in your frail gesture are things which enclose me. part 1.
Title: in your frail gesture are things which enclose me
Word Count: 4047
Warnings: some bad language - slightly more coarse than the show
Note About Timeline: I was lucky enough to have the show play into pretty much exactly how this fic starts - that is, Cas getting the souls sucked out, just mine is without the leviathans and with a little bit less remorse on his part. So. The earliest part of the story begins pretty much right at the end of 7x01, with just a little tweaking on my part on how the ritual went down.
masterpost
in your frail gesture are things which enclose me
part 1
A Fine Tremor was published on May 25th by an independent publishing company based in Los Angeles. It did very, very well.
Many critics regarded it a new classic, and the author - the mysterious C. Augustine, a man no one had heard of before - was often praised as a genius. The prose was sparse, but haunting, and the narrator was a shattered, cerebral mess. There was another camp, however, who hated it and said it was pretentious drivel, or too sentimental, or too cynical, or Augustine's presence in the novel was too strong. Opinions were mostly polarized: people tended to either hate it or love it.
But whether the talk was positive or negative, there was a lot of talk. The novel was of a decent length, just passing four hundred pages, and featured a post-Apocolyptic midwestern America. It followed two brothers traveling around the wasteland: a doctor and a former soldier. They weren’t the most sympathetic characters - the years after the upheaval had been difficult and it left indelible scars, made them hard, their skin tough. But they were loyal to a fault, dependent on each other to a point where it had become unhealthy. The narrator was faceless, nameless - the only information given about him was in how he told the story of meeting the brothers, and eventually dying with them.
It was nothing really ground-breaking, and it featured a few well used tropes, but most readers who had enjoyed it agreed on one thing: it felt sincere.
: : :
The librarian on call was young, about twenty-seven, with blonde hair she kept in soft curls around her face. Her name was Helen and she had a book open in front of her. Normally she was very attentive to her work; her husband was still in school, doing an unpaid internship, so apart from their savings the bulk of the fiscal responsibility fell to her. So she firmly toed the line, rarely giving in to distraction. But this book... her friend Marion had recommended it, and since they both liked Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut Helen had decided to give it a chance. And she couldn't put it down.
"Excuse me," a warm baritone voice said. Someone rapped gently on the counter with a big-knuckled hand and Helen snapped the book down on the take-out menu she'd been using as a bookmark. "Um... I'd like to borrow these books?"
"Right, sorry." She smiled. The man was tall - really tall, she noted - with floppy hair and an expressive, friendly face. She nudged her book away with an elbow and pulled the stack of books he'd set on the counter closer. "Do you have a library card?"
He nodded and pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. "What were you reading?" he asked as he handed it to her. "You looked really absorbed in it."
"Oh, well." She sighed, rolling her eyes a little at getting caught. "I was. It's..." She gave him a quick smile as she handed his card back. "It's really good." She pushed the book forward so he could take a look at the cover. "It’s called A Fine Tremor," she said. "Just came out not too long ago. I've been hearing a lot of great things about it, so." She shrugged. "Decided to try it."
"Hmm." The man - Sam, his card had said - nodded and picked up the book. "I've never heard of the author," he said, flipping it over. "C. Augustine." He looked up at Helen. "What else has he written?"
"No idea," she said. "Nobody's ever heard of him; I think this is his first novel." She looked at him speculatively for a moment. The books he'd gotten were on spirits and local history - something she really didn't need to delve deeper into, because everyone had their weird hobbies - so she couldn't really get a read on his tastes. But. "We have a copy," she said, pointing toward shelf where they kept the new releases. "At least we should have one left; I don't think it's been checked out yet. Since you seem interested," she said.
"Yeah, okay." Sam grinned. "Let me grab it."
He came back a few seconds later with the book in hand. "Great," Helen said. She scanned it and stuck the printed receipt between two pages. "I hope you enjoy it. Your books are due back in two weeks."
: : :
"This book is amazing," Sam said. He opened it up again, flipping idly through the pages. "You have to read it, Dean."
"Hmm." Dean glanced over at the cover, then shook his head. "Sorry, Sammy; doesn't really look like my type of thing."
"No, it's so good.” Sam tapped the cover. "And this... There's this one guy, right? Dean, he could practically be you."
"Oh, really?" Dean grinned, looking smug and marginally more interested, but that didn't last and he shrugged the book away when Sam tried to pass it to him.
"What's got something just like Dean?" Bobby asked, poking his head around the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen. "Who'd want another son of a bitch like that, anyway?"
"That hurts, Bobby," Dean said, flipping through an old car magazine. "Really hurts."
"It's this book I just finished," Sam said, holding it up so Bobby could see. "A Fine Tremor."
Bobby's eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer to see the book. "By C. Augustine," he said. His lips tightened and he let out a breath through his nose. "Well that's real nice."
"You want to read it?" Sam asked.
"Mmm, no," Bobby said, shaking his head slowly. "No, doesn't really sound like my type of thing."
"Aww come on, Bobby, I haven't even told you about it yet."
Bobby waved Sam’s interest away, scrunching his nose. “Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll get a synopsis later.”
“Just ignore him, Bobby,” Dean said. “He’s been bugging me about it for days.”
Sam shot Dean a quick, dirty look. Lately Dean had been unwilling to try anything but the few age old pastimes he knew he enjoyed. It was hunt, eat, sleep, interspersed with bickering, working on the Impala, and porn.
They spent a good chunk of their time at Bobby’s - living there in all but official invitation; and though Bobby groused about them being underfoot, he never did anything more than complain. He did occasionally get tired of them, or they’d have a salt-and-burn to take care of, and for awhile they’d go off, but they always found their way back. The loss of another ally had been keenly felt, and neither Sam nor Dean were ready to lose the only family they had left.
Sam didn’t know what had happened to Cas. He’d been teetering between remorse and fear when Sam called him down; and they’d done the ritual, and the souls had been released, but after that... Bobby’d said he just walked out.
Dean hadn’t handled it well. He’d been willing to help Cas, a band-aid stuck on the bond between them. But as soon as they’d sucked the souls out, something had changed. Because the souls weren’t all that had come. Castiel’s Grace had come out, as well.
Castiel’s whole body had seemed to burn. He back arched and he screamed: a high, inhuman sound, like the screeching of a mangled bird. It hurt. God, it hurt, even just to hear it, and Sam and Dean clapped hands over their ears. Sam turned his head, the light bright enough to hurt as it was pulled out of Cas, but Dean never looked away.
Shadows, broad and dark, unfolded from his back; thick, black, incorporeal wings, shimmering in the brightness. Castiel’s eyes widened and he clutched at his shoulders with clawed hands.
“No,” he said, frantic. “No!” He screamed again and threw his head back, the shadows of his wings beginning to move, shaking, moving up to the speed of a hummingbird’s. Then they lit up, glowing electric orange, sizzling and crackling like the end of a cigarette until they burnt up and the only shadows left were blunt stumps were the wings used to be. The light dissipated and they could see Castiel clearly. His eyes had rolled back into his head and he sank to his knees, hands convulsively clenching. His mouth opened, and a foggy white smoke came out, before curling in the air and disappearing. Then he collapsed. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out what had happened.
Dean went over, calling his name. He knelt down, hand on Cas’ shoulder, trying to shake him awake. But Cas didn’t move. He was unconscious, breathing softly. He looked wrecked; whatever had happened had hurt him badly. His clothes were probably ruined, dirty and torn. Even the trenchcoat looked a little beat up. Sam wondered if there were two neat tears at the shoulders, where his wings had burst throught. “Cas,” Dean said again. “Cas. You have to wake up. You...” He looked up at Sam, his brow furrowed, mouth open but unable to speak.
Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I think he’s... He’s breathing, right? That’s got to be a good sign.”
“Except angels don’t need to breathe.”
Yeah, except for that. Sam knew Dean - and Cas - wouldn’t want his pity, but a wave of sympathy he couldn’t control flooded through him. “I don’t think he’s an angel anymore.”
Dean stood up, letting his hand trail down Cas’ arm as he did. “So he’s human.” His voice was flat, and as soon as he noticed Sam glance his way his face went blank.
“Yeah,” Bobby said, stepping up behind them. “Looks like he’s human.”
And of course while they were all there gawking at him, Cas had woken up. His eyes found Dean’s first and for a long moment they just held, but then Dean looked away and made some stupid excuse to leave. And Sam could see why he’d done it - his angel was gone, his angel had fallen, and right when there might be hope for reconciliation something this big had happened.
Cas reached after him, silently, and though Sam knew Dean hadn’t meant it like that, it was clear Cas thought he’d been denied. Then he’d thrown up and passed out again. Bobby had sent Sam in after Dean, waiting until Cas woke up.
Sam didn’t know how to react to him. He was grateful Cas had fixed him as the last act with his god-powers and maybe he should be angry for breaking the wall in the first place - some distant part of him was, just a little - but there was no use dwelling on it. And Cas was human. Cas was dirty and messy and human, just like the rest of them. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he should be distant or comforting - if Cas would want support, or would want to face the first realization of his new state of being alone.
Even without really reacting, though, Cas was obviously wary around him. Bobby sent him up to shower and dress and Sam waited outside the door, wanting to try to talk to him. But he couldn’t, not after what he’d just seen happen to Cas, and not when Cas looked at him like that. So he’d just sent him back to Bobby.
And then Cas had gone.
Without saying a word to either brother, Cas had just left.
“Where is he?” Dean had asked. “Where’s Cas?”
“Gone,” Bobby said. He stuck one hand in his front pocket, leaning up against the doorframe. “I figured we all needed some space so I was going to give him to some old friends of mine for awhile, let us all cool off for awhile.” At Dean’s angry look, Bobby shrugged. “If he wanted. I wasn’t kicking him out. Of course I’d love another person in my house.” He rolled his eyes. “So yeah, Dean, before you get your panties in a twist, I told him he could stay here. But he didn’t want to - he decided to leave.”
“Without saying a word to anyone? He’s just gone.” Dean looked down and huffed.
Bobby cocked his head and shrugged again. “Can’t imagine he’d feel too welcome after you tried to talk Death into killing him. Can’t imagine he’s feeling too good about himself, either.”
“So he’s just running away?”
“No, Dean - I mean...” Sam could understand why Cas had done it, but like Dean he wished he hadn’t. “Maybe he’ll come back. He must know that we’ll take him. Right?”
Nobody answered him.
When Sam had returned A Fine Tremor to the library a few days before, he was disappointed to find that Augustine hadn’t published anything else. He’d been looking him up on his laptop for well over an hour one afternoon when Dean asked “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Sam said. “Just... looking something up.”
“What?”
He scowled. “Don’t you have something better to be doing?”
“Not really,” Dean said, flashing a grin.
“That book, you remember?” Sam hunched down closer to the screen. “Just wanted to see what else he’d done.”
Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam." He rolled off the couch and walked over to where Sam was sitting, his laptop in his lap. Dean leaned on the back of the chair, tapping Sam on the shoulder with the knuckle of a finger. "Are you still going ga-ga over this guy?"
Sam shot Dean an annoyed look. "He's a good writer," he said dismissively, hunching his shoulders in a poor attempt to keep the website on the screen away from Dean.
Dean leaned closer and pushed the screen back a little so there was less glare. Sam's annoyance really only fueled him. "So. What all has he written?"
The next look Sam shot his brother had considerably more venom, but Dean just smiled back at him. Sam sighed. "Not much," he said, hoping Dean would get the hint and leave. He did not; he just leaned in a little closer. Sam's shoulders tightened. "A Fine Tremor was his first novel. Before that..." Sam opened a new tab on his web browser and typed 'C. Augustine' into the search bar. Most of the hits came from book reviews, a few interviews: mostly posts on the novel. Sam scrolled down a little and clicked a link. "He wrote a few short stories first," he said. "Only published online. Apparently he used to be a junkie or something. But got himself into rehab and used writing as a... I don't know, a sort of therapy. The whole center did it - they publish it on a website so all the friends and family of the people there can see they're making progress."
Dean snorted and Sam gave him a half-scandalized look. "Sorry," Dean said, "but I've never really bought that whole tortured artist thing."
Sam just shrugged. "His early work is good, no matter why or how he wrote it. But I don't like it as much as I like his book. That's where he does the best, I think - the longer stuff."
“So anything come after this amazing first novel?”
Sam shook his head. “No, it’s pretty new. Just published in May. He hasn’t published anything else since. In an interview I read - the first one he did, I think - he talked about his writing. Sounded like he wasn’t expecting his book to ever be this popular. It was supposed to be some... some journey or something, some kind of self-discovery.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Dean said.
“Sure, Dean. Of course it is.” Sam gave his brother a narrow look. “But that’s what he said. Sounded like something bad happened to him - something really traumatic. He’s doing another interview soon - this one on TV, his first live one.”
“And let me guess,” Dean said. “You’re looking forward to it?”
Sam didn’t look at him. “Yes.”
: : :
The Winchesters had been gone for about two weeks. Bobby had given them a hunt a few states over, and for awhile they’d been busy with that. It was nice to see Dean busy, Sam thought - he didn’t need time to dwell. It was pretty typical, and after they’d taken care of it they’d headed back to Bobby’s.
It had become a home, and even if they were still only officially guests, Bobby had stopped even pretending to drop hints about them leaving. As soon as they’d set their bags down and settled down to a late lunch, Bobby had come in carrying two packages wrapped in smooth red paper. "Here," he said gruffly, thrusting the two packages into Sam's hands. Their names had been written on the paper in thick black lines. "Don't say I never gave you anything."
"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said. He was a little surprised by the gift, but grateful. He handed Dean's package to him - and Dean scoffed but took it - and then started to unwrap his own. "A... book," he guessed as he tore off the paper. "Oh. A Fine Tremor." He didn’t really need a copy, but it was nice of Bobby to think of him. "Um, thanks, Bobby."
"Yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Thanks."
Bobby sighed, exasperated. "Open the covers," he said.
Sam obeyed. "To... Sam," he said, eyes going wide. "I am glad you enjoyed the novel. It was a labor of love to write, and to know it is being read and appreciated means the world. Yours sincerely, C. Augustine. Bobby is this really... Did you actually get me a signed copy?"
Bobby nodded, looking half sheepish at Sam’s obvious delight. "Yeah," he said. "Knew how much you liked the book and I'd heard that... some friends of mine knew the author." He shrugged, though it was clear he was pleased Sam liked it. "Thought I might as well. You two ain't exactly been cheery lately; thought you could use something to help with that."
"And you're sure it was him? I know sometimes they sell fakes and -”
“No,” Bobby said, shaking his head. “It's his signature. Sent from the publisher. Like I said - some friends of mine, some other hunters I met a good while back, put in a good word with this Augustine guy. And he was... Happy. To hear that he had such a big fan.”
“Well thank you. No, really." Sam grinned, closing the book and looking up at Bobby. "Thank you." He cleared his throat and looked at Dean, who had left his copy of the book sitting in the pile of paper it had been wrapped in.
"Oh. Yeah," Dean said, nodded quickly. He hadn't really been paying attention to what Sam had been saying and it was clear the gift didn't mean nearly as much to him. "Thanks. Great, uh. Great job, Bobby."
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I can tell you're grateful.”
He left them to themselves, then, mumbling something about needing to take care of something and heading outside.
“What did yours say, Dean?”
Dean sighed. “What are you, five? If you’re so interested, read it yourself.”
Sam held out his hand, but Dean just gave him a wan smile. “Nevermind,” he said, grumbling. “If you’re going to be that childish about it.” Dean just shrugged, and Sam grabbed his computer, still grinning about his gift. It had been unexpected, to say the least, but very welcomed.
He didn’t understand why Dean wouldn’t read the novel. Regardless of what he might claim, Dean was as much of a dork as Sam was - just a different kind. He might not do research or like academia in the same way Sam did, but he loved Star Trek, and Vonnegut, and no matter how much he tried to argue, his obsession with cowboys was a fetish. He had the biggest boner for Clint Eastwood Sam had ever heard of. And reading wasn’t even exclusive to dorks; the publishing industry was huge, there were books of every genre published everyday.
And Sam knew Dean well enough to know what he’d like. When he’d told Dean there was a character that could practically be him, he wasn’t kidding. It was like Augustine knew Dean - because even if there were pretty stark differences mixed in, too, it was the little things that really got to Sam. The guy - Michael Ferris - even had some of the same mannerisms as Dean. And the themes, too: fierce devotion, brotherly love, moving past stoic acceptance to trying to take control of one’s own fate. It wasn’t a healing experience for Sam, and the characters in the book were living in the aftermath of an apocalypse instead of stopping one, but it was eerie how much Sam could relate what happened in the narrative to their own lives.
Dean, though, instead of listening to Sam’s analysis of the book, just mocked him for liking it so much. It wasn’t mean, and Dean only did it because Sam had come awfully close to gushing, but it was frustrating, especially when all Sam wanted to do was enjoy it.
It was also, he realized, because he’d been subtly pushing Dean maybe a little more than he should lately. Because regardless of what Dean thought, Sam knew better. His repression just wasn’t healthy. They hadn’t even said Castiel’s name in he couldn’t remember how long. Sam had thought their relationship was a little weird, but he hadn’t realized before how much Dean had cared about Cas. Now Cas, yeah, it was pretty clear Dean hung the moon for him, but Sam hadn’t realized it might be more than one-sided. They were both so emotionally constipated, though, and without knowing where Cas was - he’d asked Bobby not long after Cas had left, and when he’d gotten in touch with his contacts they’d said Cas wasn’t with them anymore - there wasn’t really anything he could do.
"Sam." Dean sighed and put his feet up on the arm of the sofa, one arm resting on his stomach and the other cradled under his head. "We're really going to watch this."
"Stop whining, Dean," Sam said, pushing Dean's feet off the couch and taking a seat beside him. He handed Dean a beer - as payment, though Dean was hardly appreciative - and then turned on the TV.
"There's going to be somebody else on the show, too, right?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't know, Dean - I guess. They always have some sort of guest line up." Dean shrugged and enjoyed his drink. It was the first live appearance the author had ever made. He was very private - he kept his first initial only, no one - apart from those who knew him personally - even knew his real name.
"And now," the host of the show said, "we're going to introduce to you tonight - in his very first TV interview - the author of the new best-seller A Fine Tremor. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. C. Augustine."
There was the expected round of applause - and then the camera cut to a slim man in jeans and boots walking toward the stage. Only the back of him was visible. He had dark, messy hair, and he wore a dark blue blazer. As soon as it showed his face as he shook the host's hand, Sam sputtered. "Holy shit," he said, leaning forward. "Dean." He punched his brother's arm. "Dean - do you see that? D'you see him? It's..."
"Yeah," Dean said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was heavy and his eyes were fixed on the screen. "I see him."
Sam shook his head in disbelief, moving his legs restlessly as he looked from Dean to the TV. "I can't believe it," he said. "It's Cas."
part 2
Word Count: 4047
Warnings: some bad language - slightly more coarse than the show
Note About Timeline: I was lucky enough to have the show play into pretty much exactly how this fic starts - that is, Cas getting the souls sucked out, just mine is without the leviathans and with a little bit less remorse on his part. So. The earliest part of the story begins pretty much right at the end of 7x01, with just a little tweaking on my part on how the ritual went down.
masterpost
in your frail gesture are things which enclose me
part 1
A Fine Tremor was published on May 25th by an independent publishing company based in Los Angeles. It did very, very well.
Many critics regarded it a new classic, and the author - the mysterious C. Augustine, a man no one had heard of before - was often praised as a genius. The prose was sparse, but haunting, and the narrator was a shattered, cerebral mess. There was another camp, however, who hated it and said it was pretentious drivel, or too sentimental, or too cynical, or Augustine's presence in the novel was too strong. Opinions were mostly polarized: people tended to either hate it or love it.
But whether the talk was positive or negative, there was a lot of talk. The novel was of a decent length, just passing four hundred pages, and featured a post-Apocolyptic midwestern America. It followed two brothers traveling around the wasteland: a doctor and a former soldier. They weren’t the most sympathetic characters - the years after the upheaval had been difficult and it left indelible scars, made them hard, their skin tough. But they were loyal to a fault, dependent on each other to a point where it had become unhealthy. The narrator was faceless, nameless - the only information given about him was in how he told the story of meeting the brothers, and eventually dying with them.
It was nothing really ground-breaking, and it featured a few well used tropes, but most readers who had enjoyed it agreed on one thing: it felt sincere.
: : :
The librarian on call was young, about twenty-seven, with blonde hair she kept in soft curls around her face. Her name was Helen and she had a book open in front of her. Normally she was very attentive to her work; her husband was still in school, doing an unpaid internship, so apart from their savings the bulk of the fiscal responsibility fell to her. So she firmly toed the line, rarely giving in to distraction. But this book... her friend Marion had recommended it, and since they both liked Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut Helen had decided to give it a chance. And she couldn't put it down.
"Excuse me," a warm baritone voice said. Someone rapped gently on the counter with a big-knuckled hand and Helen snapped the book down on the take-out menu she'd been using as a bookmark. "Um... I'd like to borrow these books?"
"Right, sorry." She smiled. The man was tall - really tall, she noted - with floppy hair and an expressive, friendly face. She nudged her book away with an elbow and pulled the stack of books he'd set on the counter closer. "Do you have a library card?"
He nodded and pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. "What were you reading?" he asked as he handed it to her. "You looked really absorbed in it."
"Oh, well." She sighed, rolling her eyes a little at getting caught. "I was. It's..." She gave him a quick smile as she handed his card back. "It's really good." She pushed the book forward so he could take a look at the cover. "It’s called A Fine Tremor," she said. "Just came out not too long ago. I've been hearing a lot of great things about it, so." She shrugged. "Decided to try it."
"Hmm." The man - Sam, his card had said - nodded and picked up the book. "I've never heard of the author," he said, flipping it over. "C. Augustine." He looked up at Helen. "What else has he written?"
"No idea," she said. "Nobody's ever heard of him; I think this is his first novel." She looked at him speculatively for a moment. The books he'd gotten were on spirits and local history - something she really didn't need to delve deeper into, because everyone had their weird hobbies - so she couldn't really get a read on his tastes. But. "We have a copy," she said, pointing toward shelf where they kept the new releases. "At least we should have one left; I don't think it's been checked out yet. Since you seem interested," she said.
"Yeah, okay." Sam grinned. "Let me grab it."
He came back a few seconds later with the book in hand. "Great," Helen said. She scanned it and stuck the printed receipt between two pages. "I hope you enjoy it. Your books are due back in two weeks."
: : :
"This book is amazing," Sam said. He opened it up again, flipping idly through the pages. "You have to read it, Dean."
"Hmm." Dean glanced over at the cover, then shook his head. "Sorry, Sammy; doesn't really look like my type of thing."
"No, it's so good.” Sam tapped the cover. "And this... There's this one guy, right? Dean, he could practically be you."
"Oh, really?" Dean grinned, looking smug and marginally more interested, but that didn't last and he shrugged the book away when Sam tried to pass it to him.
"What's got something just like Dean?" Bobby asked, poking his head around the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen. "Who'd want another son of a bitch like that, anyway?"
"That hurts, Bobby," Dean said, flipping through an old car magazine. "Really hurts."
"It's this book I just finished," Sam said, holding it up so Bobby could see. "A Fine Tremor."
Bobby's eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer to see the book. "By C. Augustine," he said. His lips tightened and he let out a breath through his nose. "Well that's real nice."
"You want to read it?" Sam asked.
"Mmm, no," Bobby said, shaking his head slowly. "No, doesn't really sound like my type of thing."
"Aww come on, Bobby, I haven't even told you about it yet."
Bobby waved Sam’s interest away, scrunching his nose. “Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll get a synopsis later.”
“Just ignore him, Bobby,” Dean said. “He’s been bugging me about it for days.”
Sam shot Dean a quick, dirty look. Lately Dean had been unwilling to try anything but the few age old pastimes he knew he enjoyed. It was hunt, eat, sleep, interspersed with bickering, working on the Impala, and porn.
They spent a good chunk of their time at Bobby’s - living there in all but official invitation; and though Bobby groused about them being underfoot, he never did anything more than complain. He did occasionally get tired of them, or they’d have a salt-and-burn to take care of, and for awhile they’d go off, but they always found their way back. The loss of another ally had been keenly felt, and neither Sam nor Dean were ready to lose the only family they had left.
Sam didn’t know what had happened to Cas. He’d been teetering between remorse and fear when Sam called him down; and they’d done the ritual, and the souls had been released, but after that... Bobby’d said he just walked out.
Dean hadn’t handled it well. He’d been willing to help Cas, a band-aid stuck on the bond between them. But as soon as they’d sucked the souls out, something had changed. Because the souls weren’t all that had come. Castiel’s Grace had come out, as well.
Castiel’s whole body had seemed to burn. He back arched and he screamed: a high, inhuman sound, like the screeching of a mangled bird. It hurt. God, it hurt, even just to hear it, and Sam and Dean clapped hands over their ears. Sam turned his head, the light bright enough to hurt as it was pulled out of Cas, but Dean never looked away.
Shadows, broad and dark, unfolded from his back; thick, black, incorporeal wings, shimmering in the brightness. Castiel’s eyes widened and he clutched at his shoulders with clawed hands.
“No,” he said, frantic. “No!” He screamed again and threw his head back, the shadows of his wings beginning to move, shaking, moving up to the speed of a hummingbird’s. Then they lit up, glowing electric orange, sizzling and crackling like the end of a cigarette until they burnt up and the only shadows left were blunt stumps were the wings used to be. The light dissipated and they could see Castiel clearly. His eyes had rolled back into his head and he sank to his knees, hands convulsively clenching. His mouth opened, and a foggy white smoke came out, before curling in the air and disappearing. Then he collapsed. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out what had happened.
Dean went over, calling his name. He knelt down, hand on Cas’ shoulder, trying to shake him awake. But Cas didn’t move. He was unconscious, breathing softly. He looked wrecked; whatever had happened had hurt him badly. His clothes were probably ruined, dirty and torn. Even the trenchcoat looked a little beat up. Sam wondered if there were two neat tears at the shoulders, where his wings had burst throught. “Cas,” Dean said again. “Cas. You have to wake up. You...” He looked up at Sam, his brow furrowed, mouth open but unable to speak.
Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I think he’s... He’s breathing, right? That’s got to be a good sign.”
“Except angels don’t need to breathe.”
Yeah, except for that. Sam knew Dean - and Cas - wouldn’t want his pity, but a wave of sympathy he couldn’t control flooded through him. “I don’t think he’s an angel anymore.”
Dean stood up, letting his hand trail down Cas’ arm as he did. “So he’s human.” His voice was flat, and as soon as he noticed Sam glance his way his face went blank.
“Yeah,” Bobby said, stepping up behind them. “Looks like he’s human.”
And of course while they were all there gawking at him, Cas had woken up. His eyes found Dean’s first and for a long moment they just held, but then Dean looked away and made some stupid excuse to leave. And Sam could see why he’d done it - his angel was gone, his angel had fallen, and right when there might be hope for reconciliation something this big had happened.
Cas reached after him, silently, and though Sam knew Dean hadn’t meant it like that, it was clear Cas thought he’d been denied. Then he’d thrown up and passed out again. Bobby had sent Sam in after Dean, waiting until Cas woke up.
Sam didn’t know how to react to him. He was grateful Cas had fixed him as the last act with his god-powers and maybe he should be angry for breaking the wall in the first place - some distant part of him was, just a little - but there was no use dwelling on it. And Cas was human. Cas was dirty and messy and human, just like the rest of them. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he should be distant or comforting - if Cas would want support, or would want to face the first realization of his new state of being alone.
Even without really reacting, though, Cas was obviously wary around him. Bobby sent him up to shower and dress and Sam waited outside the door, wanting to try to talk to him. But he couldn’t, not after what he’d just seen happen to Cas, and not when Cas looked at him like that. So he’d just sent him back to Bobby.
And then Cas had gone.
Without saying a word to either brother, Cas had just left.
“Where is he?” Dean had asked. “Where’s Cas?”
“Gone,” Bobby said. He stuck one hand in his front pocket, leaning up against the doorframe. “I figured we all needed some space so I was going to give him to some old friends of mine for awhile, let us all cool off for awhile.” At Dean’s angry look, Bobby shrugged. “If he wanted. I wasn’t kicking him out. Of course I’d love another person in my house.” He rolled his eyes. “So yeah, Dean, before you get your panties in a twist, I told him he could stay here. But he didn’t want to - he decided to leave.”
“Without saying a word to anyone? He’s just gone.” Dean looked down and huffed.
Bobby cocked his head and shrugged again. “Can’t imagine he’d feel too welcome after you tried to talk Death into killing him. Can’t imagine he’s feeling too good about himself, either.”
“So he’s just running away?”
“No, Dean - I mean...” Sam could understand why Cas had done it, but like Dean he wished he hadn’t. “Maybe he’ll come back. He must know that we’ll take him. Right?”
Nobody answered him.
When Sam had returned A Fine Tremor to the library a few days before, he was disappointed to find that Augustine hadn’t published anything else. He’d been looking him up on his laptop for well over an hour one afternoon when Dean asked “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Sam said. “Just... looking something up.”
“What?”
He scowled. “Don’t you have something better to be doing?”
“Not really,” Dean said, flashing a grin.
“That book, you remember?” Sam hunched down closer to the screen. “Just wanted to see what else he’d done.”
Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam." He rolled off the couch and walked over to where Sam was sitting, his laptop in his lap. Dean leaned on the back of the chair, tapping Sam on the shoulder with the knuckle of a finger. "Are you still going ga-ga over this guy?"
Sam shot Dean an annoyed look. "He's a good writer," he said dismissively, hunching his shoulders in a poor attempt to keep the website on the screen away from Dean.
Dean leaned closer and pushed the screen back a little so there was less glare. Sam's annoyance really only fueled him. "So. What all has he written?"
The next look Sam shot his brother had considerably more venom, but Dean just smiled back at him. Sam sighed. "Not much," he said, hoping Dean would get the hint and leave. He did not; he just leaned in a little closer. Sam's shoulders tightened. "A Fine Tremor was his first novel. Before that..." Sam opened a new tab on his web browser and typed 'C. Augustine' into the search bar. Most of the hits came from book reviews, a few interviews: mostly posts on the novel. Sam scrolled down a little and clicked a link. "He wrote a few short stories first," he said. "Only published online. Apparently he used to be a junkie or something. But got himself into rehab and used writing as a... I don't know, a sort of therapy. The whole center did it - they publish it on a website so all the friends and family of the people there can see they're making progress."
Dean snorted and Sam gave him a half-scandalized look. "Sorry," Dean said, "but I've never really bought that whole tortured artist thing."
Sam just shrugged. "His early work is good, no matter why or how he wrote it. But I don't like it as much as I like his book. That's where he does the best, I think - the longer stuff."
“So anything come after this amazing first novel?”
Sam shook his head. “No, it’s pretty new. Just published in May. He hasn’t published anything else since. In an interview I read - the first one he did, I think - he talked about his writing. Sounded like he wasn’t expecting his book to ever be this popular. It was supposed to be some... some journey or something, some kind of self-discovery.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Dean said.
“Sure, Dean. Of course it is.” Sam gave his brother a narrow look. “But that’s what he said. Sounded like something bad happened to him - something really traumatic. He’s doing another interview soon - this one on TV, his first live one.”
“And let me guess,” Dean said. “You’re looking forward to it?”
Sam didn’t look at him. “Yes.”
: : :
The Winchesters had been gone for about two weeks. Bobby had given them a hunt a few states over, and for awhile they’d been busy with that. It was nice to see Dean busy, Sam thought - he didn’t need time to dwell. It was pretty typical, and after they’d taken care of it they’d headed back to Bobby’s.
It had become a home, and even if they were still only officially guests, Bobby had stopped even pretending to drop hints about them leaving. As soon as they’d set their bags down and settled down to a late lunch, Bobby had come in carrying two packages wrapped in smooth red paper. "Here," he said gruffly, thrusting the two packages into Sam's hands. Their names had been written on the paper in thick black lines. "Don't say I never gave you anything."
"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said. He was a little surprised by the gift, but grateful. He handed Dean's package to him - and Dean scoffed but took it - and then started to unwrap his own. "A... book," he guessed as he tore off the paper. "Oh. A Fine Tremor." He didn’t really need a copy, but it was nice of Bobby to think of him. "Um, thanks, Bobby."
"Yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Thanks."
Bobby sighed, exasperated. "Open the covers," he said.
Sam obeyed. "To... Sam," he said, eyes going wide. "I am glad you enjoyed the novel. It was a labor of love to write, and to know it is being read and appreciated means the world. Yours sincerely, C. Augustine. Bobby is this really... Did you actually get me a signed copy?"
Bobby nodded, looking half sheepish at Sam’s obvious delight. "Yeah," he said. "Knew how much you liked the book and I'd heard that... some friends of mine knew the author." He shrugged, though it was clear he was pleased Sam liked it. "Thought I might as well. You two ain't exactly been cheery lately; thought you could use something to help with that."
"And you're sure it was him? I know sometimes they sell fakes and -”
“No,” Bobby said, shaking his head. “It's his signature. Sent from the publisher. Like I said - some friends of mine, some other hunters I met a good while back, put in a good word with this Augustine guy. And he was... Happy. To hear that he had such a big fan.”
“Well thank you. No, really." Sam grinned, closing the book and looking up at Bobby. "Thank you." He cleared his throat and looked at Dean, who had left his copy of the book sitting in the pile of paper it had been wrapped in.
"Oh. Yeah," Dean said, nodded quickly. He hadn't really been paying attention to what Sam had been saying and it was clear the gift didn't mean nearly as much to him. "Thanks. Great, uh. Great job, Bobby."
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I can tell you're grateful.”
He left them to themselves, then, mumbling something about needing to take care of something and heading outside.
“What did yours say, Dean?”
Dean sighed. “What are you, five? If you’re so interested, read it yourself.”
Sam held out his hand, but Dean just gave him a wan smile. “Nevermind,” he said, grumbling. “If you’re going to be that childish about it.” Dean just shrugged, and Sam grabbed his computer, still grinning about his gift. It had been unexpected, to say the least, but very welcomed.
He didn’t understand why Dean wouldn’t read the novel. Regardless of what he might claim, Dean was as much of a dork as Sam was - just a different kind. He might not do research or like academia in the same way Sam did, but he loved Star Trek, and Vonnegut, and no matter how much he tried to argue, his obsession with cowboys was a fetish. He had the biggest boner for Clint Eastwood Sam had ever heard of. And reading wasn’t even exclusive to dorks; the publishing industry was huge, there were books of every genre published everyday.
And Sam knew Dean well enough to know what he’d like. When he’d told Dean there was a character that could practically be him, he wasn’t kidding. It was like Augustine knew Dean - because even if there were pretty stark differences mixed in, too, it was the little things that really got to Sam. The guy - Michael Ferris - even had some of the same mannerisms as Dean. And the themes, too: fierce devotion, brotherly love, moving past stoic acceptance to trying to take control of one’s own fate. It wasn’t a healing experience for Sam, and the characters in the book were living in the aftermath of an apocalypse instead of stopping one, but it was eerie how much Sam could relate what happened in the narrative to their own lives.
Dean, though, instead of listening to Sam’s analysis of the book, just mocked him for liking it so much. It wasn’t mean, and Dean only did it because Sam had come awfully close to gushing, but it was frustrating, especially when all Sam wanted to do was enjoy it.
It was also, he realized, because he’d been subtly pushing Dean maybe a little more than he should lately. Because regardless of what Dean thought, Sam knew better. His repression just wasn’t healthy. They hadn’t even said Castiel’s name in he couldn’t remember how long. Sam had thought their relationship was a little weird, but he hadn’t realized before how much Dean had cared about Cas. Now Cas, yeah, it was pretty clear Dean hung the moon for him, but Sam hadn’t realized it might be more than one-sided. They were both so emotionally constipated, though, and without knowing where Cas was - he’d asked Bobby not long after Cas had left, and when he’d gotten in touch with his contacts they’d said Cas wasn’t with them anymore - there wasn’t really anything he could do.
"Sam." Dean sighed and put his feet up on the arm of the sofa, one arm resting on his stomach and the other cradled under his head. "We're really going to watch this."
"Stop whining, Dean," Sam said, pushing Dean's feet off the couch and taking a seat beside him. He handed Dean a beer - as payment, though Dean was hardly appreciative - and then turned on the TV.
"There's going to be somebody else on the show, too, right?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't know, Dean - I guess. They always have some sort of guest line up." Dean shrugged and enjoyed his drink. It was the first live appearance the author had ever made. He was very private - he kept his first initial only, no one - apart from those who knew him personally - even knew his real name.
"And now," the host of the show said, "we're going to introduce to you tonight - in his very first TV interview - the author of the new best-seller A Fine Tremor. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. C. Augustine."
There was the expected round of applause - and then the camera cut to a slim man in jeans and boots walking toward the stage. Only the back of him was visible. He had dark, messy hair, and he wore a dark blue blazer. As soon as it showed his face as he shook the host's hand, Sam sputtered. "Holy shit," he said, leaning forward. "Dean." He punched his brother's arm. "Dean - do you see that? D'you see him? It's..."
"Yeah," Dean said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was heavy and his eyes were fixed on the screen. "I see him."
Sam shook his head in disbelief, moving his legs restlessly as he looked from Dean to the TV. "I can't believe it," he said. "It's Cas."
part 2