As You Were, 3/3
Sammy didn’t understand.
It was the next morning, and Castiel had started the cure. He tried to explain the decision they had to make with small words and lots of gestures, but Sammy was just confused. Sure, he wanted to be a grown-up. He was getting big, he said, like Dean.
He hadn’t remembered.
That meant, Castiel said later, when Sammy was down for a nap, that it would be Dean’s decision for both of them. Sammy would agree to being a grown-up if Castiel proposed it; all children wanted to be adults, he said. Dean knew what was being asked. Dean would have to decide.
Castiel left him alone after that. He didn’t exactly say he wanted to be alone, but Castiel seemed to know. He said he’d be in the library if Dean needed him, and then he slipped away.
Dean had found Sammy’s room by then. Sammy, it seemed, kept a lot more stuff than Dean did.
(Somewhere in his brain he remembered that Sammy had gone to college, that he’d had more of a chance to know what normal was. That normal people kept stuff. Dean never would never get--had never gotten that chance.)
That meant that Sammy had some pictures. Not a lot, but some. Pictures of him and Dean, pictures of them and their dad, pictures of people that Dean half-remembered. Bobby. Ellen and Jo.
He found one, a picture from what he was pretty sure was Bobby’s house, of him and Sammy and Castiel. He and Sammy were laughing, and Castiel was sitting stiffly on a couch, watching them.
He still didn’t remember Castiel. Not at all. To him, Castiel was exclusively his caretaker, not his friend or his equal. His dad, in this place where his dad wasn’t there.
He was pretty sure, though, that when Castiel had said in the car that he kept mistaking Dean and Sammy for his best friends, he had meant that he kept forgetting they were not who they used to be. He kept thinking that they were their grown-up selves.
Which meant that if Dean said no, that he didn’t want the cure for them, he’d be taking away Castiel’s best friends. Forever.
Taking away his best friends and leaving him with two helpless little kids to look after.
On the other hand, he could say yes and give Castiel his friends back but give Sammy back the sadness he saw in the faces that floated right above his little brother’s face. Or he could say no and spare Sammy that pain. He didn’t even remember.
He took a few pictures and wandered downstairs.
Castiel was where he said he’d be: in the library, surrounded by books. He closed the book immediately when Dean came in, this time, and pushed it to the side.
He didn’t say anything, and neither did Dean, but he pulled up another chair that Dean crawled up on. He watched as Dean spread the pictures he found out on the table.
They both stared at the pictures for a while. Castiel would take one and hold it, and Dean would watch his face. He didn’t give much away; a little softening around his eyes, a little bit of a smile, or a frown.
Finally Castiel put a picture down and slid it directly between them.
“This was taken after you and Sam had preserved one of the Seals locking Lucifer away,” he said.
Dean stared at him.
“And saved the lives of countless people while doing so,” Castiel continued. “You were very tired. But you were laughing.”
Dean pulled the picture over to him, but Castiel had taken another.
“Shortly before this picture was taken, the two of you had saved a young family from a Black Dog. Sam is laughing at you because the young mother gave him a kiss, and not you. You are smiling because their two-year-old daughter gave you a hug, and not Sam.
“This one was taken after you defeated a djinn.
“...after a werewolf hunt-
“...on New Year’s Eve. It was a quiet night. No hunt. Just you and your brother, able to enjoy a year of good works.”
Dean stared at the pictures in front of him.
“I was a good guy,” he said.
Castiel huffed a laugh, and Dean turned to him.
“What you are, Dean Winchester, is a hero,” he said.
Dean shrugged, uncomfortable.
“Do you want me to be a grown-up again? Should I be a grown-up again, so I can keep being a...a hero?”
He felt Castiel’s hand between his shoulder blades, heavy, warm. He looked back at the pictures.
“I can’t tell you what to do.”
Dean sighed.
“But you have earned this choice. And whatever you choose to do, Dean, I will respect.”
*
“Okay.”
Dean didn’t look at Castiel, but he heard the chair squeak as he moved. Dean kept staring at his stuffed horse.
“Okay?” Castiel echoed.
“Okay, I’ll be a grown-up again. Me and Sammy.”
Dean heard footfalls, and then the couch dipped under Castiel’s weight as he sat down beside Dean’s head.
“Why?”
Dean shrugged.
“‘Cause I’m really a grown-up, right? For real, without the curse. And Sammy, too. So what was it, a witch or something?”
“I believe so,” Castiel replied.
“Then we can’t let the witch win. And leaving me and Sammy like this, that’s what she wants, probably. Because me and Sammy are heroes and she wants less heroes to fight her.”
He heard the smile in Castiel’s voice as he said, “That is perhaps her motive.”
Dean ran his hand down one of the horse’s legs.
“So I guess we should turn us back.”
“Do you want me to turn you back?”
Dean’s hand stilled, and he hugged the horse tighter to him.
“I’m kind of scared,” he admitted.
Castiel’s fingers threaded through his hair.
“We don’t have to do the spell,” he said. “I said I’d respect any decision you made. If you don’t want to do this, Dean, we won’t.”
Dean turned his face in to Castiel’s thigh, and leaned harder against the slow, soothing hand.
“My head hurts all the time, Cas,” Dean whispered. “I wish I didn’t remember. If I didn’t remember, I could stay like this. But I do. And it hurts.”
“Then we’ll do it,” Castiel said. “If it’s what you think is best.”
Dean was grateful that he didn’t say if it’s what you want.
It was not what he wanted.
It was what he thought was best.
“How long until it’s ready?” Dean asked.
“Twenty-three hours.”
Dean nodded.
“What do you want to do?” Castiel asked.
Dean thought.
*
When Dean remembered that last day as a child, he remembered:
Bowls of ice cream for breakfast so big he couldn’t even finish his.
A car ride with all the windows down and AC/DC blaring from the speakers, because he remembered enough to remember that he liked AC/DC.
A trip to a local county fair, complete with cotton candy, fried foods on sticks, and a ride on a rickety ferris wheel that had Castiel white-knuckling the bar the whole time.
(Except for one moment on the wheel when Sammy looked like he was about to launch himself off, when Castiel threw his arm in front of him and started yelling something that sounded like a prayer.)
The most joyous stomach ache that Dean had ever experienced, brought on by a disgraceful excess of county fair food.
An hour at a playground, playing with other kids his age, kids who never ever had to think about monsters or being heroes except in the make-believe games they played-and for just a minute, Dean could pretend he was like them.
Dinner at a family restaurant, where the waitress called them ‘adorable’ and he ate enough macaroni and cheese to fill him up for a week-all the greasy over-indulgence of the fair, seemingly, forgotten.
A ride home with the windows down again, drifting lazily in the back seat, Sammy draped over him, Castiel’s eyes peering back in the rearview, turning fond when they met Dean’s.
One last storybook, cuddled on the couch with their stuffed animals, Castiel’s soft, even voice telling fairy tales while Sammy drifted off to sleep.
*
Castiel closed the book.
He didn’t say anything, seemingly afraid to break the quiet that had settled over them, underscored by Sammy’s soft snoring.
He didn’t want to, so Dean did it instead.
“Thanks for today.”
Castiel smiled. “You are welcome, Dean.”
“Seriously. It was awesome.”
“Not less than you deserve.”
“I’m-”
Dean hesitated, and Castiel did not push him.
“I think what I’m gonna be saddest about, when I’m a grown-up? I’m gonna miss being your kid.”
Castiel’s smile stuttered, but did not fade away.
“Did you never remember me?” he asked.
Dean shrugged.
Castiel leaned forward, put one hand on Dean’s shoulder, and his thumb at the top of the bridge of Dean’s nose.
Warmth, comfort, and with it, soft memories.
“You have always been my charge,” Castiel said, his voice a quiet rumble beneath the waves of memories making their way into Dean’s mind. “You have always been mine to protect. However old you are, that is my job.”
And Dean looked up at him, at the man he now remembered was an angel-an angel, with wings and maybe a halo, and all of that-who’d made him dinner and woken up when he had nightmares and bought him a fluffy pony and taken him to the fair. Who’d Fallen for him and fought beside him and got him cotton candy when he asked for it.
“I’m ready,” Dean said.
“You always are,” Castiel replied.
*
Twelve hours later, Sam was in his room, sleeping off the effects of the spell.
Dean was in his, about to do the same.
Cas came in, no knock, of course, because he could speak every language ever conceived but it was a literal impossibility for him to learn basic manners and-
Dean felt his righteous indignation sputter out much more quickly than usual.
“Are you feeling well?” Cas asked, and for just a second Dean thought he was referring to his short-lived indignation.
Then he realized he meant the spell.
“Peachy,” Dean said. “Feels like the biggest bitch of a hangover I’ve ever had, but I’ll sleep it off.”
Cas smiled, and Dean looked away. When he looked back, the smile was gone.
“I imagine you’ll sleep for a while,” Cas said. “I’ll leave you. I’ll be in the library if you need me-if you feel wrong in any way.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Cas hovered in the doorway for a moment, then turned to leave.
Something lurched in Dean, and he said, “Hey, Cas.”
Cas stopped, turned.
Dean sat up in bed, ran his hands through his hair. It felt a little odd, still-the sensation of his body, fully grown, all the scars and calluses and muscles and aches he’d left behind for just a little while, when he was hit by the curse. It was all back, no reset, just like he’d left it.
“Just, what you did. When we were whammied.”
“Dean-”
“Hey, shut up, man.”
Cas shut up, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. Dean scowled.
“Just, thanks. For taking care of me. And Sammy.”
The smile slipped. “Dean, I did nothing you would not have done. You were injured on a hunt, and I cared for you, as you have done for me.”
“It was more than that, man, and you know it,” Dean said, then sighed heavily. “Okay, fine. We don’t have to talk about it.”
But Cas didn’t leave. He walked over to Dean, who followed his movement with his eyes but didn’t move himself. Cas got very close-predictably close-and studied Dean with that dissecting stare of his.
Finally, he put his hand on Dean’s head, and Dean felt himself melt into it the same way he had when he’d been a kid.
“If I could have let you remain a child without the side effects, I would have,” Cas said. “You deserved a childhood.”
“You gave us a hell of a lot towards it,” Dean said.
Cas smiled, then, a real smile, and withdrew his hand.
“Rest,” he said. “Your body needs it.”
Before Dean could reply, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Dean settled into bed, sleep already tugging at his eyelids.
On the shelf above him, the stuffed pony stood watch.