The syntax of things (Dean/Castiel, R) (1/3)
Title: The syntax of things
Author: dotfic
Rating: R
characters/pairings: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Bobby, others. Dean/Castiel (brief reference to Dean/Anna, suggested Sam/Lucifer)
Warning: Whumpage. Also, ( skip) suggestion of intent to dub-con or non-con; a scene where a character is restrained includes sexual suggestiveness
W/C: 23,000
Disclaimer: Property of Eric Kripke and the CW, except for the OC's.
Entire story in one post on dreamwidth
eta: smilla02 created a mix with lovely artwork.
cover image by smilla02; larger version at her LJ.
a/n: This fic references one particular piece of fanon from one of my prior stories ( The Boy's Still Running), but you don't have to have read that to read this. Some of the concepts here about Castiel's vessel and how angels work are the collective brainchild of smilla02, aesc, and dotfic. Oh, also, we blame Misha Collins (for so many things). Title from e.e. cummings.
Betaing, encouragement, hand-holding, and suggestions by smilla02 and aesc, who deserve many pitchers of iced tea, plus pie. <3<3<3
Summary: After the events of "Lucifer Rising," Sam and Dean take refuge at Bobby's, where the boys start to learn to be brothers again while they plan their next move. Chuck shows up with an injured Castiel, forcing Dean to deal with his conflicted feelings. Meanwhile, the apocalypse has started, the death count is rising, and Lucifer is determined to get at Sam. But hiding only works for so long.
A few yards from the fence at the eastern edge of Bobby's property, Dean dipped the brush into the can of white paint. He finished applying the circle on the boulder, a new kind of anti-demon ward Bobby had discovered, then added the markings to match the picture in the book Sam held out for him. The dirt road that ran along Bobby's property was a brown ribbon beneath a cloudless, harsh blue sky. It was two weeks since St. Mary's, and back at the house, the dogs had been restless, sniffing the wind and growling.
"You want another beer?" Sam bent down to reach into the cooler, book held open in his left hand.
Dean nodded and Sam handed him a bottle, the glass cold to touch and wet with melted ice. They never brought any of the dogs out with them, even though Bobby always said they ought to, but Dean wasn't as comfortable around them as he once was. It was a relief to be away from them, even for a little while. Bobby had six of them now--he used to keep just one or two at a time.
Not that this was a bad idea, what with the demonic activity spiking across the midwest. Dogs weren't much good in a face-off with demons, but they were a great warning system.
"How'd you sleep last night?" Dean asked, popping the bottle cap with his ring. He took two long, slow gulps.
"Crappy." Sam settled onto the boulder, careful not to smudge the wet paint of the protection sign.
It was the decisive, matter-of-fact way Sam said it that got to Dean. No hesitation, no denials, and nothing in his tone that sounded like a shut-down. Dean took another swallow of beer and felt grateful for the small things.
"The dreams again?"
"Yeah." Sam's hand clenched and unclenched, and then his fingers gripped his knee.
A breeze swept over them and the sweat on the back of Dean's neck chilled him. "Tell me," he said, fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, feeling his leg and shoulder muscles tense as if he were braced for an attack.
"Like the one I had a few days ago. Like I could hear him whispering. Calling me." Sam's hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "When I wake up all the way, I can't hear him any more." He lowered his hand. "As soon as I'm about to drift off, there he is."
"Shit, that's creepy, Sam. You see him this time?"
"No, not last night. I only heard him."
"Maybe because we added more wards."
Dean looked up at the sky, at that particularly sharp blue that seemed to cut through him, and stifled the thought before he could have it, disregarded the way his stomach clenched. He had enough to worry about with Sam's dreams, and hundreds of demons bold from Lucifer's release, and them not knowing what Lucifer might do next.
They were screwed. They were so screwed.
Freakin' angel could look after himself, and if Dean was wondering about him, it was only because he might be useful providing answers.
"You need wards against angels too," a voice said behind him, familiar but not the one he'd expected (been hoping for).
He hadn't even felt the displacement of air or heard her wings; Dean turned and Anna was there, her head tilted in a way that made him think of Castiel as she studied the sigils painted on the boulder and on the fence posts.
"I hate when you guys do that," Dean said. "Worse than freakin' Batman."
Sam put his beer bottle on the dusty ground and stood up, shoulders tense.
"Lucifer and his people haven't found this place yet." Anna walked over to the boulder and knelt, red hair falling over one shoulder as she studied the symbols he'd just painted, still gleaming wet in the sunlight.
Dean couldn't help it, his mind flashed on the memory of her mouth on his, the smooth heat of her skin under his fingers. He was pretty sure Anna wasn't thinking about the same thing; if she did it was probably part of a mix of small memories, like some terrific chocolate cake or a really great song she'd heard once.
Or maybe not, but Dean was never going to ask.
"It's not just demons you have to hide from, it's the angels too." She grabbed a stick and traced two patterns into the dirt. "This place needs to stay invisible."
Then Anna got to her feet and looked at Sam, corners of her mouth down-turned.
"Don't even say it," Sam said, his voice gone soft and bitter.
"Do you understand what it is you've unleashed?"
"Yes," Sam said.
She bit her lower lip; she seemed surprised at that blunt, accepting response.
"Castiel's gone silent on angel radio," Anna said.
"What do you mean, silent?" There it was again, that weird twist in Dean's gut.
"I mean, silent. He's gone off the air. That's...bad." Anna nudged at a pebble with the toe of her boot.
"How bad?" Sam asked, because Dean hadn't.
"I don't know. He might be dead or alive." Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I don't know. It does mean...I guess that his mind is out to lunch. Angels don't sleep but it's like he's asleep. Or unconscious. He betrayed me," she added, her voice going small and hard. "But because of what he did for you, how he helped you, I thought you'd want to know."
If she expected Dean to thank her for the information, or acknowledge that yes, he did want to know, Anna gave no sign; she took a few steps away from them, facing into the wind.
"Add the sigils," she said.
Dean blinked. There was the sound of a wing beat, a stir of wind, but he hadn't seen her go; she was just gone.
When they got back to the house, Bobby looked grim. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face and beard before he spoke.
"Rufus called." He looked from Sam to Dean, and Dean tasted something sour in the back of his throat. It was never good news when Rufus called. "Angel and demon battle outside North Platte. There's a whole block of buildings on fire."
Next to Dean, Sam's shoulders hunched. "Any deaths?"
"Nothing confirmed," Bobby said.
"That's near Ellen's new place," Dean said, another layer of worry falling into place over the rest.
"Yeah, well, I told her to get Jo and come here but she refused. Said no godamned demons were going to drive her from her home again, and no angels neither." Bobby's voice softened. "Stubborn woman. She checked in an hour ago; she and Jo are fine."
Letting out a breath, Dean began to gather up the books and papers strewn on the couch, just for something to do. One of them lay open to an engraving of angels, and Dean stopped, staring down at it.
Sam came over and also picked up a few books. "He's probably okay," he said quietly.
Dean snapped the book shut, sending up a little cloud of dust. "Oh, yeah. Uh, sure," he said, trying to sound like he hadn't been thinking about that at all.
They spent the next afternoon adding more of Anna's symbols on the fence posts, until the property was warded all the way around. Dean was getting sunburned no matter how much block he used, the skin on his face and his arms growing tight and starting to peel, while Sam's skin darkened evenly, the lucky son of a bitch.
He liked being out here with Sam in the open spaces of South Dakota. They couldn't keep it up forever, but for now, while they figured out what to do, there was a security and freedom in being invisible. It bugged the hell out of him to think that way, so many hunters coming and going the past few weeks, some injured, risking their necks while he and Sam kept themselves safely bottled.
"I had another one of the dreams last night," Sam said, paintbrush sweeping in an arc against the wooden post. "Guess he got through because we didn't finish painting all the symbols last night."
"Tell me," Dean said, his work stilling.
Sam continued to paint. "He told me to come to him. He said he could make it okay."
"Hope you told him to go fuck himself."
"Not in those exact words, but that was the gist of it."
Yeah, for now here was where they were going to stay. Lucifer wasn't getting anywhere near Sam.
The aroma of the huge pot of chili Bobby had made filled the kitchen. It made Dean's mouth water. The sun was setting in a way that turned the clouds gold when the dogs started growling outside.
Bobby and Dean each took a shotgun, while Sam tucked the Glock into the back of his jeans, and together the three of them went out onto the porch.
A dirty, battered GTO going much too fast for a dirt road turned into the salvage yard, kicking up a cloud of dust. Bobby flicked his hand: he didn't recognize the car. He and Dean raised their shotguns, while Sam drew the Glock.
The car stopped, the dust cleared, and Dean lowered the shotgun, recognizing the figure in the passenger seat. "Wait," he said, moving forward a step. "Wait, that's..."
"Hey!" The driver opened the door, got out, and started to run towards the porch. "Guys, I could use some help here."
"Chuck?" Sam lowered his gun.
"You know him?" Bobby looked skeptical.
"Hi Sam, Dean." Chuck lifted a hand, looking more haggard than when they'd first met him. His beard was thicker and his hooded sweatshirt had a big rip in one sleeve. He pointed at the car. "Got some trouble, here, guys. It's Castiel."
Holding the shotgun down at his side, Dean went down the porch steps. He saw how still the figure in the passenger seat was, head slumped and eyes closed, unruly dark hair pressed flat against the window. Castiel still wore that same trenchcoat and suit.
Dean pushed past Chuck and got the passenger door open. "Cas?" Dean touched his shoulder and got no response. There were rips in the coat, along with dark streaks like the fabric had been singed. Dean put his fingers against Castiel's throat. A pulse beat warm and steady.
"What happened?" Sam had put the Glock away and was now at Dean's shoulder.
"He's been fighting other angels," Chuck said, hugging his arms like he was cold. "Fought them off at my place, holy fucking hell, you should've seen that." His eyes got a little wild. "My house is toast, man. I wrote it all down after in a spiral notebook, all of it, it was unbelievable. But you know, our boy here, he's not exactly a soldier. More like a tactician. He drove them off by cheating, I guess. Used these weird symbols."
Dean heard Chuck's words like they were at the other end of a tunnel. He hooked Castiel's arm across his shoulder, drew his limp body out of the car. Castiel felt warm, and he didn't weigh very much; Dean wasn't sure why he expected him to be heavier. It seemed easiest to do it that way, so Dean picked Castiel up, his head resting against Dean's shoulder, and went up the porch steps into the house. Sam held the door open.
"The archangels landed on my fucking house, or that's what it felt like" Chuck said, following them. "Castiel cut his arm open, traced some symbols on my kitchen floor, grabbed me, and next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa. Nearly tossed my cookies. What a ride. He told me he had to keep the archangels' attention on him." Chuck added, voice shaky. "And he needed me to do it."
Dean lowered Castiel to the couch. His head slumped to the side against the back cushion, and his body still felt boneless beneath Dean's hands. Dean let go, staying in a crouch as he rubbed his knuckles against his chin.
"The archangels thought you were being threatened," said Sam.
"Yeah, Castiel's not exactly a favorite with the angel establishment right now." Dean watched the way Castiel's chest rose and fell with each breath. "He's on heaven's Ten Most Wanted List, and you're a prophet."
"I get it," said Chuck, and dropped into a chair like his legs had given out. "Okay, so we have to steal a car, because he says he can't just fly me everywhere, and we leave my place pretty damn fast, and meanwhile these fucking archangels keep following us around. Every few days Castiel lets them catch up right before he banishes them. Keeps them jerking on a string for days." Chuck sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. "Archangels are kind of one-trick ponies, did you know that? I didn't know that. They're not too bright. Can I get a drink? Anyway, Castiel starts getting tired and I ask him why not stop, and he says he can't. Yesterday, Castiel goes bye-bye and then the other personality, the owner of the body--Jimmy--he's in the car next to me, all confused, wants to know where he is, who the hell I am...then he passes out, and Castiel's back, but really weak, he can barely move. I really, really need a drink. An angel with MPD, shit."
Dean pushed up Castiel's sleeve. Two long, thin wounds crossed his arm, half-healed. He checked the other arm, same thing.
"Thank you," Chuck said with enthusiasm, as Bobby handed him a glass of bourbon. Dean had noticed Bobby adding holy water; when Chuck knocked it back in three gulps and blinked a few times, Bobby's shoulders relaxed.
Letting go of Castiel's arm, Dean said to Bobby, "Hey, uh, is there...do you know anything we should be doing for him?"
"Not exactly an expert on angels, let alone sick ones," Bobby said. "But I'll check." He held the bottle of bourbon out to Sam. "Maybe some of this will help him." After a sharp glance at the figure lying on the couch, Bobby retreated to a corner with a stack of books.
The sun was almost gone, the last rays slanting through the windows. The light caught the dust motes and fell over Castiel's face. It made him look less human, like something in a painting. Dean took the glass of bourbon Sam handed him, put his hand behind Castiel's head, and tilted the liquid into his mouth.
For a moment it looked like he was too far gone to even swallow, but then he stirred, gulped, and coughed. His eyes opened and Dean found himself fixed in a blue-eyed stare. The room seemed to grow smaller, and even with the sunlight it felt like the quiet before a thunderstorm begins.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, voice rasping but calm. Then his eyes widened with realization and he struggled to sit up.
Dean gripped his shoulders. "Hold on, what're you doing?"
There was no mistaking the expression on Castiel's face--alarm, verging on terror. He looked from Dean to Sam to Chuck. "I can't be here. They'll follow. I can't be here."
He kept fighting, and Dean shoved him down. "Stay put. We've got anti-angel wards. Anna showed us."
Castiel drew in a sharp breath. "Anna. She was here?"
"Yeah," said Sam. "She told us you'd gone quiet and she showed us how to paint sigils that would keep this place off the angelic radar."
"Which is why your archangel buddies haven't arrived to nuke my place," Bobby said, pouring two inches of bourbon for himself. He knocked it back in one gulp.
"Then how come he got in?" Chuck pointed at Castiel.
Sam sat in a wooden chair, rotating the glass in his hands. The amber liquid looked darker in the fading sunlight. "Because he was weakened, unconscious."
"So Cas, dude. Chill," Dean said, the words coming out sharp and nervous, when he'd intended to be mocking.
"Anna," Castiel said.
"She said you betrayed her." Dean stood up and moved away, back of his throat feeling tight.
"I did. I failed her completely. I'm glad she's okay." Castiel was sitting up, but his voice was weaker than it had been a few moments ago.
Dean wanted to ask another question, but without any warning, Castiel's eyes shut and he slumped forward. Dean caught him before he could fall. "You got any suggestions?" He glared at Chuck.
"Don't look at me." Chuck came over to take the bottle of bourbon. "I haven't had a vision in weeks. I have no idea what happens next."
They could've taken angel-watch in shifts, but Dean figured that since he'd asked for Castiel's help, and he'd granted it, Dean could cover it, let Sam and Bobby and Chuck sleep.
At some point far into the night, curled up in the armchair, Dean heard the floorboards creak. He recognized Sam's steps before he felt the heaviness of a blanket going over his chest and shoulders.
Dean drifted off again, and a few hours later startled awake and couldn't figure out why until he saw that Castiel was awake too, his head turned towards Dean as if he'd been watching him sleep.
"I wish I could've led them off for longer," Castiel said, turning away from Dean to stare up at the ceiling. His voice rasped from his throat. "They'll be able to stay to their mission now."
"And what's that?"
Castiel gaze returned to Dean. "I think you already know. They want you, they need you to play your part so heaven can win."
"What if I don't want to play?"
"They will work upon you until you do."
Something in Castiel's voice made Dean clench his jaw, holding back a shiver. "Is that what they did to you?"
But Castiel didn't answer.
"Hey, Cas?" Dean said softly. "Thank you."
There was a long silence, broken by the hum of Bobby's fridge compressor clicking on.
"For what?" Castiel said.
"For Sam."
Neither of them said anything else. After a while, Dean fell asleep, nestled under the blanket.
In the morning, Chuck left.
"I don't want to be archangel bait any more. Great material, but it's kind of exhausting. I've had enough. I hope--I hope he'll be okay," he said, looking past Dean and Sam to where Castiel was still asleep on the couch.
"If you get a vision, something that'll help us figure out what Lucifer's up to," Dean said, "call us."
"I don't want any more visions," Chuck said, eyes haggard. Then he paused at the door and looked from Dean to Sam, his eyes going brighter. "Although, you guys are a pretty great story."
He walked out. After a moment they heard the GTO's engine start up and the car drive away.
Bobby rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. He let the book he'd been reading drop to the desk's surface with a thump. "Hell. I don't have a clue what's going on with your angel friend. Maybe we should try giving him more hard liquor," Bobby said drily.
Sam picked up one of the books. "It's like he's recharging. The battles with the archangels wore him out."
Standing with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, Dean couldn't seem to stop watching Castiel, the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He looked like he was only asleep, except when they'd called to him, when Dean had shaken his shoulder, he hadn't stirred.
Helping Dean out of the green room was one thing but Castiel doing this to himself, the reasons he'd done it, that was beyond. Dean didn't know what to do with it. He took a book from Bobby's desk and settled on the floor with his back against the couch.
"I didn't have any Lucifer dreams last night," Sam said, turning over a page. His face, when he looked at Dean, was wide open with hope.
After a hesitation, Bobby spoke. "It's because of the new wards, son. Lucifer was once an angel. Maybe the demon wards weren't enough to keep his consciousness out completely. They were enough that he couldn't seem to tell where you were, even if he could talk to you. But now that we've put up demon and angel wards, he can't even get into your head."
"Good," said Dean. "It's going to stay that way."
Castiel's eyes opened. Then he sat up and put his feet on the floor. It happened so abruptly Dean scrambled to his feet, dropping the book, Sam's head went up sharply, and Bobby knocked over his cup of coffee, spilling dark liquid over the desk.
"Son of a bitch," Bobby said, snatching away his precious old volumes.
On the couch, Castiel held his head in his hands, shoulders hunched. "Castiel?" He got to his feet with quick, careless movements. "Castiel!" The bewilderment on his face was familiar.
Dean took a step closer. "Jimmy?"
"Yeah," Jimmy said. He walked past Dean, looking around the room, taking in the bookshelves, the desk, and then Sam and Bobby. "Where am I?"
"My place," Bobby said laconically. "Name's Bobby Singer. And you are?"
"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak." He paced past Bobby, walking almost to the stairs before turning and walking back.
"He's Castiel's host," said Dean, the words feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.
Walking past Dean, Jimmy barely glanced at him before he sat down on the couch again and ran his fingers through his hair. He huffed out a breath. "Something's not right," he said. "I'm me," he said, putting his hands to his chest. "But Castiel..."
"Where is he?" Dean felt his jaw tighten and a lurch of déjà vu.
Jimmy took a few slow breaths. "He's in here. It's like a weight. It's hard to explain." He got up and started to pace again, to the desk, back to the couch. "But he's definitely in here. I guess he's out cold, or something." He blinked, then looked around the room again. "How did we--how did I--wind up here anyway?"
"You don't remember anything?" said Sam.
"My daughter. I didn't want him to take my daughter. I remember how much it hurt, the blood--after that it's kind of disjointed and I don't remember much of anything."
Bobby walked into the kitchen and came back with the bourbon and a glass. "Here. You'll probably need this."
Jimmy waved it away.
"What do you remember?" Dean hadn't realized how much he wanted Jimmy to be able to tell him something, give him an idea of what was going on in Castiel's mind, until Jimmy shook his head.
"Almost nothing. You need to understand, it's all just impressions. Light, sound, speed, sometimes a snatch of emotion, but it's hard to explain the things I've felt." He looked down at his hands, then pushed up his sleeves and his eyes widened as he saw the pale scars. "He's always healed me before, I know that much." Jimmy looked up and met Dean's gaze for the first time. "Why didn't he heal me?"
Sam picked up the book Dean had dropped and set it on Bobby's desk. "He can't. Not yet. He's ill, or injured. Maybe just exhausted."
Tracing the thumb of his left hand along the scar on his right arm, Jimmy was silent for a long while, and then he said, "So I'm me, for a little bit? Can I..."
"Don't think so," said Dean. "Archangels are hunting him, and Lucifer's on the rise." He turned away from Jimmy, feeling like a complete asshole for killing the eagerness in his face, telling him he couldn't go to his family. "There's a horde of demons out there who would love to rip an angel in a weakened state to pieces, and they'd tear you apart to get to him."
"There are wards on my place," said Bobby, "which means they can't find him right now, but you step outside, and they'll be on you like that."
Shrugging out of the trenchcoat, Jimmy tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair. "I think I'll take that drink now."
When he heard the voice, whispering in his dreams, for a panicked moment Dean thought it was Lucifer's. The anti-angel wards had failed somehow, or they'd been broken. Dean struggled to free himself from sleep--he had to get to Sam.
Dean.
It wasn't Lucifer. Dean had no idea how he knew that or how he recognized the voice--the sounds weren't identifiable as words--but he did recognize it.
Protect him, it said.
Yeah, already on that. Then he realized it wasn't Sam the voice was talking about. Yes, of course Dean thought.
Good, it said, and then: sorry.
Dean snapped awake, his heart racing. It was still dark outside. His fingers closed around the amulet nestled at his chest. Always seemed strange to wake up in a room by himself and not in a cheap motel with Sam asleep in the other bed. The musty quiet of Bobby's house surrounded him, and his heartbeats slowed.
He wondered what, specifically, Castiel was apologizing for.
In the morning, Dean wondered if it was only a dream. Holding his toothbrush on the way to the bathroom, he stopped by Sam's room and told him about it.
"Weird," said Sam.
"I'll say."
"They didn't sound like words?" Sam sat on his bed with one knee bent and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fingers.
"Man, I don't know. No, they didn't sound like words, not in my head. More like sounds, but I knew what they meant. Plus, I recognized it, like, I dunno. Sort of like a song I've heard a million times before."
Sam thought for a moment. "Maybe it was his real voice, only just in your head so it didn't make your ears bleed or blow out the windows."
"Maybe." Dean felt it again, inside his head, the way the voice sounded as it said sorry.
"Hey." Sam tugged at Dean's shirt, and Dean's attention snapped back into place. "You want scrambled eggs or sunny side up?"
Jimmy declared Bobby's chili the best he'd ever tasted, busied himself reading, kept pacing and going to the window. He wore jeans and a t-shirt borrowed from Dean, and barely looked at him. The jeans fit, but the t-shirt hung loose on his shoulders and across his chest.
On the third day, Jimmy sat turning the pages of the illuminated manuscript he had open in front of him, shaking his head. "The apocalypse, huh? I mean, I've been religious all my life, read the Bible, been ridden by an angel...but the actual apocalypse? The end times?"
"Pretty much, unless we figure out how to stop it." Sam's voice was quiet and tight as he sat opposite Jimmy at the messy kitchen table, scribbling notes.
"So, kill the beast. Kill Lucifer."
"Can't," said Bobby.
"There must be some way to do it."
"No, I mean, we can't." Sam put down his pen. "We do that, heaven wins, earth becomes a new paradise, most of humanity gets wiped out."
"Oh," said Jimmy. His expression darkened. "But God..."
"God's out on a really long beer run," Dean said, leaning against the sink.
Jimmy looked more confused. He bit his lower lip, then shook his head in an un-Castiel-like way, as if he thought they'd all gone insane.
Through the window, Dean watched the sunlight dying across Bobby's yard, the way it caught the chrome on the old cars. The dogs were sprawled in the dirt, awake but restful, snouts resting on their paws. He used to play with earlier generations of Bobby's dogs when he was a kid.
The phone rang, and Dean heard Bobby pick it up in the other room. "Rufus, you jackass. What's the four-one-one...aw, shit. How many...okay." Bobby hung up and called out to them, "Chattanooga. Eight dead, demons went into a diner and slaughtered the cook, the waitresses, and a few customers."
Dean's grip tightened around the edge of the sink, a sour taste on his tongue. He felt it pull at him, the need to be out there instead of in here. He watched how Sam's head bent over his work, hair falling to cover his eyes. They couldn't go, not with Lucifer waiting for Sam.
Jimmy put his hand on his stomach and his head went up, eyes widening. "Uh, guys?"
"What?" Sam blinked, startled as he dragged his attention from his work.
"It's Castiel." Jimmy got to his feet so quickly he almost tipped over his chair. He turned and gripped the back of it, breath going faster.
Outside, the dogs started to bark, and Bobby appeared in the kitchen door while Sam got to his feet.
When Jimmy's knees gave way, Dean grabbed his arms. Jimmy's eyes met Dean's, really looking at him for the first time. The dissonance jolted him, how his eyes were Castiel's, but different--with Jimmy he felt like he could see all the way in, instead of just the top layer of something he'd never comprehend.
"Dean." Jimmy grabbed Dean's shirt. "It's the actual apocalypse, and people are dying. If he still needs me for now, then I can do this, I don't mind that much, for a while longer. But please." Jimmy's fingers twisted into the cotton. "I want to go home. Not in a hundred or a thousand years, when my wife and my little girl are dead. Soon."
Dean felt his mouth go dry.
"Please, promise me, you'll talk to him. See if he can work something else out--"
"Yeah, I promise."
Then Jimmy's head snapped back and he slumped against Dean.
Jimmy's eyes opened, and Jimmy was Castiel instead, fingers still twisted into Dean's shirt. His body gave off more heat than Jimmy's had a moment ago, his shoulder leaning on Dean's chest, his legs against Dean's. The eyes were all Castiel's this time.
It gave Dean a twist of guilt as he felt glad about it. He'd actually missed Castiel, even if he was still kind of a dick.
Bobby's kitchen seemed smaller and Dean could've sworn that for a second the dying sunlight flickered. Stupid, the whole thing was stupid. Dean let go first, and Castiel unclenched his fingers with slow dignity and straightened up. It seemed strange seeing Castiel in the clothes Jimmy had put on.
"Feeling better?" Bobby said from the doorway, his eyebrows rising until they vanished beneath the brim of his cap.
"Yes, thank you," said Castiel, as if he'd had a friggin' head cold or something. Dean almost laughed.
Sam went right back to his notes, but Dean noticed he didn't scribble so fast now, and he rubbed his hand over his forehead, expression distant in a way that was different from his research fever face.
From the porch, Sam was a shadowy outline, sitting on the hood of the Impala with his knees bent. Dean walked across the yard, not sure what he was going to say, or how to begin this, but after the past year, Dean was okay with running in head-on even if it screwed things up.
He stood in front of the Impala and almost said something sarcastic like practicing your brooding skills? but then he got a good look at Sam's face.
"You want to talk?" Dean stayed where he was, a few yards off and facing his brother, wanting to approach but feeling like maybe he shouldn't yet.
"People are dying, and we're just sitting here." Sam picked a dead leaf off the Impala and flung it like it was a stone.
"It sucks, yeah, but..."
"I started it, Dean. People are dying because of me, and Jimmy can't go home--if the apocalypse hadn't started, he probably could. And the things I did." Sam's voice went shaky.
Crawling up onto the Impala, Dean settled with his shoulder brushing Sam's. "I told you, but people make horrible mistakes. I get it, I get why you did it. Would've done the same, if it were me," Dean added in a low voice.
Next to him he heard Sam make a small sound, a sniff, and wondered if he was crying but did him the favor of keeping his eyes towards the house.
"That fake voice mail--" he heard Sam draw in a shaky breath.
"Fake. Fake-a-roonie. Mcfake sandwich with the secret fake sauce. We've been over this."
Sam coughed. "Still, it doesn't change the facts. I broke the seal. I did it."
"So did I. The first one." The too-heavy knot formed in his stomach, frightening and by now familiar, the weight he always felt when he thought about this. "Like all big brothers, I get to do the cool stuff first."
Another voice came out of the half-darkness beside them.
"I knew," Castiel said. They both turned to see him standing a few yards away beneath a small crooked tree. "I found out the angels' true plan. My doubts..." Castiel looked up at the sky, where stars were emerging as the last light died at the horizon. "Made me question, look harder at things, and I found out the truth."
He took a step towards the Winchesters, then stopped as if unsure if he should come closer. "That was the message I was about to give you when they took me back to heaven. They didn't torture me. They persuaded me. So I carried the knowledge of what we were doing. I knew about Lilith and the final seal, and I not only didn't tell you, I helped it along." Castiel wasn't wearing a coat, and he hugged his arms in a human gesture. "Sam Winchester, it's not blame that falls on you. And it's not fate," he added, looking right at Dean. "Unless you can call a convergence of mis-steps and circumstance fate."
"Maybe that's all fate really is," said Sam, voice low.
But Castiel had already faded away into the dusk.
After breakfast the next morning (where Castiel ate his scrambled eggs in slow, small, careful bites like someone performing a duty), Castiel let Bobby ask questions while Sam typed on his laptop and sometimes asked one of his own. It didn't take long before Sam and Bobby got into an argument over a detail in a codex like the geeks they were, and they would've gone at it for hours except Castiel coughed, interrupted them, and told them the answer.
Turned out Sam was right. Great, the kid would be insufferable now, like he didn't already know how smart he was.
Dean finished cleaning the guns, which didn't need to be cleaned because they hadn't been fired in weeks, but he cleaned them again anyway, as Bobby and Sam got into an argument about John Wycliffe.
"We need a perimeter check," Dean said. "I'll do it."
Sam and Bobby stopped talking, and then Sam, Bobby, and Castiel were all staring at Dean. Jesus, now they were all doing it. "What, I got something on my face?"
"You're not going alone," said Bobby.
"It'll have to wait." Sam crossed out a word on the page of his notebook and wrote a different one, gaze on the laptop screen. "We've got a lot more material I want to get through today."
"We've got an actual angel of the lord advising us and we're coming up with exactly squat." Bobby tugged off his cap and rubbed at his hair, then secured the cap again. "No offense," he added, glancing at Castiel.
"I haven't been very helpful." Castiel said. "For all my knowledge, it's specialized and I was told only as much as my superiors wanted me to know."
The need to be moving, to be outside the house, was overwhelming. "Okay, it's not like I won't be inside the wards. There's no reason I can't do this by myself. So I'll just go and be back before you--"
Castiel got to his feet. "I will go with Dean."
After a moment of hesitation, Sam nodded. "That works."
"We talked about this last night," Dean said, with an odd feeling of being cornered. "You don't have to drive yourself crazy with the research, Sam. Isn't your vision going blurry?"
"I want to keep working, Dean, I have to, and you can't check the perimeter alone."
Dean watched the way the corners of Sam's mouth drew down with concentration as he started to type.
"You don't have to find all the answers."
"Yes I do," Sam muttered, his fingers tapping away and a note of hurt caught in his voice.
"Sam--"
"Let him be," Bobby said.
It took Dean a moment, and then he got it. Shit, sometimes he was too slow on the uptake. Dean watched his brother typing up notes, and he got it, finally got it.
Seeing Sam drive himself with guilt, reach out and so eagerly grab that weight as if he wasn't good for anything else, made Dean want to stab a lot of demons and angels in the face. But for Sam, that wouldn't feel as bad as Dean telling him no, stop, you're wrong. His demon blood had failed him--but if there was one thing Dean's little brother was best at, it was research and the way he'd grab onto a problem, wear it down until it had no choice but to give way.
"So the guy with wings is my wingman on this one? Okey-dokey. Go save the world, geek boy."
"Have fun patrolling, asshole," Sam said. He smiled for the first time in days, and Dean knew he'd chosen right.
Dean took point, walking along the fence line with Castiel just behind him, sky a perfect, ruthless blue.
They hiked at a steady pace in silence. Bobby's property was big enough it would take a few hours to walk the full perimeter, and Dean started to wish he'd brought his walkman, to play something blood-stirring in his ears.
At a flat rock covered with circles and lines, some of them anti-demon wards, some of them the symbols Anna had showed them, Dean sat and took several gulps from the bottle of water he carried. The wind stung his eyes with grit.
Castiel knelt. It was weird watching him do that otherworldly head-tilt of his while he was dressed in Dean's clothes. He seemed as comfortable in them as in the suit and tie and trenchcoat, like what clothes he wore were completely irrelevant. Dean suddenly thought of Castiel naked, idly curious if he'd be as comfortable like that, and then blinked, banishing the thought real fast.
"This is good work," Castiel said, brushing his fingers across the rock, stopping when he reached Dean's leg. He moved his hand away. The scars on his arms were completely gone.
"Anna showed us how to make those," said Dean.
"I taught them to her, long ago."
Dean had never really wondered about Castiel's life. Thousands of years old--he couldn't even wrap his brain around it. "How old are you, anyway?"
Still crouching, his hands splayed against the rock, Castiel shook his head. "I can't say for sure. Old."
"Okay." Dean finished off the water before thinking that he should probably have asked Castiel if he wanted any. He probably would've refused, natch--but he'd eaten breakfast.
When they continued on, Castiel kept pace with Dean this time instead of walking behind him.
The wind whistled across the road. Castiel's gaze was directed out at the fields, his head tilted as if he were listening to something beyond the wind. His hands curled nearly into fists, then relaxed.
"Inside the barriers, I can't hear them."
Dean felt his stomach twitch, almost like the excitement he felt before an old-fashioned monster hunt, the kind of adrenaline-charged job where he'd have to use all his muscles and physical instincts, and wouldn't have to worry about getting his heart ripped out, literally or figuratively. At the same time, he felt--okay, that wasn't the right word for it, not with Castiel, but close enough--safe.
Maybe he was going nuts.
"Them? You mean angel radio?"
It took Castiel a second to get the joke. He almost smiled. "Yes."
"Well, if you can't hear them, then they can't hear you, which means no archangels on our asses. No Lucifer either."
Dean felt his chest tighten, thinking of Sam, a constant line of fear that chased him, memories of Sam with his eyes gone black, a Sam that wasn't Sam laughing and tied to a chair.
He felt fingers closing warm and tight over his shoulder just above the scar hidden beneath his t-shirt. He turned to see Castiel looking at him as if he knew all of it, as if Dean had said all that out loud. It wasn't the first time Castiel had looked at him like that, but that hadn't kept things from going the way they had, and Dean thought he might as well try to grab onto sand to keep from falling.
"We'd better keep moving," he said, twisting his shoulder out of Castiel's grip.
Sam and Bobby hadn't found anything in particular by the time they got back to the house, dusty and sweaty. Dean was surprised when Castiel went to the kitchen sink and got himself a glass of water without being told he probably should for the sake of the body he wore. He drank in a perfunctory way.
The days dragged on. Bobby received more reports of demon attacks, while Sam and Bobby kept going through the old books. Sometimes Dean didn't hear Sam's footsteps going down to the hall to his room until well past two in the morning. Dean found them both asleep one early morning with their heads resting on folded arms, papers scattered around them, Bobby at the desk, Sam on the couch.
Meanwhile, things got weird and weirder with Castiel.
Sam outright refused to go the basement, so Dean and Castiel went down to get the two boxes Bobby said he needed, amulets and artifacts and old weapons he hoped would provide some clue. It didn't thrill Dean much to go down there either. The dank mildew scent hit his nose too much like a tomb.
He didn't look at the iron door, and couldn't go near it without his skin crawling.
They found the boxes underneath the stairs. As Dean tugged on one, he saw Castiel's gaze flicker to the door and then quickly return to the shadows under the stairs.
The box Dean wanted to lift was caught, and Castiel shoved in next to him to help tug it free. Castiel's arm brushed along Dean's, his skin radiating warmth in the cool air of the cellar and Dean found himself looking at Castiel's mouth, his nose, the stubble along his jawline, how the bare bulb of the basement light made his face look more angular. He smelled like dried sweat, Bobby's books, and something else dry and clean that reminded Dean of a stone church.
Castiel turned to face Dean and neither of them moved, while Dean suddenly, for no godamned good reason he could possibly imagine, started thinking about what Castiel's mouth might feel like. The skin of Castiel's neck twitched with his pulse, his borrowed neck.
Dean jerked away, letting the box fall.
Read part 2
Author: dotfic
Rating: R
characters/pairings: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Bobby, others. Dean/Castiel (brief reference to Dean/Anna, suggested Sam/Lucifer)
Warning: Whumpage. Also, ( skip) suggestion of intent to dub-con or non-con; a scene where a character is restrained includes sexual suggestiveness
W/C: 23,000
Disclaimer: Property of Eric Kripke and the CW, except for the OC's.
Entire story in one post on dreamwidth
eta: smilla02 created a mix with lovely artwork.
cover image by smilla02; larger version at her LJ.
a/n: This fic references one particular piece of fanon from one of my prior stories ( The Boy's Still Running), but you don't have to have read that to read this. Some of the concepts here about Castiel's vessel and how angels work are the collective brainchild of smilla02, aesc, and dotfic. Oh, also, we blame Misha Collins (for so many things). Title from e.e. cummings.
Betaing, encouragement, hand-holding, and suggestions by smilla02 and aesc, who deserve many pitchers of iced tea, plus pie. <3<3<3
Summary: After the events of "Lucifer Rising," Sam and Dean take refuge at Bobby's, where the boys start to learn to be brothers again while they plan their next move. Chuck shows up with an injured Castiel, forcing Dean to deal with his conflicted feelings. Meanwhile, the apocalypse has started, the death count is rising, and Lucifer is determined to get at Sam. But hiding only works for so long.
A few yards from the fence at the eastern edge of Bobby's property, Dean dipped the brush into the can of white paint. He finished applying the circle on the boulder, a new kind of anti-demon ward Bobby had discovered, then added the markings to match the picture in the book Sam held out for him. The dirt road that ran along Bobby's property was a brown ribbon beneath a cloudless, harsh blue sky. It was two weeks since St. Mary's, and back at the house, the dogs had been restless, sniffing the wind and growling.
"You want another beer?" Sam bent down to reach into the cooler, book held open in his left hand.
Dean nodded and Sam handed him a bottle, the glass cold to touch and wet with melted ice. They never brought any of the dogs out with them, even though Bobby always said they ought to, but Dean wasn't as comfortable around them as he once was. It was a relief to be away from them, even for a little while. Bobby had six of them now--he used to keep just one or two at a time.
Not that this was a bad idea, what with the demonic activity spiking across the midwest. Dogs weren't much good in a face-off with demons, but they were a great warning system.
"How'd you sleep last night?" Dean asked, popping the bottle cap with his ring. He took two long, slow gulps.
"Crappy." Sam settled onto the boulder, careful not to smudge the wet paint of the protection sign.
It was the decisive, matter-of-fact way Sam said it that got to Dean. No hesitation, no denials, and nothing in his tone that sounded like a shut-down. Dean took another swallow of beer and felt grateful for the small things.
"The dreams again?"
"Yeah." Sam's hand clenched and unclenched, and then his fingers gripped his knee.
A breeze swept over them and the sweat on the back of Dean's neck chilled him. "Tell me," he said, fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, feeling his leg and shoulder muscles tense as if he were braced for an attack.
"Like the one I had a few days ago. Like I could hear him whispering. Calling me." Sam's hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "When I wake up all the way, I can't hear him any more." He lowered his hand. "As soon as I'm about to drift off, there he is."
"Shit, that's creepy, Sam. You see him this time?"
"No, not last night. I only heard him."
"Maybe because we added more wards."
Dean looked up at the sky, at that particularly sharp blue that seemed to cut through him, and stifled the thought before he could have it, disregarded the way his stomach clenched. He had enough to worry about with Sam's dreams, and hundreds of demons bold from Lucifer's release, and them not knowing what Lucifer might do next.
They were screwed. They were so screwed.
Freakin' angel could look after himself, and if Dean was wondering about him, it was only because he might be useful providing answers.
"You need wards against angels too," a voice said behind him, familiar but not the one he'd expected (been hoping for).
He hadn't even felt the displacement of air or heard her wings; Dean turned and Anna was there, her head tilted in a way that made him think of Castiel as she studied the sigils painted on the boulder and on the fence posts.
"I hate when you guys do that," Dean said. "Worse than freakin' Batman."
Sam put his beer bottle on the dusty ground and stood up, shoulders tense.
"Lucifer and his people haven't found this place yet." Anna walked over to the boulder and knelt, red hair falling over one shoulder as she studied the symbols he'd just painted, still gleaming wet in the sunlight.
Dean couldn't help it, his mind flashed on the memory of her mouth on his, the smooth heat of her skin under his fingers. He was pretty sure Anna wasn't thinking about the same thing; if she did it was probably part of a mix of small memories, like some terrific chocolate cake or a really great song she'd heard once.
Or maybe not, but Dean was never going to ask.
"It's not just demons you have to hide from, it's the angels too." She grabbed a stick and traced two patterns into the dirt. "This place needs to stay invisible."
Then Anna got to her feet and looked at Sam, corners of her mouth down-turned.
"Don't even say it," Sam said, his voice gone soft and bitter.
"Do you understand what it is you've unleashed?"
"Yes," Sam said.
She bit her lower lip; she seemed surprised at that blunt, accepting response.
"Castiel's gone silent on angel radio," Anna said.
"What do you mean, silent?" There it was again, that weird twist in Dean's gut.
"I mean, silent. He's gone off the air. That's...bad." Anna nudged at a pebble with the toe of her boot.
"How bad?" Sam asked, because Dean hadn't.
"I don't know. He might be dead or alive." Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I don't know. It does mean...I guess that his mind is out to lunch. Angels don't sleep but it's like he's asleep. Or unconscious. He betrayed me," she added, her voice going small and hard. "But because of what he did for you, how he helped you, I thought you'd want to know."
If she expected Dean to thank her for the information, or acknowledge that yes, he did want to know, Anna gave no sign; she took a few steps away from them, facing into the wind.
"Add the sigils," she said.
Dean blinked. There was the sound of a wing beat, a stir of wind, but he hadn't seen her go; she was just gone.
When they got back to the house, Bobby looked grim. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face and beard before he spoke.
"Rufus called." He looked from Sam to Dean, and Dean tasted something sour in the back of his throat. It was never good news when Rufus called. "Angel and demon battle outside North Platte. There's a whole block of buildings on fire."
Next to Dean, Sam's shoulders hunched. "Any deaths?"
"Nothing confirmed," Bobby said.
"That's near Ellen's new place," Dean said, another layer of worry falling into place over the rest.
"Yeah, well, I told her to get Jo and come here but she refused. Said no godamned demons were going to drive her from her home again, and no angels neither." Bobby's voice softened. "Stubborn woman. She checked in an hour ago; she and Jo are fine."
Letting out a breath, Dean began to gather up the books and papers strewn on the couch, just for something to do. One of them lay open to an engraving of angels, and Dean stopped, staring down at it.
Sam came over and also picked up a few books. "He's probably okay," he said quietly.
Dean snapped the book shut, sending up a little cloud of dust. "Oh, yeah. Uh, sure," he said, trying to sound like he hadn't been thinking about that at all.
They spent the next afternoon adding more of Anna's symbols on the fence posts, until the property was warded all the way around. Dean was getting sunburned no matter how much block he used, the skin on his face and his arms growing tight and starting to peel, while Sam's skin darkened evenly, the lucky son of a bitch.
He liked being out here with Sam in the open spaces of South Dakota. They couldn't keep it up forever, but for now, while they figured out what to do, there was a security and freedom in being invisible. It bugged the hell out of him to think that way, so many hunters coming and going the past few weeks, some injured, risking their necks while he and Sam kept themselves safely bottled.
"I had another one of the dreams last night," Sam said, paintbrush sweeping in an arc against the wooden post. "Guess he got through because we didn't finish painting all the symbols last night."
"Tell me," Dean said, his work stilling.
Sam continued to paint. "He told me to come to him. He said he could make it okay."
"Hope you told him to go fuck himself."
"Not in those exact words, but that was the gist of it."
Yeah, for now here was where they were going to stay. Lucifer wasn't getting anywhere near Sam.
The aroma of the huge pot of chili Bobby had made filled the kitchen. It made Dean's mouth water. The sun was setting in a way that turned the clouds gold when the dogs started growling outside.
Bobby and Dean each took a shotgun, while Sam tucked the Glock into the back of his jeans, and together the three of them went out onto the porch.
A dirty, battered GTO going much too fast for a dirt road turned into the salvage yard, kicking up a cloud of dust. Bobby flicked his hand: he didn't recognize the car. He and Dean raised their shotguns, while Sam drew the Glock.
The car stopped, the dust cleared, and Dean lowered the shotgun, recognizing the figure in the passenger seat. "Wait," he said, moving forward a step. "Wait, that's..."
"Hey!" The driver opened the door, got out, and started to run towards the porch. "Guys, I could use some help here."
"Chuck?" Sam lowered his gun.
"You know him?" Bobby looked skeptical.
"Hi Sam, Dean." Chuck lifted a hand, looking more haggard than when they'd first met him. His beard was thicker and his hooded sweatshirt had a big rip in one sleeve. He pointed at the car. "Got some trouble, here, guys. It's Castiel."
Holding the shotgun down at his side, Dean went down the porch steps. He saw how still the figure in the passenger seat was, head slumped and eyes closed, unruly dark hair pressed flat against the window. Castiel still wore that same trenchcoat and suit.
Dean pushed past Chuck and got the passenger door open. "Cas?" Dean touched his shoulder and got no response. There were rips in the coat, along with dark streaks like the fabric had been singed. Dean put his fingers against Castiel's throat. A pulse beat warm and steady.
"What happened?" Sam had put the Glock away and was now at Dean's shoulder.
"He's been fighting other angels," Chuck said, hugging his arms like he was cold. "Fought them off at my place, holy fucking hell, you should've seen that." His eyes got a little wild. "My house is toast, man. I wrote it all down after in a spiral notebook, all of it, it was unbelievable. But you know, our boy here, he's not exactly a soldier. More like a tactician. He drove them off by cheating, I guess. Used these weird symbols."
Dean heard Chuck's words like they were at the other end of a tunnel. He hooked Castiel's arm across his shoulder, drew his limp body out of the car. Castiel felt warm, and he didn't weigh very much; Dean wasn't sure why he expected him to be heavier. It seemed easiest to do it that way, so Dean picked Castiel up, his head resting against Dean's shoulder, and went up the porch steps into the house. Sam held the door open.
"The archangels landed on my fucking house, or that's what it felt like" Chuck said, following them. "Castiel cut his arm open, traced some symbols on my kitchen floor, grabbed me, and next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa. Nearly tossed my cookies. What a ride. He told me he had to keep the archangels' attention on him." Chuck added, voice shaky. "And he needed me to do it."
Dean lowered Castiel to the couch. His head slumped to the side against the back cushion, and his body still felt boneless beneath Dean's hands. Dean let go, staying in a crouch as he rubbed his knuckles against his chin.
"The archangels thought you were being threatened," said Sam.
"Yeah, Castiel's not exactly a favorite with the angel establishment right now." Dean watched the way Castiel's chest rose and fell with each breath. "He's on heaven's Ten Most Wanted List, and you're a prophet."
"I get it," said Chuck, and dropped into a chair like his legs had given out. "Okay, so we have to steal a car, because he says he can't just fly me everywhere, and we leave my place pretty damn fast, and meanwhile these fucking archangels keep following us around. Every few days Castiel lets them catch up right before he banishes them. Keeps them jerking on a string for days." Chuck sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. "Archangels are kind of one-trick ponies, did you know that? I didn't know that. They're not too bright. Can I get a drink? Anyway, Castiel starts getting tired and I ask him why not stop, and he says he can't. Yesterday, Castiel goes bye-bye and then the other personality, the owner of the body--Jimmy--he's in the car next to me, all confused, wants to know where he is, who the hell I am...then he passes out, and Castiel's back, but really weak, he can barely move. I really, really need a drink. An angel with MPD, shit."
Dean pushed up Castiel's sleeve. Two long, thin wounds crossed his arm, half-healed. He checked the other arm, same thing.
"Thank you," Chuck said with enthusiasm, as Bobby handed him a glass of bourbon. Dean had noticed Bobby adding holy water; when Chuck knocked it back in three gulps and blinked a few times, Bobby's shoulders relaxed.
Letting go of Castiel's arm, Dean said to Bobby, "Hey, uh, is there...do you know anything we should be doing for him?"
"Not exactly an expert on angels, let alone sick ones," Bobby said. "But I'll check." He held the bottle of bourbon out to Sam. "Maybe some of this will help him." After a sharp glance at the figure lying on the couch, Bobby retreated to a corner with a stack of books.
The sun was almost gone, the last rays slanting through the windows. The light caught the dust motes and fell over Castiel's face. It made him look less human, like something in a painting. Dean took the glass of bourbon Sam handed him, put his hand behind Castiel's head, and tilted the liquid into his mouth.
For a moment it looked like he was too far gone to even swallow, but then he stirred, gulped, and coughed. His eyes opened and Dean found himself fixed in a blue-eyed stare. The room seemed to grow smaller, and even with the sunlight it felt like the quiet before a thunderstorm begins.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, voice rasping but calm. Then his eyes widened with realization and he struggled to sit up.
Dean gripped his shoulders. "Hold on, what're you doing?"
There was no mistaking the expression on Castiel's face--alarm, verging on terror. He looked from Dean to Sam to Chuck. "I can't be here. They'll follow. I can't be here."
He kept fighting, and Dean shoved him down. "Stay put. We've got anti-angel wards. Anna showed us."
Castiel drew in a sharp breath. "Anna. She was here?"
"Yeah," said Sam. "She told us you'd gone quiet and she showed us how to paint sigils that would keep this place off the angelic radar."
"Which is why your archangel buddies haven't arrived to nuke my place," Bobby said, pouring two inches of bourbon for himself. He knocked it back in one gulp.
"Then how come he got in?" Chuck pointed at Castiel.
Sam sat in a wooden chair, rotating the glass in his hands. The amber liquid looked darker in the fading sunlight. "Because he was weakened, unconscious."
"So Cas, dude. Chill," Dean said, the words coming out sharp and nervous, when he'd intended to be mocking.
"Anna," Castiel said.
"She said you betrayed her." Dean stood up and moved away, back of his throat feeling tight.
"I did. I failed her completely. I'm glad she's okay." Castiel was sitting up, but his voice was weaker than it had been a few moments ago.
Dean wanted to ask another question, but without any warning, Castiel's eyes shut and he slumped forward. Dean caught him before he could fall. "You got any suggestions?" He glared at Chuck.
"Don't look at me." Chuck came over to take the bottle of bourbon. "I haven't had a vision in weeks. I have no idea what happens next."
They could've taken angel-watch in shifts, but Dean figured that since he'd asked for Castiel's help, and he'd granted it, Dean could cover it, let Sam and Bobby and Chuck sleep.
At some point far into the night, curled up in the armchair, Dean heard the floorboards creak. He recognized Sam's steps before he felt the heaviness of a blanket going over his chest and shoulders.
Dean drifted off again, and a few hours later startled awake and couldn't figure out why until he saw that Castiel was awake too, his head turned towards Dean as if he'd been watching him sleep.
"I wish I could've led them off for longer," Castiel said, turning away from Dean to stare up at the ceiling. His voice rasped from his throat. "They'll be able to stay to their mission now."
"And what's that?"
Castiel gaze returned to Dean. "I think you already know. They want you, they need you to play your part so heaven can win."
"What if I don't want to play?"
"They will work upon you until you do."
Something in Castiel's voice made Dean clench his jaw, holding back a shiver. "Is that what they did to you?"
But Castiel didn't answer.
"Hey, Cas?" Dean said softly. "Thank you."
There was a long silence, broken by the hum of Bobby's fridge compressor clicking on.
"For what?" Castiel said.
"For Sam."
Neither of them said anything else. After a while, Dean fell asleep, nestled under the blanket.
In the morning, Chuck left.
"I don't want to be archangel bait any more. Great material, but it's kind of exhausting. I've had enough. I hope--I hope he'll be okay," he said, looking past Dean and Sam to where Castiel was still asleep on the couch.
"If you get a vision, something that'll help us figure out what Lucifer's up to," Dean said, "call us."
"I don't want any more visions," Chuck said, eyes haggard. Then he paused at the door and looked from Dean to Sam, his eyes going brighter. "Although, you guys are a pretty great story."
He walked out. After a moment they heard the GTO's engine start up and the car drive away.
Bobby rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. He let the book he'd been reading drop to the desk's surface with a thump. "Hell. I don't have a clue what's going on with your angel friend. Maybe we should try giving him more hard liquor," Bobby said drily.
Sam picked up one of the books. "It's like he's recharging. The battles with the archangels wore him out."
Standing with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, Dean couldn't seem to stop watching Castiel, the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He looked like he was only asleep, except when they'd called to him, when Dean had shaken his shoulder, he hadn't stirred.
Helping Dean out of the green room was one thing but Castiel doing this to himself, the reasons he'd done it, that was beyond. Dean didn't know what to do with it. He took a book from Bobby's desk and settled on the floor with his back against the couch.
"I didn't have any Lucifer dreams last night," Sam said, turning over a page. His face, when he looked at Dean, was wide open with hope.
After a hesitation, Bobby spoke. "It's because of the new wards, son. Lucifer was once an angel. Maybe the demon wards weren't enough to keep his consciousness out completely. They were enough that he couldn't seem to tell where you were, even if he could talk to you. But now that we've put up demon and angel wards, he can't even get into your head."
"Good," said Dean. "It's going to stay that way."
Castiel's eyes opened. Then he sat up and put his feet on the floor. It happened so abruptly Dean scrambled to his feet, dropping the book, Sam's head went up sharply, and Bobby knocked over his cup of coffee, spilling dark liquid over the desk.
"Son of a bitch," Bobby said, snatching away his precious old volumes.
On the couch, Castiel held his head in his hands, shoulders hunched. "Castiel?" He got to his feet with quick, careless movements. "Castiel!" The bewilderment on his face was familiar.
Dean took a step closer. "Jimmy?"
"Yeah," Jimmy said. He walked past Dean, looking around the room, taking in the bookshelves, the desk, and then Sam and Bobby. "Where am I?"
"My place," Bobby said laconically. "Name's Bobby Singer. And you are?"
"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak." He paced past Bobby, walking almost to the stairs before turning and walking back.
"He's Castiel's host," said Dean, the words feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.
Walking past Dean, Jimmy barely glanced at him before he sat down on the couch again and ran his fingers through his hair. He huffed out a breath. "Something's not right," he said. "I'm me," he said, putting his hands to his chest. "But Castiel..."
"Where is he?" Dean felt his jaw tighten and a lurch of déjà vu.
Jimmy took a few slow breaths. "He's in here. It's like a weight. It's hard to explain." He got up and started to pace again, to the desk, back to the couch. "But he's definitely in here. I guess he's out cold, or something." He blinked, then looked around the room again. "How did we--how did I--wind up here anyway?"
"You don't remember anything?" said Sam.
"My daughter. I didn't want him to take my daughter. I remember how much it hurt, the blood--after that it's kind of disjointed and I don't remember much of anything."
Bobby walked into the kitchen and came back with the bourbon and a glass. "Here. You'll probably need this."
Jimmy waved it away.
"What do you remember?" Dean hadn't realized how much he wanted Jimmy to be able to tell him something, give him an idea of what was going on in Castiel's mind, until Jimmy shook his head.
"Almost nothing. You need to understand, it's all just impressions. Light, sound, speed, sometimes a snatch of emotion, but it's hard to explain the things I've felt." He looked down at his hands, then pushed up his sleeves and his eyes widened as he saw the pale scars. "He's always healed me before, I know that much." Jimmy looked up and met Dean's gaze for the first time. "Why didn't he heal me?"
Sam picked up the book Dean had dropped and set it on Bobby's desk. "He can't. Not yet. He's ill, or injured. Maybe just exhausted."
Tracing the thumb of his left hand along the scar on his right arm, Jimmy was silent for a long while, and then he said, "So I'm me, for a little bit? Can I..."
"Don't think so," said Dean. "Archangels are hunting him, and Lucifer's on the rise." He turned away from Jimmy, feeling like a complete asshole for killing the eagerness in his face, telling him he couldn't go to his family. "There's a horde of demons out there who would love to rip an angel in a weakened state to pieces, and they'd tear you apart to get to him."
"There are wards on my place," said Bobby, "which means they can't find him right now, but you step outside, and they'll be on you like that."
Shrugging out of the trenchcoat, Jimmy tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair. "I think I'll take that drink now."
When he heard the voice, whispering in his dreams, for a panicked moment Dean thought it was Lucifer's. The anti-angel wards had failed somehow, or they'd been broken. Dean struggled to free himself from sleep--he had to get to Sam.
Dean.
It wasn't Lucifer. Dean had no idea how he knew that or how he recognized the voice--the sounds weren't identifiable as words--but he did recognize it.
Protect him, it said.
Yeah, already on that. Then he realized it wasn't Sam the voice was talking about. Yes, of course Dean thought.
Good, it said, and then: sorry.
Dean snapped awake, his heart racing. It was still dark outside. His fingers closed around the amulet nestled at his chest. Always seemed strange to wake up in a room by himself and not in a cheap motel with Sam asleep in the other bed. The musty quiet of Bobby's house surrounded him, and his heartbeats slowed.
He wondered what, specifically, Castiel was apologizing for.
In the morning, Dean wondered if it was only a dream. Holding his toothbrush on the way to the bathroom, he stopped by Sam's room and told him about it.
"Weird," said Sam.
"I'll say."
"They didn't sound like words?" Sam sat on his bed with one knee bent and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fingers.
"Man, I don't know. No, they didn't sound like words, not in my head. More like sounds, but I knew what they meant. Plus, I recognized it, like, I dunno. Sort of like a song I've heard a million times before."
Sam thought for a moment. "Maybe it was his real voice, only just in your head so it didn't make your ears bleed or blow out the windows."
"Maybe." Dean felt it again, inside his head, the way the voice sounded as it said sorry.
"Hey." Sam tugged at Dean's shirt, and Dean's attention snapped back into place. "You want scrambled eggs or sunny side up?"
Jimmy declared Bobby's chili the best he'd ever tasted, busied himself reading, kept pacing and going to the window. He wore jeans and a t-shirt borrowed from Dean, and barely looked at him. The jeans fit, but the t-shirt hung loose on his shoulders and across his chest.
On the third day, Jimmy sat turning the pages of the illuminated manuscript he had open in front of him, shaking his head. "The apocalypse, huh? I mean, I've been religious all my life, read the Bible, been ridden by an angel...but the actual apocalypse? The end times?"
"Pretty much, unless we figure out how to stop it." Sam's voice was quiet and tight as he sat opposite Jimmy at the messy kitchen table, scribbling notes.
"So, kill the beast. Kill Lucifer."
"Can't," said Bobby.
"There must be some way to do it."
"No, I mean, we can't." Sam put down his pen. "We do that, heaven wins, earth becomes a new paradise, most of humanity gets wiped out."
"Oh," said Jimmy. His expression darkened. "But God..."
"God's out on a really long beer run," Dean said, leaning against the sink.
Jimmy looked more confused. He bit his lower lip, then shook his head in an un-Castiel-like way, as if he thought they'd all gone insane.
Through the window, Dean watched the sunlight dying across Bobby's yard, the way it caught the chrome on the old cars. The dogs were sprawled in the dirt, awake but restful, snouts resting on their paws. He used to play with earlier generations of Bobby's dogs when he was a kid.
The phone rang, and Dean heard Bobby pick it up in the other room. "Rufus, you jackass. What's the four-one-one...aw, shit. How many...okay." Bobby hung up and called out to them, "Chattanooga. Eight dead, demons went into a diner and slaughtered the cook, the waitresses, and a few customers."
Dean's grip tightened around the edge of the sink, a sour taste on his tongue. He felt it pull at him, the need to be out there instead of in here. He watched how Sam's head bent over his work, hair falling to cover his eyes. They couldn't go, not with Lucifer waiting for Sam.
Jimmy put his hand on his stomach and his head went up, eyes widening. "Uh, guys?"
"What?" Sam blinked, startled as he dragged his attention from his work.
"It's Castiel." Jimmy got to his feet so quickly he almost tipped over his chair. He turned and gripped the back of it, breath going faster.
Outside, the dogs started to bark, and Bobby appeared in the kitchen door while Sam got to his feet.
When Jimmy's knees gave way, Dean grabbed his arms. Jimmy's eyes met Dean's, really looking at him for the first time. The dissonance jolted him, how his eyes were Castiel's, but different--with Jimmy he felt like he could see all the way in, instead of just the top layer of something he'd never comprehend.
"Dean." Jimmy grabbed Dean's shirt. "It's the actual apocalypse, and people are dying. If he still needs me for now, then I can do this, I don't mind that much, for a while longer. But please." Jimmy's fingers twisted into the cotton. "I want to go home. Not in a hundred or a thousand years, when my wife and my little girl are dead. Soon."
Dean felt his mouth go dry.
"Please, promise me, you'll talk to him. See if he can work something else out--"
"Yeah, I promise."
Then Jimmy's head snapped back and he slumped against Dean.
Jimmy's eyes opened, and Jimmy was Castiel instead, fingers still twisted into Dean's shirt. His body gave off more heat than Jimmy's had a moment ago, his shoulder leaning on Dean's chest, his legs against Dean's. The eyes were all Castiel's this time.
It gave Dean a twist of guilt as he felt glad about it. He'd actually missed Castiel, even if he was still kind of a dick.
Bobby's kitchen seemed smaller and Dean could've sworn that for a second the dying sunlight flickered. Stupid, the whole thing was stupid. Dean let go first, and Castiel unclenched his fingers with slow dignity and straightened up. It seemed strange seeing Castiel in the clothes Jimmy had put on.
"Feeling better?" Bobby said from the doorway, his eyebrows rising until they vanished beneath the brim of his cap.
"Yes, thank you," said Castiel, as if he'd had a friggin' head cold or something. Dean almost laughed.
Sam went right back to his notes, but Dean noticed he didn't scribble so fast now, and he rubbed his hand over his forehead, expression distant in a way that was different from his research fever face.
From the porch, Sam was a shadowy outline, sitting on the hood of the Impala with his knees bent. Dean walked across the yard, not sure what he was going to say, or how to begin this, but after the past year, Dean was okay with running in head-on even if it screwed things up.
He stood in front of the Impala and almost said something sarcastic like practicing your brooding skills? but then he got a good look at Sam's face.
"You want to talk?" Dean stayed where he was, a few yards off and facing his brother, wanting to approach but feeling like maybe he shouldn't yet.
"People are dying, and we're just sitting here." Sam picked a dead leaf off the Impala and flung it like it was a stone.
"It sucks, yeah, but..."
"I started it, Dean. People are dying because of me, and Jimmy can't go home--if the apocalypse hadn't started, he probably could. And the things I did." Sam's voice went shaky.
Crawling up onto the Impala, Dean settled with his shoulder brushing Sam's. "I told you, but people make horrible mistakes. I get it, I get why you did it. Would've done the same, if it were me," Dean added in a low voice.
Next to him he heard Sam make a small sound, a sniff, and wondered if he was crying but did him the favor of keeping his eyes towards the house.
"That fake voice mail--" he heard Sam draw in a shaky breath.
"Fake. Fake-a-roonie. Mcfake sandwich with the secret fake sauce. We've been over this."
Sam coughed. "Still, it doesn't change the facts. I broke the seal. I did it."
"So did I. The first one." The too-heavy knot formed in his stomach, frightening and by now familiar, the weight he always felt when he thought about this. "Like all big brothers, I get to do the cool stuff first."
Another voice came out of the half-darkness beside them.
"I knew," Castiel said. They both turned to see him standing a few yards away beneath a small crooked tree. "I found out the angels' true plan. My doubts..." Castiel looked up at the sky, where stars were emerging as the last light died at the horizon. "Made me question, look harder at things, and I found out the truth."
He took a step towards the Winchesters, then stopped as if unsure if he should come closer. "That was the message I was about to give you when they took me back to heaven. They didn't torture me. They persuaded me. So I carried the knowledge of what we were doing. I knew about Lilith and the final seal, and I not only didn't tell you, I helped it along." Castiel wasn't wearing a coat, and he hugged his arms in a human gesture. "Sam Winchester, it's not blame that falls on you. And it's not fate," he added, looking right at Dean. "Unless you can call a convergence of mis-steps and circumstance fate."
"Maybe that's all fate really is," said Sam, voice low.
But Castiel had already faded away into the dusk.
After breakfast the next morning (where Castiel ate his scrambled eggs in slow, small, careful bites like someone performing a duty), Castiel let Bobby ask questions while Sam typed on his laptop and sometimes asked one of his own. It didn't take long before Sam and Bobby got into an argument over a detail in a codex like the geeks they were, and they would've gone at it for hours except Castiel coughed, interrupted them, and told them the answer.
Turned out Sam was right. Great, the kid would be insufferable now, like he didn't already know how smart he was.
Dean finished cleaning the guns, which didn't need to be cleaned because they hadn't been fired in weeks, but he cleaned them again anyway, as Bobby and Sam got into an argument about John Wycliffe.
"We need a perimeter check," Dean said. "I'll do it."
Sam and Bobby stopped talking, and then Sam, Bobby, and Castiel were all staring at Dean. Jesus, now they were all doing it. "What, I got something on my face?"
"You're not going alone," said Bobby.
"It'll have to wait." Sam crossed out a word on the page of his notebook and wrote a different one, gaze on the laptop screen. "We've got a lot more material I want to get through today."
"We've got an actual angel of the lord advising us and we're coming up with exactly squat." Bobby tugged off his cap and rubbed at his hair, then secured the cap again. "No offense," he added, glancing at Castiel.
"I haven't been very helpful." Castiel said. "For all my knowledge, it's specialized and I was told only as much as my superiors wanted me to know."
The need to be moving, to be outside the house, was overwhelming. "Okay, it's not like I won't be inside the wards. There's no reason I can't do this by myself. So I'll just go and be back before you--"
Castiel got to his feet. "I will go with Dean."
After a moment of hesitation, Sam nodded. "That works."
"We talked about this last night," Dean said, with an odd feeling of being cornered. "You don't have to drive yourself crazy with the research, Sam. Isn't your vision going blurry?"
"I want to keep working, Dean, I have to, and you can't check the perimeter alone."
Dean watched the way the corners of Sam's mouth drew down with concentration as he started to type.
"You don't have to find all the answers."
"Yes I do," Sam muttered, his fingers tapping away and a note of hurt caught in his voice.
"Sam--"
"Let him be," Bobby said.
It took Dean a moment, and then he got it. Shit, sometimes he was too slow on the uptake. Dean watched his brother typing up notes, and he got it, finally got it.
Seeing Sam drive himself with guilt, reach out and so eagerly grab that weight as if he wasn't good for anything else, made Dean want to stab a lot of demons and angels in the face. But for Sam, that wouldn't feel as bad as Dean telling him no, stop, you're wrong. His demon blood had failed him--but if there was one thing Dean's little brother was best at, it was research and the way he'd grab onto a problem, wear it down until it had no choice but to give way.
"So the guy with wings is my wingman on this one? Okey-dokey. Go save the world, geek boy."
"Have fun patrolling, asshole," Sam said. He smiled for the first time in days, and Dean knew he'd chosen right.
Dean took point, walking along the fence line with Castiel just behind him, sky a perfect, ruthless blue.
They hiked at a steady pace in silence. Bobby's property was big enough it would take a few hours to walk the full perimeter, and Dean started to wish he'd brought his walkman, to play something blood-stirring in his ears.
At a flat rock covered with circles and lines, some of them anti-demon wards, some of them the symbols Anna had showed them, Dean sat and took several gulps from the bottle of water he carried. The wind stung his eyes with grit.
Castiel knelt. It was weird watching him do that otherworldly head-tilt of his while he was dressed in Dean's clothes. He seemed as comfortable in them as in the suit and tie and trenchcoat, like what clothes he wore were completely irrelevant. Dean suddenly thought of Castiel naked, idly curious if he'd be as comfortable like that, and then blinked, banishing the thought real fast.
"This is good work," Castiel said, brushing his fingers across the rock, stopping when he reached Dean's leg. He moved his hand away. The scars on his arms were completely gone.
"Anna showed us how to make those," said Dean.
"I taught them to her, long ago."
Dean had never really wondered about Castiel's life. Thousands of years old--he couldn't even wrap his brain around it. "How old are you, anyway?"
Still crouching, his hands splayed against the rock, Castiel shook his head. "I can't say for sure. Old."
"Okay." Dean finished off the water before thinking that he should probably have asked Castiel if he wanted any. He probably would've refused, natch--but he'd eaten breakfast.
When they continued on, Castiel kept pace with Dean this time instead of walking behind him.
The wind whistled across the road. Castiel's gaze was directed out at the fields, his head tilted as if he were listening to something beyond the wind. His hands curled nearly into fists, then relaxed.
"Inside the barriers, I can't hear them."
Dean felt his stomach twitch, almost like the excitement he felt before an old-fashioned monster hunt, the kind of adrenaline-charged job where he'd have to use all his muscles and physical instincts, and wouldn't have to worry about getting his heart ripped out, literally or figuratively. At the same time, he felt--okay, that wasn't the right word for it, not with Castiel, but close enough--safe.
Maybe he was going nuts.
"Them? You mean angel radio?"
It took Castiel a second to get the joke. He almost smiled. "Yes."
"Well, if you can't hear them, then they can't hear you, which means no archangels on our asses. No Lucifer either."
Dean felt his chest tighten, thinking of Sam, a constant line of fear that chased him, memories of Sam with his eyes gone black, a Sam that wasn't Sam laughing and tied to a chair.
He felt fingers closing warm and tight over his shoulder just above the scar hidden beneath his t-shirt. He turned to see Castiel looking at him as if he knew all of it, as if Dean had said all that out loud. It wasn't the first time Castiel had looked at him like that, but that hadn't kept things from going the way they had, and Dean thought he might as well try to grab onto sand to keep from falling.
"We'd better keep moving," he said, twisting his shoulder out of Castiel's grip.
Sam and Bobby hadn't found anything in particular by the time they got back to the house, dusty and sweaty. Dean was surprised when Castiel went to the kitchen sink and got himself a glass of water without being told he probably should for the sake of the body he wore. He drank in a perfunctory way.
The days dragged on. Bobby received more reports of demon attacks, while Sam and Bobby kept going through the old books. Sometimes Dean didn't hear Sam's footsteps going down to the hall to his room until well past two in the morning. Dean found them both asleep one early morning with their heads resting on folded arms, papers scattered around them, Bobby at the desk, Sam on the couch.
Meanwhile, things got weird and weirder with Castiel.
Sam outright refused to go the basement, so Dean and Castiel went down to get the two boxes Bobby said he needed, amulets and artifacts and old weapons he hoped would provide some clue. It didn't thrill Dean much to go down there either. The dank mildew scent hit his nose too much like a tomb.
He didn't look at the iron door, and couldn't go near it without his skin crawling.
They found the boxes underneath the stairs. As Dean tugged on one, he saw Castiel's gaze flicker to the door and then quickly return to the shadows under the stairs.
The box Dean wanted to lift was caught, and Castiel shoved in next to him to help tug it free. Castiel's arm brushed along Dean's, his skin radiating warmth in the cool air of the cellar and Dean found himself looking at Castiel's mouth, his nose, the stubble along his jawline, how the bare bulb of the basement light made his face look more angular. He smelled like dried sweat, Bobby's books, and something else dry and clean that reminded Dean of a stone church.
Castiel turned to face Dean and neither of them moved, while Dean suddenly, for no godamned good reason he could possibly imagine, started thinking about what Castiel's mouth might feel like. The skin of Castiel's neck twitched with his pulse, his borrowed neck.
Dean jerked away, letting the box fall.
Read part 2