Entertaining Angels (10/?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, 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: 1696
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: So I guess I need at least twenty-four hours between writing each chapter to recharge. NOW I KNOW. (And knowing is half the battle.)
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
10
In the dreams, he always said No.
It didn’t matter how they tore and cut him. It didn’t matter what visions they showed him, what faces they wore, what relief they offered. He knew the price and he refused to pay it. He said No.
There was blood, and pain, and fire. Claws, knives, whips, instruments that had long been extinct on earth, many more that had never existed on earth. Bloody smiles stretched long beneath black eyes, grotesque twisted flesh and sublimely beautiful visages smiling beatifically as blood arced and spattered in artistic flights. They did their worst and he screamed, of course he did, he writhed helplessly and screamed until his voice gave out, and he suffered and suffered and suffered. But when the question came, he always said No.
He retained that last fragment of self. He did not let them transform him. He stayed a Winchester, stayed a man, incapable of saving people and hunting things, but at least able to say that he had not done another soul harm. He said No and he said No and he did not become a demon.
Then he woke and remembered, and his mind was filled with only one word.
No. No. No. No. No. Please, God, no.
His mind echoed with that one syllable until the word became meaningless and all he could do was seek escape. Because there was one time when he didn’t say No, and that one time had negated all the rest and made them meaningless.
X
Dean woke with a whimper and a gasp, instantly stifled, instantly ashamed. Such a weakling-such a coward. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look, feeling the ridges of the cot digging into his back through the thin mattress. He pushed back, seeking the pressure, the discomfort.
Only then did he became aware of the fact that his head was being cradled, and soft fingers were stroking his forehead. He forced his eyes open then, heart in his throat, hoping that it wasn’t what he suspected. Castiel’s solemn little face bent over his, golden light from the half-open bathroom door bathing his face in a smooth radiance. He had climbed up on the cot and pulled Dean’s head into his lap, and now he was trying to comfort him.
God. Dean didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve any of this. Not only had an angel saved him from Hell, but the same one had come to him as a child, entrusted himself to Dean’s tainted care. It was too much, too strange, too great a gift.
He couldn’t let the boy see that, though. Castiel had made his choice, as ill-advised as it was. Dean couldn’t scare him, couldn’t let him see just how terrified he was, how certain he was to screw this up. He’d already let Sam down in the worst way possible. He couldn’t do the same to this innocent child.
“Hey, Cas,” he said thickly, throat tight around remembered screams. “Sam still out with Ruby?”
The boy nodded, running his fingers over Dean’s forehead, into his hair, over and over.
“You should go back to bed, buddy. Did you have another nightmare?”
He tilted his head slightly, still staring into Dean’s face. He had yet to blink. “You. You hurt.”
Dean sighed and let his eyes fall shut, unable to look at that earnest expression, to meet those compassionate eyes. “I’m fine.”
“No.” Castiel’s hand paused on his head, pressing down. “No, Dean.”
Frustration in the young voice, and Dean opened his eyes again, regretful for bringing this to his little friend. “You should go back to bed,” was all he could say.
“Sad.” Cas pressed his other hand to his chest, his face twisting up with this feeling, new to him. It must have been so strange, so overpowering. Dean’s heart fluttered in his chest, pained that the boy had to experience this, too.
“Sad,” the kid said again. Then he placed that hand on Dean’s cheek. “You.”
“Yeah, kiddo. We are. We’re a couple of the saddest sacks in the world.”
“No.” Again the frustration. He went through it again, placing his hand against his chest, then on Dean’s face. “Sad. You. Sad.”
A huge lump materialized in Dean’s throat, and he swallowed painfully, barely able to speak around it. “Oh. Sad for me. You’re sad for me.”
Castiel nodded, tears glistening in the yellow light. Dean surged up to a sitting position, careful not to smack their heads together on the way up, then turned and pulled the kid into his lap, hugging him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re sad.”
The boy squirmed in his hold, and Dean, shocked, immediately let go. But Castiel only pulled back enough so that he could look up into Dean’s face, still leaning against him. His scowl managed to be both prodigious and adorable, and he bounced a small fist off the man’s chest. “Dean! Listen.”
Dean blinked, but answered with due haste. “Okay, okay. I’m listening. What do you have to say to me?”
The kid sighed, small shoulders slumping, and he raised one hand to press his heel against his temple, face long and mournful. “Here. Many.” Then he touched his fingers to his mouth. “This hard.”
Dean’s eyes widened, understanding dawning. “You have many thoughts in your head, but saying them is hard.”
Castiel nodded and let his head rest on Dean’s shoulder.
“Okay. I’ll do my best to translate. You’re doing great, really. We can work on verbs and prepositions later.”
The boy paused, gathering himself. Then he laid a hand flat against Dean’s chest. “Sad okay.”
“It’s…it’s okay to be sad?”
A small nod, and he pressed his hand in a little harder. “Anger not.”
“It’s not okay to be angry.”
“You.” He looked up, grimacing, eyes narrowed, determined to make this clear. “You. Anger not.”
“It’s not okay to be angry at myself?”
“Yes.” Castiel fluttered his hand in the air, moving sideways, indicating something else. “You. Bad….things. Bad things.”
“Bad things happened to me.”
“Yes. Sad okay.” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “I…” Again he stopped, trying to pull it in, drag it out, make it clear, trying to find the words to express himself. “I remember. Dean. I remember.”
All of the air deserted Dean, rushing out of his lungs as if he’d been thumped against a wall by the most powerful poltergeist in the world, though the blow was purely mental. His eyes were so wide they hurt, and his mind was full of white sparks. “You…”
When he could breathe again, he grabbed Castiel’s shoulders, fingers shaking, and pulled him around so he could look in the little face. “You remember getting me out of Hell? You remember that? God, Castiel, I can’t…”
The boy grimaced, again struggling for words. “Not…clear. Not all. You. Remember you. Sad. Hurt. Good. Good, Dean. Good.” His hands reached back, clenching in the fabric over Dean’s chest, pulling and twisting, doing everything he could to make Dean understand. “Good. Good. You. Good.”
The kid was crying now, tears falling down his cheeks one after another, eyes scrunched up, turning red, and Dean… Dean couldn’t handle that. He couldn’t.
He pulled the boy to his chest again, holding him close, bending his head to press kiss after kiss into the dark, unruly hair, rocking them where they sat. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Castiel, I get it, you said it, I understand what you said. Shh, buddy, don’t cry. It’s okay. You did good. You told me what you wanted to say. I understand you. Shhh. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad for me. I’m okay. You saved me. Remember? You saved me. Everything’s okay now. I’m okay.”
Dean said everything he could to comfort the boy, to convince him that he’d done right, that things were okay. But he couldn’t say he believed him. He couldn’t say that he believed what Castiel said, that he believed he was good, that he deserved to be saved, deserved any of this. It would be a lie. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he would never lie to this kid. So he said other things, hoping that they would be enough.
Castiel eventually cried himself out and just leaned limply on Dean, breathing hard with only the occasional hiccup. Dean held him close, unutterably sorry that he had been cause of such pain, such sorrow. Being human sucked sometimes.
The boy burrowed his head into Dean’s shoulder, then flopped an arm up, pointing at the bed he had abandoned. “Sleep now.”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, that sounds like a great idea.”
“Come, Dean. Sleep.”
“You want me to stay with you?”
“Yes.” Castiel leaned over, pushing a hand disdainfully into the thin mattress under them. “This bad.”
A laugh bubbled out of Dean, soft but genuine. “Yeah, it’s bad. That we can agree on.”
The boy sighed, exasperated with Dean’s stalling. “Sleep now.”
“Okay, okay. I gotcha.”
He carried Castiel over to the bed and got them settled just in time for his brother to come back. Sam shut the door behind him quietly, yawning and fumbling around in the half-light without turning on a lamp, trying not to wake them. He had a hex bag in his hand and a wearily triumphant look on his face.
“Dude,” Dean said. “We’re awake. Don’t kill yourself trying to go to bed.”
Sam turned to face him, grinning in the dimness. “Hey, Dean. Knew you wouldn’t bother with the cot. You and Castiel gotta take care of each other.”
“Yeah.” Dean didn’t bother to tell him that he’d tried the cot and found it a less-than-ideal arrangement. The big dork was already smug enough. Castiel sniffled and hid his face against Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, we take care of each other. Go lie down before you fall down, bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Sam paused long enough to set the hex bag on the nightstand between them, and then he did what Dean told him, only taking long enough to kick off his shoes. He was snoring almost before his head hit the pillow.
Dean and Castiel followed him soon enough.
Part 11
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, 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: 1696
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: So I guess I need at least twenty-four hours between writing each chapter to recharge. NOW I KNOW. (And knowing is half the battle.)
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
10
In the dreams, he always said No.
It didn’t matter how they tore and cut him. It didn’t matter what visions they showed him, what faces they wore, what relief they offered. He knew the price and he refused to pay it. He said No.
There was blood, and pain, and fire. Claws, knives, whips, instruments that had long been extinct on earth, many more that had never existed on earth. Bloody smiles stretched long beneath black eyes, grotesque twisted flesh and sublimely beautiful visages smiling beatifically as blood arced and spattered in artistic flights. They did their worst and he screamed, of course he did, he writhed helplessly and screamed until his voice gave out, and he suffered and suffered and suffered. But when the question came, he always said No.
He retained that last fragment of self. He did not let them transform him. He stayed a Winchester, stayed a man, incapable of saving people and hunting things, but at least able to say that he had not done another soul harm. He said No and he said No and he did not become a demon.
Then he woke and remembered, and his mind was filled with only one word.
No. No. No. No. No. Please, God, no.
His mind echoed with that one syllable until the word became meaningless and all he could do was seek escape. Because there was one time when he didn’t say No, and that one time had negated all the rest and made them meaningless.
X
Dean woke with a whimper and a gasp, instantly stifled, instantly ashamed. Such a weakling-such a coward. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look, feeling the ridges of the cot digging into his back through the thin mattress. He pushed back, seeking the pressure, the discomfort.
Only then did he became aware of the fact that his head was being cradled, and soft fingers were stroking his forehead. He forced his eyes open then, heart in his throat, hoping that it wasn’t what he suspected. Castiel’s solemn little face bent over his, golden light from the half-open bathroom door bathing his face in a smooth radiance. He had climbed up on the cot and pulled Dean’s head into his lap, and now he was trying to comfort him.
God. Dean didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve any of this. Not only had an angel saved him from Hell, but the same one had come to him as a child, entrusted himself to Dean’s tainted care. It was too much, too strange, too great a gift.
He couldn’t let the boy see that, though. Castiel had made his choice, as ill-advised as it was. Dean couldn’t scare him, couldn’t let him see just how terrified he was, how certain he was to screw this up. He’d already let Sam down in the worst way possible. He couldn’t do the same to this innocent child.
“Hey, Cas,” he said thickly, throat tight around remembered screams. “Sam still out with Ruby?”
The boy nodded, running his fingers over Dean’s forehead, into his hair, over and over.
“You should go back to bed, buddy. Did you have another nightmare?”
He tilted his head slightly, still staring into Dean’s face. He had yet to blink. “You. You hurt.”
Dean sighed and let his eyes fall shut, unable to look at that earnest expression, to meet those compassionate eyes. “I’m fine.”
“No.” Castiel’s hand paused on his head, pressing down. “No, Dean.”
Frustration in the young voice, and Dean opened his eyes again, regretful for bringing this to his little friend. “You should go back to bed,” was all he could say.
“Sad.” Cas pressed his other hand to his chest, his face twisting up with this feeling, new to him. It must have been so strange, so overpowering. Dean’s heart fluttered in his chest, pained that the boy had to experience this, too.
“Sad,” the kid said again. Then he placed that hand on Dean’s cheek. “You.”
“Yeah, kiddo. We are. We’re a couple of the saddest sacks in the world.”
“No.” Again the frustration. He went through it again, placing his hand against his chest, then on Dean’s face. “Sad. You. Sad.”
A huge lump materialized in Dean’s throat, and he swallowed painfully, barely able to speak around it. “Oh. Sad for me. You’re sad for me.”
Castiel nodded, tears glistening in the yellow light. Dean surged up to a sitting position, careful not to smack their heads together on the way up, then turned and pulled the kid into his lap, hugging him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re sad.”
The boy squirmed in his hold, and Dean, shocked, immediately let go. But Castiel only pulled back enough so that he could look up into Dean’s face, still leaning against him. His scowl managed to be both prodigious and adorable, and he bounced a small fist off the man’s chest. “Dean! Listen.”
Dean blinked, but answered with due haste. “Okay, okay. I’m listening. What do you have to say to me?”
The kid sighed, small shoulders slumping, and he raised one hand to press his heel against his temple, face long and mournful. “Here. Many.” Then he touched his fingers to his mouth. “This hard.”
Dean’s eyes widened, understanding dawning. “You have many thoughts in your head, but saying them is hard.”
Castiel nodded and let his head rest on Dean’s shoulder.
“Okay. I’ll do my best to translate. You’re doing great, really. We can work on verbs and prepositions later.”
The boy paused, gathering himself. Then he laid a hand flat against Dean’s chest. “Sad okay.”
“It’s…it’s okay to be sad?”
A small nod, and he pressed his hand in a little harder. “Anger not.”
“It’s not okay to be angry.”
“You.” He looked up, grimacing, eyes narrowed, determined to make this clear. “You. Anger not.”
“It’s not okay to be angry at myself?”
“Yes.” Castiel fluttered his hand in the air, moving sideways, indicating something else. “You. Bad….things. Bad things.”
“Bad things happened to me.”
“Yes. Sad okay.” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “I…” Again he stopped, trying to pull it in, drag it out, make it clear, trying to find the words to express himself. “I remember. Dean. I remember.”
All of the air deserted Dean, rushing out of his lungs as if he’d been thumped against a wall by the most powerful poltergeist in the world, though the blow was purely mental. His eyes were so wide they hurt, and his mind was full of white sparks. “You…”
When he could breathe again, he grabbed Castiel’s shoulders, fingers shaking, and pulled him around so he could look in the little face. “You remember getting me out of Hell? You remember that? God, Castiel, I can’t…”
The boy grimaced, again struggling for words. “Not…clear. Not all. You. Remember you. Sad. Hurt. Good. Good, Dean. Good.” His hands reached back, clenching in the fabric over Dean’s chest, pulling and twisting, doing everything he could to make Dean understand. “Good. Good. You. Good.”
The kid was crying now, tears falling down his cheeks one after another, eyes scrunched up, turning red, and Dean… Dean couldn’t handle that. He couldn’t.
He pulled the boy to his chest again, holding him close, bending his head to press kiss after kiss into the dark, unruly hair, rocking them where they sat. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Castiel, I get it, you said it, I understand what you said. Shh, buddy, don’t cry. It’s okay. You did good. You told me what you wanted to say. I understand you. Shhh. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad for me. I’m okay. You saved me. Remember? You saved me. Everything’s okay now. I’m okay.”
Dean said everything he could to comfort the boy, to convince him that he’d done right, that things were okay. But he couldn’t say he believed him. He couldn’t say that he believed what Castiel said, that he believed he was good, that he deserved to be saved, deserved any of this. It would be a lie. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he would never lie to this kid. So he said other things, hoping that they would be enough.
Castiel eventually cried himself out and just leaned limply on Dean, breathing hard with only the occasional hiccup. Dean held him close, unutterably sorry that he had been cause of such pain, such sorrow. Being human sucked sometimes.
The boy burrowed his head into Dean’s shoulder, then flopped an arm up, pointing at the bed he had abandoned. “Sleep now.”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, that sounds like a great idea.”
“Come, Dean. Sleep.”
“You want me to stay with you?”
“Yes.” Castiel leaned over, pushing a hand disdainfully into the thin mattress under them. “This bad.”
A laugh bubbled out of Dean, soft but genuine. “Yeah, it’s bad. That we can agree on.”
The boy sighed, exasperated with Dean’s stalling. “Sleep now.”
“Okay, okay. I gotcha.”
He carried Castiel over to the bed and got them settled just in time for his brother to come back. Sam shut the door behind him quietly, yawning and fumbling around in the half-light without turning on a lamp, trying not to wake them. He had a hex bag in his hand and a wearily triumphant look on his face.
“Dude,” Dean said. “We’re awake. Don’t kill yourself trying to go to bed.”
Sam turned to face him, grinning in the dimness. “Hey, Dean. Knew you wouldn’t bother with the cot. You and Castiel gotta take care of each other.”
“Yeah.” Dean didn’t bother to tell him that he’d tried the cot and found it a less-than-ideal arrangement. The big dork was already smug enough. Castiel sniffled and hid his face against Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, we take care of each other. Go lie down before you fall down, bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Sam paused long enough to set the hex bag on the nightstand between them, and then he did what Dean told him, only taking long enough to kick off his shoes. He was snoring almost before his head hit the pillow.
Dean and Castiel followed him soon enough.
Part 11