Entertaining Angels (4/?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Crackiness, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them-they can’t quite tell.
Word Count: 2182
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Wow, I am up waaaaay too late, trying to finish this chappie before I leave. Let me know if you see typos.
1 | 2 | 3
4
His vision was cloudy, fogged, chased by streaks of gray and black, midnight on the sharp edge of infinity. Clearest in his sight were eyes: red, black, yellow, white. The colors of bloodshed, pain, death, blindness and false life. “Run home to Daddy,” whispered the sibilant voice of a serpent. Longing, yearning, wondering.
Tearing, shredding, pieces of soul flaking off at the edges. The pain of being unmade, his essence unraveling in milky spools, tattered and torn, spiraling away into the darkness. Agony incomparable, unknowable, spiritual force being ground into nothingness.
He had a mission. This Castiel grasped with the last of his fading strength. The mission, the quest, the lost children traveling alone the dusty roads of earth, bewildered yet undefeated, finding power in each other’s presence. He could not abandon them.
Before the last of his essence could fall away, subsumed in the inky black, Castiel ripped off an infinitesimal bit of power and cradled it to his heart, a single grain of sand in a vast ocean of despair, shielded and shining. It was enough to hold onto a single thought, a single purpose, a single piece of knowledge. Dean Winchester and his current location, all he could grasp, just enough to carry him through.
Dean Winchester. Find Dean Winchester.
That was what carried him through the white-hot pain, all the way to the other side. That was what kept him from letting himself dwindle into nothing, prevented destruction pure and absolute. Just a tiny golden spark against the endless black, constantly threatened with complete annihilation, but he gripped it tight in his fist and carried it through to the light of morning, when he woke on the side of a road in the body and mind of a child. Everything else was gone, far beyond the finding, but this he held.
This started him walking, kept him on his feet. Through all the confusion, the fear, the bright lights and loud noises and foul smells and endless strangeness of the material world, the sharpness of the wind on his skin and the bite of rock against his frail human feet. This and only this.
Find Dean. Get to Dean.
It was enough. Only barely, but it was enough.
X
“Hey, hey, hey. Castiel, hey, little buddy, it’s a dream, it’s just a dream. Hey, Cas. C’mon, kiddo, wake up now. Just a dream. It’s a dream. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
The voice was deep and familiar, well-known, though the tone was a new one. Castiel was sure that he had never heard this human speak so gently before. Not to him, anyway. He opened his eyes and discovered that he was struggling to breathe, fragile limbs flailing without coordination, sweat stinging his eyes. Dean Winchester knelt over him, face wrinkled in concern, large hands gripping Castiel’s shoulders.
There was a time when Dean had not been quite so large in his sight. The thought was fleeting, though, fading as the dream already was. Castiel knew abstractly that his new mind was simply incapable of comprehending what this meant, and he let it go without struggling. It was easier to just be who and what he was, which at this time was a human child.
A human child who was terribly afraid of something in the shadows, who trusted Dean Winchester with absolute conviction, and who, in this moment, was desperately in need of comfort.
Without hesitation, he lunged up off the couch and threw himself into Dean’s startled arms, latching on and clinging with all the strength he had in him, slender as it was. Also without hesitation, Dean’s arms circled around him, thick and strong, a shelter from the darkest storms. Castiel felt himself lifted and surrounded, completely covered, protected, and the last of the terrifying images began to drift away.
Before long, he believed Dean’s soft, continued murmur, warm in his ear. Only a dream. It was only a dream. The belief came easily, and true, restful sleep followed soon after.
X
When Castiel woke again, it was to the feeling of hunger, a strange weakness that dragged at his limbs and sent swirls of nausea through his abdomen. He didn’t remember feeling it before, walking the roads, but his mind had been focused on a single distant point for the entirety of that long, weary journey. Now, he marveled at the sensation, this human thing, the need for material substance to sustain a material body.
“Castiel? You awake?”
Castiel lifted his head from the firm warmth that pillowed it, only then aware that he had been resting with his cheek on someone’s leg. It was not uncomfortable. He pushed his body up on elbows, hands, then felt himself sway, a sudden rush of dizziness bending his vision, ducking his head. Big, gentle hands closed around his shoulders and held him up, and he shut his eyes and breathed through the sickness, the ache of it.
“Hey, hey. You all right?”
He swallowed and nodded, then opened his eyes. His tunneled vision was filled with the concerned face of Dean Winchester. “Hurt,” he said softly.
Another strange thing, the pitch of his voice, the smallness of it. Castiel tilted his head slightly, listening to himself. He wished he could talk more, so he could hear that strange voice for a little longer. So odd and new and interesting.
“Stomach hurts, huh? That’s called hunger, kiddo. It means you need to eat. You’re gonna have to get used to this stuff. When you feel pain, that usually means you need to change something. I know it’s weird, but that’s what being human is like.”
Castiel nodded again, slowly. This was good information. He would try to hold on to it.
“Right now, though, me and Sam will take care of you, okay? Let us know when something hurts, and we’ll try to make it better. You hear me, buddy?”
It took a few seconds, but Castiel found the word, figured out how to shape it. “Okay.”
Dean smiled, a real one, gentle and true. It was nice. Castiel hoped that he would smile like that more often. He knew that Dean didn’t often have enough reason for it, though. That was sad.
“Okay, good. Let’s get you back over to the table now, all right? Sam made you some oatmeal.” Dean made a silly face at that, scrunching up his nose and pursing his lips. “I know, I know, it sucks, but we gotta humor the guy, or he’ll get all upset and mope around the room like a little black rain cloud. Trust me, you do not want a Sammy-cloud raining on you.”
Castiel giggled at this ridiculous image, and sneaked a peek over at Sam, who was also making a face at his brother’s antics. He didn’t look upset, though, just a little irritated. This was normal, Castiel knew. Sam and Dean irritated each other all the time. They didn’t mean anything by it.
Dean picked him up and carried him over to the table as if he weighed nothing at all, then set him down in a wooden chair, a bowl of something thick and steaming directly in front of him. The brothers sat on either side of him, a strange little semi-circle almost like some kind of broken, half-made family.
Sam put a spoon in his hand. “Eat slowly,” the younger Winchester cautioned. “Stop when you’re full. Your stomach probably can’t take very much right now.”
Castiel leaned forward, face over the bowl so he could smell the new aroma and study the lumpy, glistening texture. It was a good smell, wholesome. His mouth flooded with moisture. He wanted to take more time to appreciate the new experience, but he really was hungry, and it smelled wonderful.
Negotiating the use of a spoon was also new, but hunger was a strong motivator. He figured out how to hold the utensil in one small fist, the big end outward, and then which side should be pointed up in order to hold food. The first bite of oatmeal was fantastic, and the taste blocked out everything else.
Castiel closed his eyes and squished it around in his mouth, savoring it. The goodness of grain, strong and nourishing, a slight bite of salt and the softening of sugar, the faintest hint of some kind of spice. Even without Sam’s warning, he still would have eaten it slowly, savoring every sensation. He knew Dean thought this food was plain, uninteresting, but Castiel felt it to be one of the most beautiful things that had ever happened to him.
He was aware of Dean and Sam both watching him with careful regard, but it was a gentle attention, concerned only for his well-being, and he felt no self-consciousness. Sam had prepared this meal with such care, so aware of the fragility of this little body, and Dean had watched over his sleep, a steadfast guardian. He could not feel anything but safe with their eyes on him.
As Sam had predicted, less than half of the bowl was enough to fill him, and Castiel set down the spoon and carefully pushed the food to the middle of the table. He felt better already, the nausea gone, the dizziness receding. So strange, that such a simple thing could bring so much comfort and strength to the human body. He patted his belly tenderly, amazed that the small amount of food taken inside could make such a difference.
“Castiel…” Sam’s voice was gentle, cautious. Castiel looked up to meet his eyes and nodded, letting him know that he was listening, ready to respond if he could. “There are more things we need to know. Can you answer some questions?”
Castiel thought back, searching for the word Dean had given him last time. “Try,” he answered. The concepts still existed in his mind, some knowledge and comprehension, but few memories remained, and trying to shape what he did understand into human phonemes required great effort.
Dean nodded, accepting this answer for the promise it was. “We need to know if you’re tapping into angel radio, the way Anna was. Are you hearing voices in your head? Do you know what’s going on out there?”
Castiel turned inward, listening. Sometimes the inside of his head was all roaring and noise, confusion and pressure that was almost pain, but the only voice was his. He searched to the corners of his awareness, just to be sure. It took some time, and he was aware of Dean and Sam waiting patiently, watching.
At last he pulled back, drawing his sight back to the outside world, and shook his head, slowly and certainly. “Me. Only me.”
The Winchesters exchanged a significant look, but Castiel didn’t waste any effort trying to decipher what it meant. They often communicated just with a look, a small movement. It meant that they were together, standing in solidarity, and that was a good thing. Castiel stared at the pattern of the wood grain on the warped table, watching the way it swirled and eddied, following it with his eyes. It was beautiful, warm and brown.
“Do you know what caused this?” Sam asked. “Do you remember how you were changed into a human?”
A sharp stab of fear pushed through Castiel like a lance, and he gasped, shocked by the strength of it. Also a new thing, terror, and far less pleasant than the taste of oatmeal, the bright light of Dean’s true smile. His hand flew to his chest, pressing as if to hold it all in. It was all the worse for not knowing the reason for it. He couldn’t tell why he was afraid, why this question aroused such unthinking fear. He only knew that he was frightened, to the point that it was almost a physical thing, squeezing his lungs in iron fingers.
Again he felt large hands on his shoulders, warm and strong, anchoring and sheltering. It was different this time, though-the hands didn’t feel the same. Castiel blinked past the white spots in his vision and raised his head, feeling the fright recede. He saw that it was both of them, this time-Dean’s hand on his right shoulder, Sam’s on his left. Their faces were the same in worry, green-brown eyes wide and liquid with regret.
“That looked like a flashback,” Sam said softly, the words not really meant for Castiel.
Dean nodded. “Sorry, Cas. We didn’t mean to hurt you. You just hold on to that for now, all right? If you figure it out, though, please let us know.”
Castiel nodded and closed his eyes, still pressing a hand to his chest, feeling his breath rush in and out in ragged swoops. Some part of him was aware that this was not a good thing at all. He chose not to feel that, chose instead to concentrate only on the hands that held his shoulders, the protection and warmth and care.
It felt a little bit like love, human, passionate and bright-burning, a miniature sun. That was new, too.
Part 5
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Crackiness, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them-they can’t quite tell.
Word Count: 2182
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Wow, I am up waaaaay too late, trying to finish this chappie before I leave. Let me know if you see typos.
1 | 2 | 3
4
His vision was cloudy, fogged, chased by streaks of gray and black, midnight on the sharp edge of infinity. Clearest in his sight were eyes: red, black, yellow, white. The colors of bloodshed, pain, death, blindness and false life. “Run home to Daddy,” whispered the sibilant voice of a serpent. Longing, yearning, wondering.
Tearing, shredding, pieces of soul flaking off at the edges. The pain of being unmade, his essence unraveling in milky spools, tattered and torn, spiraling away into the darkness. Agony incomparable, unknowable, spiritual force being ground into nothingness.
He had a mission. This Castiel grasped with the last of his fading strength. The mission, the quest, the lost children traveling alone the dusty roads of earth, bewildered yet undefeated, finding power in each other’s presence. He could not abandon them.
Before the last of his essence could fall away, subsumed in the inky black, Castiel ripped off an infinitesimal bit of power and cradled it to his heart, a single grain of sand in a vast ocean of despair, shielded and shining. It was enough to hold onto a single thought, a single purpose, a single piece of knowledge. Dean Winchester and his current location, all he could grasp, just enough to carry him through.
Dean Winchester. Find Dean Winchester.
That was what carried him through the white-hot pain, all the way to the other side. That was what kept him from letting himself dwindle into nothing, prevented destruction pure and absolute. Just a tiny golden spark against the endless black, constantly threatened with complete annihilation, but he gripped it tight in his fist and carried it through to the light of morning, when he woke on the side of a road in the body and mind of a child. Everything else was gone, far beyond the finding, but this he held.
This started him walking, kept him on his feet. Through all the confusion, the fear, the bright lights and loud noises and foul smells and endless strangeness of the material world, the sharpness of the wind on his skin and the bite of rock against his frail human feet. This and only this.
Find Dean. Get to Dean.
It was enough. Only barely, but it was enough.
X
“Hey, hey, hey. Castiel, hey, little buddy, it’s a dream, it’s just a dream. Hey, Cas. C’mon, kiddo, wake up now. Just a dream. It’s a dream. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
The voice was deep and familiar, well-known, though the tone was a new one. Castiel was sure that he had never heard this human speak so gently before. Not to him, anyway. He opened his eyes and discovered that he was struggling to breathe, fragile limbs flailing without coordination, sweat stinging his eyes. Dean Winchester knelt over him, face wrinkled in concern, large hands gripping Castiel’s shoulders.
There was a time when Dean had not been quite so large in his sight. The thought was fleeting, though, fading as the dream already was. Castiel knew abstractly that his new mind was simply incapable of comprehending what this meant, and he let it go without struggling. It was easier to just be who and what he was, which at this time was a human child.
A human child who was terribly afraid of something in the shadows, who trusted Dean Winchester with absolute conviction, and who, in this moment, was desperately in need of comfort.
Without hesitation, he lunged up off the couch and threw himself into Dean’s startled arms, latching on and clinging with all the strength he had in him, slender as it was. Also without hesitation, Dean’s arms circled around him, thick and strong, a shelter from the darkest storms. Castiel felt himself lifted and surrounded, completely covered, protected, and the last of the terrifying images began to drift away.
Before long, he believed Dean’s soft, continued murmur, warm in his ear. Only a dream. It was only a dream. The belief came easily, and true, restful sleep followed soon after.
X
When Castiel woke again, it was to the feeling of hunger, a strange weakness that dragged at his limbs and sent swirls of nausea through his abdomen. He didn’t remember feeling it before, walking the roads, but his mind had been focused on a single distant point for the entirety of that long, weary journey. Now, he marveled at the sensation, this human thing, the need for material substance to sustain a material body.
“Castiel? You awake?”
Castiel lifted his head from the firm warmth that pillowed it, only then aware that he had been resting with his cheek on someone’s leg. It was not uncomfortable. He pushed his body up on elbows, hands, then felt himself sway, a sudden rush of dizziness bending his vision, ducking his head. Big, gentle hands closed around his shoulders and held him up, and he shut his eyes and breathed through the sickness, the ache of it.
“Hey, hey. You all right?”
He swallowed and nodded, then opened his eyes. His tunneled vision was filled with the concerned face of Dean Winchester. “Hurt,” he said softly.
Another strange thing, the pitch of his voice, the smallness of it. Castiel tilted his head slightly, listening to himself. He wished he could talk more, so he could hear that strange voice for a little longer. So odd and new and interesting.
“Stomach hurts, huh? That’s called hunger, kiddo. It means you need to eat. You’re gonna have to get used to this stuff. When you feel pain, that usually means you need to change something. I know it’s weird, but that’s what being human is like.”
Castiel nodded again, slowly. This was good information. He would try to hold on to it.
“Right now, though, me and Sam will take care of you, okay? Let us know when something hurts, and we’ll try to make it better. You hear me, buddy?”
It took a few seconds, but Castiel found the word, figured out how to shape it. “Okay.”
Dean smiled, a real one, gentle and true. It was nice. Castiel hoped that he would smile like that more often. He knew that Dean didn’t often have enough reason for it, though. That was sad.
“Okay, good. Let’s get you back over to the table now, all right? Sam made you some oatmeal.” Dean made a silly face at that, scrunching up his nose and pursing his lips. “I know, I know, it sucks, but we gotta humor the guy, or he’ll get all upset and mope around the room like a little black rain cloud. Trust me, you do not want a Sammy-cloud raining on you.”
Castiel giggled at this ridiculous image, and sneaked a peek over at Sam, who was also making a face at his brother’s antics. He didn’t look upset, though, just a little irritated. This was normal, Castiel knew. Sam and Dean irritated each other all the time. They didn’t mean anything by it.
Dean picked him up and carried him over to the table as if he weighed nothing at all, then set him down in a wooden chair, a bowl of something thick and steaming directly in front of him. The brothers sat on either side of him, a strange little semi-circle almost like some kind of broken, half-made family.
Sam put a spoon in his hand. “Eat slowly,” the younger Winchester cautioned. “Stop when you’re full. Your stomach probably can’t take very much right now.”
Castiel leaned forward, face over the bowl so he could smell the new aroma and study the lumpy, glistening texture. It was a good smell, wholesome. His mouth flooded with moisture. He wanted to take more time to appreciate the new experience, but he really was hungry, and it smelled wonderful.
Negotiating the use of a spoon was also new, but hunger was a strong motivator. He figured out how to hold the utensil in one small fist, the big end outward, and then which side should be pointed up in order to hold food. The first bite of oatmeal was fantastic, and the taste blocked out everything else.
Castiel closed his eyes and squished it around in his mouth, savoring it. The goodness of grain, strong and nourishing, a slight bite of salt and the softening of sugar, the faintest hint of some kind of spice. Even without Sam’s warning, he still would have eaten it slowly, savoring every sensation. He knew Dean thought this food was plain, uninteresting, but Castiel felt it to be one of the most beautiful things that had ever happened to him.
He was aware of Dean and Sam both watching him with careful regard, but it was a gentle attention, concerned only for his well-being, and he felt no self-consciousness. Sam had prepared this meal with such care, so aware of the fragility of this little body, and Dean had watched over his sleep, a steadfast guardian. He could not feel anything but safe with their eyes on him.
As Sam had predicted, less than half of the bowl was enough to fill him, and Castiel set down the spoon and carefully pushed the food to the middle of the table. He felt better already, the nausea gone, the dizziness receding. So strange, that such a simple thing could bring so much comfort and strength to the human body. He patted his belly tenderly, amazed that the small amount of food taken inside could make such a difference.
“Castiel…” Sam’s voice was gentle, cautious. Castiel looked up to meet his eyes and nodded, letting him know that he was listening, ready to respond if he could. “There are more things we need to know. Can you answer some questions?”
Castiel thought back, searching for the word Dean had given him last time. “Try,” he answered. The concepts still existed in his mind, some knowledge and comprehension, but few memories remained, and trying to shape what he did understand into human phonemes required great effort.
Dean nodded, accepting this answer for the promise it was. “We need to know if you’re tapping into angel radio, the way Anna was. Are you hearing voices in your head? Do you know what’s going on out there?”
Castiel turned inward, listening. Sometimes the inside of his head was all roaring and noise, confusion and pressure that was almost pain, but the only voice was his. He searched to the corners of his awareness, just to be sure. It took some time, and he was aware of Dean and Sam waiting patiently, watching.
At last he pulled back, drawing his sight back to the outside world, and shook his head, slowly and certainly. “Me. Only me.”
The Winchesters exchanged a significant look, but Castiel didn’t waste any effort trying to decipher what it meant. They often communicated just with a look, a small movement. It meant that they were together, standing in solidarity, and that was a good thing. Castiel stared at the pattern of the wood grain on the warped table, watching the way it swirled and eddied, following it with his eyes. It was beautiful, warm and brown.
“Do you know what caused this?” Sam asked. “Do you remember how you were changed into a human?”
A sharp stab of fear pushed through Castiel like a lance, and he gasped, shocked by the strength of it. Also a new thing, terror, and far less pleasant than the taste of oatmeal, the bright light of Dean’s true smile. His hand flew to his chest, pressing as if to hold it all in. It was all the worse for not knowing the reason for it. He couldn’t tell why he was afraid, why this question aroused such unthinking fear. He only knew that he was frightened, to the point that it was almost a physical thing, squeezing his lungs in iron fingers.
Again he felt large hands on his shoulders, warm and strong, anchoring and sheltering. It was different this time, though-the hands didn’t feel the same. Castiel blinked past the white spots in his vision and raised his head, feeling the fright recede. He saw that it was both of them, this time-Dean’s hand on his right shoulder, Sam’s on his left. Their faces were the same in worry, green-brown eyes wide and liquid with regret.
“That looked like a flashback,” Sam said softly, the words not really meant for Castiel.
Dean nodded. “Sorry, Cas. We didn’t mean to hurt you. You just hold on to that for now, all right? If you figure it out, though, please let us know.”
Castiel nodded and closed his eyes, still pressing a hand to his chest, feeling his breath rush in and out in ragged swoops. Some part of him was aware that this was not a good thing at all. He chose not to feel that, chose instead to concentrate only on the hands that held his shoulders, the protection and warmth and care.
It felt a little bit like love, human, passionate and bright-burning, a miniature sun. That was new, too.
Part 5