Angel
Title: Angel
Author familybizness
Summary: Castiel hasn't been back to heaven in a while. Turns out, that's a problem.
Word Count: 1018
Rating: PG
The Winchesters’ garden is an alive place full of alive things, tomatoes and lettuce and potatoes and carrots and onions.
Dean is afraid of carrots and tomatoes. Sam is uncomfortable with potatoes. The onions are there for Castiel.
Castiel is afraid of everything - gusting wind, fallen leaves, the sun - and uncomfortable all over, and he is here for Sam.
How long has he been here?
His feet hurt so much. Maybe he’s dying. What a cruel trick if he is. And where would he go? Heaven? Hell? Or would he just…stop being?
Sam will find him here. Sam loves this garden.
Sam will find him.
***
But it’s a long time before Sam finds him. The sun is down and Castiel is shivering, cold in his vessel (in his body), unable to get warm. Sometimes people die from being cold. Sam jokes about it - we’re dying in here! - and Dean turns up the heat. They’re not really dying. But sometimes people do.
He pulls his knees up to his chest.
There’s blood in the dirt.
He can’t remember how to make that go away.
His wings are there, but he can’t remember how to let them out, so there’s nothing to wrap around him, and there are lights on in the Winchesters’ big warm house.
***
There’s a steady pounding under his ear, strong and rhythmic. He knows that sound. “Sam.”
“Angel.” Sam’s on his knees in the dirt, arms like wings around Castiel. “What happened? God, look at you. Are you okay?”
“Sam.” His heart’s beating fast, too fast, can’t-breathe fast, but not terrible-fast like that night last year when it stopped altogether and Castiel felt like his chest was exploding and the doctors said Sam needed a new heart. This is just asthma. Sam’s new heart still works.
Sometimes, new hearts stop working and people die. Castiel knows this. He’s read all the pamphlets. He read them over and over and over for hours while Sam was in surgery, until Christa took them away from him gently and folded his hands between hers and said Sam’s not going to die.
Castiel and Sam are alive in the garden.
***
He can walk, so it isn’t necessary for Sam to bring Dean to help carry him inside, but Sam does it anyway. They link their arms and cradle him between them, and he lets his head rest on Sam’s shoulder and doesn’t really listen as they talk over him and ask each other what happened.
The next time he opens his eyes he’s in the bathroom, propped against the wall, and his feet hurt so much.
“Shhh,” Sam rubs his knee. “It’s disinfectant. I know it stings. Your feet are all torn up, Cas.”
“Walked.” His voice is hoarse.
“Walked where?”
“Home.”
“Where were you?”
“I don’t know.” He was in the desert somewhere. He doesn’t even know how he found his way here.
Sam pats his feet dry so gently and wraps white gauze around them. “Why didn’t you fly here, Angel?”
His stomach corkscrews. “Don’t call me that.”
“Cas?”
“I can’t fly.”
And then his body’s heaving, and it’s so unfamiliar, and Sam holds him and presses cool lips to the back of his neck.
***
Dean’s with him the next time he wakes up, feet up on the mattress, watching TV.
“Hello, Dean.” It comes out sounding scratchy and weathered, like Sam after a long night of struggling to breathe.
“This shit is totally impractical.” Dean gestures at the TV. Castiel sits up a little. It’s some sort of obstacle course. “I am damn nimble and I couldn’t pull that off.”
“It takes good balance.” Castiel explains. Dean probably knows that. He’s not sure what they know sometimes.
Dean switches off the TV. “Okay, Cas. What happened?”
“Hurt my feet…”
“Yeah, no kidding, you left a pint of blood all over our garden.”
He closes his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Nah, c’mon, I didn’t mean - don’t worry about it.”
“Can I stay here?” God, if Dean says no he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It feels - well, it feels exactly like falling.
But Dean grips his shoulder and says “hey, of course you can. You’re family.”
***
He wakes up in the middle of the night with a fire in his chest. Heart attack!
But Sam’s moving around, setting up the neb, lungs going hhah-hhah-hhah, and Castiel knows what this is by the look and the sound of it, but it hurts, it really hurts, it can’t be this bad for Sam. This can’t be the feeling his human has when he makes that sound.
Sam makes that sound all the time.
And when he realizes what’s happening, he sits Castiel up in his arms and rubs his back firmly (exactly the way he asks Castiel to do it for him) and says, “okay, it’s just asthma, we’re fine, I know it hurts, Angel,” and it is so terrible that Sam’s feeling this and holding somebody else’s hand about it.
“I’m not an angel,” he says, and Sam throws down the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and grabs Castiel and kisses him until it feels like their lungs might burst.
***
“They gave me a choice.”
The washed-out light of late morning is slotting through the blinds and Sam is knitting with his arms and legs on either side of Castiel. His lungs don’t hurt very much this morning. They’re just a little sore.
“They made you choose?”
He loves Sam so much for saying made instead of let. “They said I could return to my post or I could leave. Permanently. I can’t - I can’t go back to heaven, Sam. I don’t know where my wings are and I can’t stop this bleeding.”
Sam’s looking at him strangely. “Cas? You chose me?”
What kind of question is that? “Of course I did.”
The knitting falls to the bedspread and Sam’s hand is cradling his face. “Angel. My angel.”
There’s the barest hint of a familiar flutter at his back, just at the base of his shoulders.
Author familybizness
Summary: Castiel hasn't been back to heaven in a while. Turns out, that's a problem.
Word Count: 1018
Rating: PG
The Winchesters’ garden is an alive place full of alive things, tomatoes and lettuce and potatoes and carrots and onions.
Dean is afraid of carrots and tomatoes. Sam is uncomfortable with potatoes. The onions are there for Castiel.
Castiel is afraid of everything - gusting wind, fallen leaves, the sun - and uncomfortable all over, and he is here for Sam.
How long has he been here?
His feet hurt so much. Maybe he’s dying. What a cruel trick if he is. And where would he go? Heaven? Hell? Or would he just…stop being?
Sam will find him here. Sam loves this garden.
Sam will find him.
***
But it’s a long time before Sam finds him. The sun is down and Castiel is shivering, cold in his vessel (in his body), unable to get warm. Sometimes people die from being cold. Sam jokes about it - we’re dying in here! - and Dean turns up the heat. They’re not really dying. But sometimes people do.
He pulls his knees up to his chest.
There’s blood in the dirt.
He can’t remember how to make that go away.
His wings are there, but he can’t remember how to let them out, so there’s nothing to wrap around him, and there are lights on in the Winchesters’ big warm house.
***
There’s a steady pounding under his ear, strong and rhythmic. He knows that sound. “Sam.”
“Angel.” Sam’s on his knees in the dirt, arms like wings around Castiel. “What happened? God, look at you. Are you okay?”
“Sam.” His heart’s beating fast, too fast, can’t-breathe fast, but not terrible-fast like that night last year when it stopped altogether and Castiel felt like his chest was exploding and the doctors said Sam needed a new heart. This is just asthma. Sam’s new heart still works.
Sometimes, new hearts stop working and people die. Castiel knows this. He’s read all the pamphlets. He read them over and over and over for hours while Sam was in surgery, until Christa took them away from him gently and folded his hands between hers and said Sam’s not going to die.
Castiel and Sam are alive in the garden.
***
He can walk, so it isn’t necessary for Sam to bring Dean to help carry him inside, but Sam does it anyway. They link their arms and cradle him between them, and he lets his head rest on Sam’s shoulder and doesn’t really listen as they talk over him and ask each other what happened.
The next time he opens his eyes he’s in the bathroom, propped against the wall, and his feet hurt so much.
“Shhh,” Sam rubs his knee. “It’s disinfectant. I know it stings. Your feet are all torn up, Cas.”
“Walked.” His voice is hoarse.
“Walked where?”
“Home.”
“Where were you?”
“I don’t know.” He was in the desert somewhere. He doesn’t even know how he found his way here.
Sam pats his feet dry so gently and wraps white gauze around them. “Why didn’t you fly here, Angel?”
His stomach corkscrews. “Don’t call me that.”
“Cas?”
“I can’t fly.”
And then his body’s heaving, and it’s so unfamiliar, and Sam holds him and presses cool lips to the back of his neck.
***
Dean’s with him the next time he wakes up, feet up on the mattress, watching TV.
“Hello, Dean.” It comes out sounding scratchy and weathered, like Sam after a long night of struggling to breathe.
“This shit is totally impractical.” Dean gestures at the TV. Castiel sits up a little. It’s some sort of obstacle course. “I am damn nimble and I couldn’t pull that off.”
“It takes good balance.” Castiel explains. Dean probably knows that. He’s not sure what they know sometimes.
Dean switches off the TV. “Okay, Cas. What happened?”
“Hurt my feet…”
“Yeah, no kidding, you left a pint of blood all over our garden.”
He closes his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Nah, c’mon, I didn’t mean - don’t worry about it.”
“Can I stay here?” God, if Dean says no he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It feels - well, it feels exactly like falling.
But Dean grips his shoulder and says “hey, of course you can. You’re family.”
***
He wakes up in the middle of the night with a fire in his chest. Heart attack!
But Sam’s moving around, setting up the neb, lungs going hhah-hhah-hhah, and Castiel knows what this is by the look and the sound of it, but it hurts, it really hurts, it can’t be this bad for Sam. This can’t be the feeling his human has when he makes that sound.
Sam makes that sound all the time.
And when he realizes what’s happening, he sits Castiel up in his arms and rubs his back firmly (exactly the way he asks Castiel to do it for him) and says, “okay, it’s just asthma, we’re fine, I know it hurts, Angel,” and it is so terrible that Sam’s feeling this and holding somebody else’s hand about it.
“I’m not an angel,” he says, and Sam throws down the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and grabs Castiel and kisses him until it feels like their lungs might burst.
***
“They gave me a choice.”
The washed-out light of late morning is slotting through the blinds and Sam is knitting with his arms and legs on either side of Castiel. His lungs don’t hurt very much this morning. They’re just a little sore.
“They made you choose?”
He loves Sam so much for saying made instead of let. “They said I could return to my post or I could leave. Permanently. I can’t - I can’t go back to heaven, Sam. I don’t know where my wings are and I can’t stop this bleeding.”
Sam’s looking at him strangely. “Cas? You chose me?”
What kind of question is that? “Of course I did.”
The knitting falls to the bedspread and Sam’s hand is cradling his face. “Angel. My angel.”
There’s the barest hint of a familiar flutter at his back, just at the base of his shoulders.