed his lips, putting some thought into the question. Dean decided it was best not to hear an answer. He reached over, clicked the buckle free. "Wait right there. Sam'll get you out."
Dean groaned, feeling the full ache of his early morning snack run as he eased himself out of the car and resisted the urge to scratch at the coffee burn across his stomach. One breath of relief was all he got.
"Always said that junk food would kill ya."
Dean followed the gravelly voice up to Bobby and rolled his eyes at the statement. He was half expecting a hug out of the old guy-sure, it had only been a few weeks since they'd stopped in-but the other hunter was keeping his distance, one hand scratching at the graying hair on his cheek, as if he were still trying to figure something out. None of the levity of a welcome remained on Bobby's face.
Sam returned from carrying in the bags but stopped as soon as his feet hit earth, raising a questioning brow from behind Bobby. Dean shrugged. No, Sammy, I have no idea why Bobby looks like a con-worm crawled up his ass. Judging from his sour expression, Sam could practically hear the sarcasm about to come out of Dean, so he stepped back down to the Impala, lips forced into a tight smile.
"Something wrong, Bobby?" He maneuvered into the man's line of sight, his voice lower, guarded from the audience still in the car. "Dean and I have already tested him, if that's what you're worried about. He's human. Or, you know, he is now."
"I figured," Bobby muttered, still frowning. "That ain't what's bothering me." He didn't give the two a chance to question the comment. Straightening the bill of his cap, he shot Dean a glance, as if he'd forgotten he was still there. "You gonna stand out here bleeding all over yourself? Get inside, boy. Let me have a look at that shoulder of yours."
Dean smirked, or at least tried to, and followed him. Sam caught his brother by the elbow. His voice was hushed, but the confusion was clear as ever.
"Think he's holding a grudge or something?"
"Hell if I know," Dean answered, "but I aim to find out."
The water's white froth jetted over Bobby's callused fingertips, stripping the stain of blood from his nails. He rubbed at his knuckles beneath the flow, taking far too long to clean up. Dean could tell the man was stalling, and he was getting kind of sick of staring at the back of his vest. Dean was patched up now, the urgency of the moment gone, fresh bandages lain across a canvas of bruises. Meds in his system. Now was time to move on to the talking part.
"So, you plan on telling me what that was all about?"
Bobby didn't feign ignorance. He twisted the faucet off and dried his hands on a towel, his frown deep when he turned. Still, he didn't seem ready to reply. "I wasn't trying to give the kid the cold shoulder," he finally said, and finished with a sigh. "Your brother's phone call this morning, it rattled me, I guess. . . You find this kid and it's not a day later you're nearly killed? This demon's carrying all the cards, and you don't even know what you did to piss him off? It's a lot to take in. Too much like old times."
Dean leaned forward in the kitchen chair, his elbows resting against the table, and shook his head in disbelief. "Are you kidding me, Bobby? Pissing uglies off is what we do best. I'm not an idiot-this isn't about the demon. This is about the kid."
Bobby snorted and took the seat across from him. "Wasn't calling you an idiot, son. You're not wrong. This isn't about the demon."
Dean licked at his lip, biting down the words, but it didn't seem to help. "You gonna say it then?"
Bobby raised a brow, amused. "Say what exactly? That Sam's upstairs reading a storybook to a guy who threatened to smite us last time we were in his company? That you're being awfully forgiving to someone who nearly melted your brother's brain? Something along those lines?"
"Doesn't matter right now, Bobby." Dean glared at his own fisted fingers. "I'm the first one to admit that Cas sunk his own damn boat. Made a bunch of dick decisions along the way, too. But, God…" He took a breath and forced himself to look up. "Remember when Rufus died all those years back? What I said about not letting the past get in the way? I meant it. Castiel screwed up, he did, and if he'd had a chance to stay on that path, I would have tried to take him down."
Dean paused, feeling the pulse in his throat pick up. As true as those words were, it was hard for him to separate the memory, years faded, of the angel from Cassidy. And the thought of having to kill a kid, that kid…Dean squashed the seed before it could take root.
"He wasn't alone in screwing up, either. There were things I should have done. Things that might have changed what happened." Dean raised a hand, stopped his friend, his second-father, from taking over from there. "And even if you still blame him, you can't take it out on that kid, Bobby."
"And what if somewhere down the line, Cassidy gets his wings back? Which version of Castiel do you think he's likely to be?" Bobby cut himself off with a bitter chuckle and took a seat. "Oh, hell, who am I kidding? That angel was always the same. Trying to save your asses, cost be damned. Just bit off more than he could chew the last go-around. Wonder who he learned that from."
Dean swiped a hand over his chin, holding back his grin. "Not a clue," he replied. "There's not going to be another God cos-play moment, though. I can promise you that." His eyes were darker when they lifted. "It won't happen because I won't let it. I messed up last time around."
"You tried to stop him. We all did."
Dean pushed his chair back. "I'm not saying I led him to the Dark Side. I'm saying I wasn't who I was supposed to be to him. I let that prick Crowley get under his skin. I let a friend fight a war without me."
Bobby bounced a palm off the table. "This is exactly what I'm talking about, boy!"
"It's the truth." The words tasted sour. Dean scowled, swallowing them down. "It's the truth."
"I'm not arguing that, but I was there the last time, remember?" Bobby shook his head. "You considered what'll happen if you lose this kid? You were messed up when Cas made with the disappearing act. Cleaned out the damn liquor store for a year. Barely trusted your own family. You gonna tell me you'll take it better now that he's in miniature form?"
"Well, see, Bobby, that's an easy one." Dean pushed up from the table, making a move for the coffee pot. "We won't lose him."
"You don't always get a choice." But the old hunter' words were lost before they ever left his lips.
Days passed. Three. And no sign of the demon.
It was there, somewhere. They knew, had taken the proper precautions in anticipation. That didn't mean they had stayed inside, hid away behind ancient symbols, exorcisms ready on the tips of their tongues. They'd given the demon the chance to make his move, and he hadn't taken it. Not yet.
Dean knew why.
"Boys, we gotta talk about that kid…"
The name. Dean didn't know the demon's name yet, and to the chagrin of Bobby and Sam, he wasn't putting any effort into recalling it, either. It nudged at the back of his mind though, prodding him to consider what he hadn't been willing to admit. That, yeah, he knew a few too many dead folks who'd want him amongst their ranks. That maybe a couple names might have stood out on the list of torture souls from his time down under and their black smoke run-ins over the years. That there was one particular name that visited him nightly.
"…Like he goes back and forth. One minute Cas is watching cartoons, the next he looks dazed. Confused. He knows..."
"… Hell, Sam, he knew my name, knew his way around my place, as soon as he got here. Then he asks me if I have Oreos and milk. Damned unnerving, is what it is…"
Dean felt it building inside him, that stir-crazy urge to grab a gun, hit the front yard, and call the bastard demon out. Instead, he relaxed against the sofa cushions, pretending the buzzing in his ear was due to a blowfly and not his family's voices, hushed and pitched in an effort to stay low. These days, proper planning meant taking advantage of naptime.
"I wish I had a naptime," Dean noted.
The other two went quiet a moment.
"You been listening to a word we've said?" Bobby asked. He huffed when the answer he received was a raised brow. "Dean, I know you don't want to, but we can't just go on acting like the kid doesn't remember anything."
"Bobby's right."
Dean rolled his eyes. "It's bits and pieces, Bobby. Nothing worth poking a stick at."
Sam plopped down beside his brother, that placating, tell-me-about-your-relationship-with-your-mother wrinkle already at his brow. "I know you're worried about him, but is this about you or Cas? Do you really think it would do any harm, just asking him if he remembers what happened when he fell?"
"He won't know."
Bobby snorted. "Yesterday, he asked me if he could play with my wheelchair. You know, the one I haven't used since the friggin' Apocalypse. He might not realize what it is he knows, but he knows things, Dean."
"Could you vague that up a little more, guru?" Dean shook his head. "I don't know why you two are so fixated on this anyway. Who gives a crap how he lost his mojo? He's here now. He's a little boy whose grandmother burned alive in front of him a few days ago. And I not going to start interrogating him about some past life he can't do anything about-"
Sam's hand on his good shoulder broke him off the tirade. "Dean, we wouldn't ask him if it wasn't important." His voice was soft, and Dean realized why a moment later, when he heard the sound of footsteps upstairs. Cassidy was awake. "The demon could have come straight for us. Our guard was down. But he used Cas to draw us in for a reason. Bobby can do all the research he wants, but this guy's name isn't going to pop out of some book for us. The demon's coming after us. All of us. It's personal for him. There's a chance Cas knows who he is, who he really is. We're not going to find out unless we ask him."
Dean recalled the feeling of a knife cutting through him, claws ripping him open, needles weaving in and out. The sensation in his gut wasn't so different now, with Cassidy sitting on the floor across from him, asking that question for the second time.
"Did I do something wrong again?"
His blue eyes were wet already, but he didn't have the other warning signs of an approaching fit. No pouted lips, no trembles, no tiny swell of flesh between his eye brows. This wasn't frustration, but resolve.
His voice lost his strength. "I did something wrong," Cassidy concluded. The solidness of that tone was so familiar that Dean had to remind himself that it wasn't Castiel sitting there, cross-legged.
"You're not in trouble, buddy," Dean assured, and knew that wasn't quite the answer the kid was looking for. "But we need to talk about some stuff."
He glanced over his shoulder, eyed the entry to the kitchen, where Bobby and Sam were sitting at the table, pretending to go over some maps. For a split second, he thought about calling them in, but decided against it. He'd told them he'd be the one to try, the one to ask. Dean brought his attention back to the child sitting on the floor across from him, sheets of once-blank paper strewn between them, littered with rolling crayons.
Dean had gotten squat with a side of Jack. Then Cassidy had lost his will to color and asked that question. The one with a clear answer that Dean was sure as hell was never going to give him.
"I just…" Dean forgot where he was going, where he'd already been, and rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. "Cas, I just need you to think a minute. About the man who tried to hurt you. I know he looked like your preacher, like Brother Matthews, but he's not. I think you understand that, don't you? He's one of those monsters, like we talked about."
Cassidy nodded. "He hurt Grandma."
Shit. Dean frowned. He'd hoped, really hoped, that, for this particular chat, the kid would take on that edge of wisdom, age, the one that reminded him of Castiel. Instead, it was a four-year-old replying. A child. Dean wanted to throw-up a little. How many times had he called Cas a child back in the day? An infant in a trenchcoat? God had a sense of humor, wherever the hell he was.
"He did," Dean managed. "But he wanted to hurt you, too. And me and Sam."
"Can she come back?"
"What?"
"Can Grandma come back?"
Double shit.
The pout came returned then. Cassidy cocked his head, blinking. "You came back," he reasoned, before Dean could answer. Cassidy stood up, crumbled green crayon wax stuck to the knee of his pants, and stepped across the mess of coloring sheets.
"I'm sorry." It was the only card Dean had to play. He put it on the table. "I know it's not fair. I'm sorry, but she can't come back."
Dean stared at him, waiting for Cassidy to make the next move. He wasn't expecting the hug, but he got it anyway. A tackle that nearly threw him back, thin arms wrapped around his neck, chin pressed against the top of his shoulder, reminding him of the bandages caked on below the kid's weak grasp. It took the hunter another moment to realize the breathy sound close to his ear was crying. Dean reached around, awkwardly patting the kid on the back.
Cassidy hiccuped between the words: "I touched you, and you came back."
Dean absolutely did not want to look behind him, see if his brother and Bobby were watching. He closed his eyes, chose to ignore their presence. Chose to ignore the fact that his arm was burning, that the skin beneath the sleeve, where Castiel had once reached down, grabbed hold of him, pulled him from the pit, was tender, throbbing. 'I touched you, and you came back,' made a loop around his head again, '...gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.' He lifted the kid off of him so he could meet his eye.
"Cas, I know it's hard, but I need you to try to remember if-"
"The bad man said I touched him, too," Cas said, fast. He wiped two balled fists at his wide eyes, smudging the wet lines down his cheeks. His legs shook, ready to fall out from under him, but Dean held on to his arms, kept him in place. Steady. "I didn't mean to. I did it wrong. And I let go."
"What does that mean, Cas? What did you do wrong?"
But Cassidy's lip was trembling, fresh tears rolling down his face as he shifted and jerked, trying to pull away. Dean blinked up him, feeling that same knife-in-the-gut sharpness, and gripped his arms more tightly.
"Don't make me see it, Dean," Cassidy begged, his voice hoarse. Its volume grew, panic at its edges. "It's scary there. I don't want to go there again. Don't make me…"
Something dropped behind them. A book clapping against the wood flooring. Followed by a scramble to pick it up. The sound sent a shock up Dean's spine.
"Cas, it's okay," Dean said, cutting him off. "You don't have to remember it. You don't have to remember anything other than being Cassidy, you understand me?" Dean pressed the kid against his chest, leaving him there."You're Cassidy now, and you didn't do anything wrong."
CHAPTER 8