Entertaining Angels (16/?)
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: 1848
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.
Author's Note: Fanart and soundtrack (pretty much good now).
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
16
Sam opened his eyes and drew back, trembling in every limb. He stared at his hand, still covering Castiel’s small fingers on Dean’s arm, still buried under Missouri’s strong palms. The world seemed to be tilting on an axis that he hadn’t known was there, swaying gently to and fro, but he was not at the mercy of this motion-he was the cause.
“Oh, Lordy Lordy.” Missouri’s voice, a soft, unbelieving moan. He looked over in time to see her blink and come back to herself, looking dazed, done in. “Lordy, Sam, what did you do?”
“I don’t know.” It was a whisper.
It was also a lie.
He looked back to Dean, waiting, breath caught in his throat. He thought he’d done a good job of untangling them all-threads of different sizes and weights and colors, mingling and wrapped in the dark storm of Castiel’s traumatic memories-but their eyes were still closed, his brother and their little friend. What if something had gone wrong, what if…
Then Dean drew in a shuddered gasp, eyelids fluttering open, arm tightening around the child even before he was fully conscious. Castiel surfaced a fraction of a second afterward, though he didn’t move even a hair’s-breadth, just lay there exhausted, blinking slowly at Sam, eyelashes brushing Dean’s fingers still cupped around his head.
“Tired,” he said.
“Yeah, I bet.” Dean’s voice was a weary croak.
All three of them were completely worn out, Dean, Castiel, Missouri. Sam felt his bones hum with energy. He felt afire.
Missouri pulled back her hands, breathing calm and slow. “Everyone all right?”
Of course they weren’t. None of them were remotely okay after that. Sam could see the shockiness threading in Dean’s breath, the way his throat worked. Not because of the psychic stuff-because of what he had heard in that last memory.
Sam supposed he was allowed, though. Anyone would be a little shocked by that kind of revelation, that kind of sacrifice and overwhelming devotion.
Dean had turned his attention to the little boy, though, shifting him into a more comfortable position against his chest. “You can sleep now, buddy. You did it. You showed us what we needed to see.”
Castiel nodded slowly, hands unwrapping from around Dean’s arm like static cling unpeeling from a window, reluctant. Sam removed his own hand just as grudgingly. The boy turned sideways against Dean, folding himself into the man’s lap, and closed his eyes. Missouri pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and laid it over the child, tucking it under his chin, around Dean’s elbow. She watched them for a bit, until it was clear that Castiel had dozed off, then gave Sam a wan smile and headed to the kitchen to check on dinner.
Dean looked at Sam, and Sam didn’t think he was imagining the pleading in his brother’s eyes. He needed someone to explain this to him, someone to make sense of it, because Dean still couldn’t believe it, still couldn’t understand. God, his brother was such an idiot sometimes.
Sam sighed, and laid it out, black and white. “He loves you, Dean. He told you, remember? He loves you now and maybe he loved you when he was an angel, too, in that whole mystical cosmic unconditional kind of way, like God supposedly loves people. He thinks you’re important and it’s his job to help you, no matter what it takes. And for Christ’s sake, you moron, I do too, and you know it, so don’t you dare look so surprised about this.”
“Um.”
Dean chewed on his lip. Sam waited, until it became clear that this was all he was going to get. Then he slapped Dean’s shoulder and stood up, heading for the door. “I’m gonna check the wards. Get some rest.”
Sam didn’t take the time to fetch his jacket. Minutes later, he found himself out in the yard, pacing. It took him a moment to realize that he was angry, so blindingly, incandescently angry that his breath shuddered with it. Angry at the hard, dirty world, at the rough-edged life and the imperfect father that had made Dean think he wasn’t worth saving, wasn’t worth loving. Angry at the God who had rewarded Castiel’s devotion to a lowly human by making him small and defenseless, then abandoned him two days’ walk from the person who could care for him. Angry at the brutal mob of demons that had forced Castiel, who only gave and gave and loved and loved, into that position in the first place.
Angry most of all at the stupid, vicious beast that had tracked them here, trapped them here, thirsting after the blood of a little child. He could feel it out there, patient and implacable, all made of smoke and scales and razor-sharp teeth. It knew where they were, it knew their scent, and it knew they would have to come out eventually. They didn’t even know what kind of creature it was, let alone how to kill it. Sam had seen the images Castiel had picked out of the mob, peering over his brother’s shoulder with eyes-that-weren’t-eyes, and none of them felt right, none of them a match for this malevolent presence.
He stalked to the edge of the circle’s ward, a tall man in a suburban yard in a calm suburban street on a chilly late autumn afternoon, shaking with fury and not with cold. He spread his arms, challenging, and roared.
“You can’t have him! He’s ours!”
The beast laughed. Sam felt it, a deep rumble through his gut. Every sinew hummed with power, gold as the streaked sky in Castiel’s mind. He had opened something up, letting himself let go like that, leaping in and taking his brother with him. It had been necessary, that was certain-by the time they arrived Castiel had been failing, pounded to the dirt by the force of the memories beating against his child’s mind, and Missouri had been unable to help him. But something was open now, a switch had been flipped, and Sam was thrumming, a power line full of live current.
He knew what this was. It was opportunity.
It wasn’t so very different than grabbing a demon and tearing it loose of its moorings. In fact, this was much easier, since there was no human to protect, to carefully untangle from the black influence. Sam simply grabbed it, one hand reaching out in a pale mimicry of what his mind was actually doing, a strongman’s shadow on the wall. And then he threw.
The next he knew, he was flat on his back in the frost-dry November grass, and Dean was bending over him, holding his head in both hands, shaking him a little bit. He noticed that Dean’s lips were moving, and then sound came back to the world like hitting the mute button on a remote.
“Sam, Sam! What the hell? What did you do?”
He had lied to Missouri. He wouldn’t lie to Dean, not again. He knew exactly what he’d done.
“Didn’t kill it,” he forced out through numb lips and tongue. They felt swollen, hard to move. “Got rid of it for awhile, but didn’t kill it. Be back. It’ll be back.”
The switch, whatever it was, had flipped closed again. Probably because he’d overloaded it. Sam ached everywhere. He reached up a shaky hand to touch his face, found the thick line of drying blood snaking across his cheek, from his nose to his ear, into the ground.
Dean’s laugh was broken, as shaky as Sam’s hand. “Thought you were gonna check the wards, man. Then I look out the window, see you on the ground…”
“Sorry.”
But he wasn’t, and they both knew it. A little growl puffed out of Dean, but he wrapped a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, the other around his shoulder, and hauled him up. Sam got his feet under him and pushed himself up, then stood swaying, leaning on Dean.
Dean was calling him every name he knew, every childish slur they had made up, kicking each other from opposite sides of the backseat, every adult insult they had hurled at each other in true anger. It was a low, continued mutter aimed somewhere around Sam’s shoulder. “Asshole, idiot, buttmunch, moron, dumbass, codflicker, dick…”
Sam patted his chest with a clumsy hand. “Relax, man. Ruby’s hex bag, remember? The angels don’t know I’m messing around with it again…”
“That’s no excuse!” Dean hauled him toward the house, steps sharp and hard with anxious frustration.
“I had to do it, Dean. Thing was after our kid. Can’t have that.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know it’s kind of weird to call him ‘our kid,’ right?”
“I told…I told…whatever it was. Can’t have him. He’s ours.”
Dean briefly squeezed Sam’s hand, flung over his supporting shoulder. “I know. I know, Sammy. You felt like you had to do it, whatever you did. But you always feel like you have to do it, and they keep telling you not to. I don’t know, dude. I just don’t know.”
“S’okay, dude.” As muzzy as he was, Sam remembered that it was his job to be reassuring, right now. Dean needed to know that Sam could take care of things while Dean was trying to find the ground again. It was all right with him-Sam didn’t mind doing it. “It’s okay, Dean. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
The words should have been empty, useless, but he felt Dean’s shoulders relaxing under his heavy arm, even so. Sam smiled dizzily, unutterably pleased with this. It was so, so good, being able to give back a little of what Dean had given him, over and over and over.
“Did it for you, too,” he murmured. “You too, man. Gotta keep your angel safe.”
They had reached the door. Dean wrestled it open and dragged him inside, then dumped him in one of Missouri’s easy chairs. Sam saw Castiel still sleeping peacefully on the couch, curled up under the afghan, though the blanket was rucked up and disarranged. Dean must have set him down quickly before rushing outside to get to Sam.
Now Dean took time to smooth the afghan, tucking it around the little feet and shoulders. Then he turned back to Sam, shoulders hunched up, looking oddly small and uncertain. “So what now, man? You got rid of it, but it’s still out there. It’s gonna come back.”
Sam blinked, and chuckled. This was so Dean’s line. His brother must be really, really tired, forgetting to say this himself. “We gotta kill it, of course. We find out what it is and how to kill it, and then we kill it. Remember the plan? It’s still good.”
Dean hesitated, and then his eyes slowly lit up, like sunrise over an ocean, deep and green and gold. “So…we go see Bobby?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go see Bobby.”
Dean’s grin was beautiful, and Sam didn’t feel stupid at all, thinking that. Dean’s grin was always beautiful.
Part 17
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: 1848
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.
Author's Note: Fanart and soundtrack (pretty much good now).
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
16
Sam opened his eyes and drew back, trembling in every limb. He stared at his hand, still covering Castiel’s small fingers on Dean’s arm, still buried under Missouri’s strong palms. The world seemed to be tilting on an axis that he hadn’t known was there, swaying gently to and fro, but he was not at the mercy of this motion-he was the cause.
“Oh, Lordy Lordy.” Missouri’s voice, a soft, unbelieving moan. He looked over in time to see her blink and come back to herself, looking dazed, done in. “Lordy, Sam, what did you do?”
“I don’t know.” It was a whisper.
It was also a lie.
He looked back to Dean, waiting, breath caught in his throat. He thought he’d done a good job of untangling them all-threads of different sizes and weights and colors, mingling and wrapped in the dark storm of Castiel’s traumatic memories-but their eyes were still closed, his brother and their little friend. What if something had gone wrong, what if…
Then Dean drew in a shuddered gasp, eyelids fluttering open, arm tightening around the child even before he was fully conscious. Castiel surfaced a fraction of a second afterward, though he didn’t move even a hair’s-breadth, just lay there exhausted, blinking slowly at Sam, eyelashes brushing Dean’s fingers still cupped around his head.
“Tired,” he said.
“Yeah, I bet.” Dean’s voice was a weary croak.
All three of them were completely worn out, Dean, Castiel, Missouri. Sam felt his bones hum with energy. He felt afire.
Missouri pulled back her hands, breathing calm and slow. “Everyone all right?”
Of course they weren’t. None of them were remotely okay after that. Sam could see the shockiness threading in Dean’s breath, the way his throat worked. Not because of the psychic stuff-because of what he had heard in that last memory.
Sam supposed he was allowed, though. Anyone would be a little shocked by that kind of revelation, that kind of sacrifice and overwhelming devotion.
Dean had turned his attention to the little boy, though, shifting him into a more comfortable position against his chest. “You can sleep now, buddy. You did it. You showed us what we needed to see.”
Castiel nodded slowly, hands unwrapping from around Dean’s arm like static cling unpeeling from a window, reluctant. Sam removed his own hand just as grudgingly. The boy turned sideways against Dean, folding himself into the man’s lap, and closed his eyes. Missouri pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and laid it over the child, tucking it under his chin, around Dean’s elbow. She watched them for a bit, until it was clear that Castiel had dozed off, then gave Sam a wan smile and headed to the kitchen to check on dinner.
Dean looked at Sam, and Sam didn’t think he was imagining the pleading in his brother’s eyes. He needed someone to explain this to him, someone to make sense of it, because Dean still couldn’t believe it, still couldn’t understand. God, his brother was such an idiot sometimes.
Sam sighed, and laid it out, black and white. “He loves you, Dean. He told you, remember? He loves you now and maybe he loved you when he was an angel, too, in that whole mystical cosmic unconditional kind of way, like God supposedly loves people. He thinks you’re important and it’s his job to help you, no matter what it takes. And for Christ’s sake, you moron, I do too, and you know it, so don’t you dare look so surprised about this.”
“Um.”
Dean chewed on his lip. Sam waited, until it became clear that this was all he was going to get. Then he slapped Dean’s shoulder and stood up, heading for the door. “I’m gonna check the wards. Get some rest.”
Sam didn’t take the time to fetch his jacket. Minutes later, he found himself out in the yard, pacing. It took him a moment to realize that he was angry, so blindingly, incandescently angry that his breath shuddered with it. Angry at the hard, dirty world, at the rough-edged life and the imperfect father that had made Dean think he wasn’t worth saving, wasn’t worth loving. Angry at the God who had rewarded Castiel’s devotion to a lowly human by making him small and defenseless, then abandoned him two days’ walk from the person who could care for him. Angry at the brutal mob of demons that had forced Castiel, who only gave and gave and loved and loved, into that position in the first place.
Angry most of all at the stupid, vicious beast that had tracked them here, trapped them here, thirsting after the blood of a little child. He could feel it out there, patient and implacable, all made of smoke and scales and razor-sharp teeth. It knew where they were, it knew their scent, and it knew they would have to come out eventually. They didn’t even know what kind of creature it was, let alone how to kill it. Sam had seen the images Castiel had picked out of the mob, peering over his brother’s shoulder with eyes-that-weren’t-eyes, and none of them felt right, none of them a match for this malevolent presence.
He stalked to the edge of the circle’s ward, a tall man in a suburban yard in a calm suburban street on a chilly late autumn afternoon, shaking with fury and not with cold. He spread his arms, challenging, and roared.
“You can’t have him! He’s ours!”
The beast laughed. Sam felt it, a deep rumble through his gut. Every sinew hummed with power, gold as the streaked sky in Castiel’s mind. He had opened something up, letting himself let go like that, leaping in and taking his brother with him. It had been necessary, that was certain-by the time they arrived Castiel had been failing, pounded to the dirt by the force of the memories beating against his child’s mind, and Missouri had been unable to help him. But something was open now, a switch had been flipped, and Sam was thrumming, a power line full of live current.
He knew what this was. It was opportunity.
It wasn’t so very different than grabbing a demon and tearing it loose of its moorings. In fact, this was much easier, since there was no human to protect, to carefully untangle from the black influence. Sam simply grabbed it, one hand reaching out in a pale mimicry of what his mind was actually doing, a strongman’s shadow on the wall. And then he threw.
The next he knew, he was flat on his back in the frost-dry November grass, and Dean was bending over him, holding his head in both hands, shaking him a little bit. He noticed that Dean’s lips were moving, and then sound came back to the world like hitting the mute button on a remote.
“Sam, Sam! What the hell? What did you do?”
He had lied to Missouri. He wouldn’t lie to Dean, not again. He knew exactly what he’d done.
“Didn’t kill it,” he forced out through numb lips and tongue. They felt swollen, hard to move. “Got rid of it for awhile, but didn’t kill it. Be back. It’ll be back.”
The switch, whatever it was, had flipped closed again. Probably because he’d overloaded it. Sam ached everywhere. He reached up a shaky hand to touch his face, found the thick line of drying blood snaking across his cheek, from his nose to his ear, into the ground.
Dean’s laugh was broken, as shaky as Sam’s hand. “Thought you were gonna check the wards, man. Then I look out the window, see you on the ground…”
“Sorry.”
But he wasn’t, and they both knew it. A little growl puffed out of Dean, but he wrapped a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, the other around his shoulder, and hauled him up. Sam got his feet under him and pushed himself up, then stood swaying, leaning on Dean.
Dean was calling him every name he knew, every childish slur they had made up, kicking each other from opposite sides of the backseat, every adult insult they had hurled at each other in true anger. It was a low, continued mutter aimed somewhere around Sam’s shoulder. “Asshole, idiot, buttmunch, moron, dumbass, codflicker, dick…”
Sam patted his chest with a clumsy hand. “Relax, man. Ruby’s hex bag, remember? The angels don’t know I’m messing around with it again…”
“That’s no excuse!” Dean hauled him toward the house, steps sharp and hard with anxious frustration.
“I had to do it, Dean. Thing was after our kid. Can’t have that.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know it’s kind of weird to call him ‘our kid,’ right?”
“I told…I told…whatever it was. Can’t have him. He’s ours.”
Dean briefly squeezed Sam’s hand, flung over his supporting shoulder. “I know. I know, Sammy. You felt like you had to do it, whatever you did. But you always feel like you have to do it, and they keep telling you not to. I don’t know, dude. I just don’t know.”
“S’okay, dude.” As muzzy as he was, Sam remembered that it was his job to be reassuring, right now. Dean needed to know that Sam could take care of things while Dean was trying to find the ground again. It was all right with him-Sam didn’t mind doing it. “It’s okay, Dean. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
The words should have been empty, useless, but he felt Dean’s shoulders relaxing under his heavy arm, even so. Sam smiled dizzily, unutterably pleased with this. It was so, so good, being able to give back a little of what Dean had given him, over and over and over.
“Did it for you, too,” he murmured. “You too, man. Gotta keep your angel safe.”
They had reached the door. Dean wrestled it open and dragged him inside, then dumped him in one of Missouri’s easy chairs. Sam saw Castiel still sleeping peacefully on the couch, curled up under the afghan, though the blanket was rucked up and disarranged. Dean must have set him down quickly before rushing outside to get to Sam.
Now Dean took time to smooth the afghan, tucking it around the little feet and shoulders. Then he turned back to Sam, shoulders hunched up, looking oddly small and uncertain. “So what now, man? You got rid of it, but it’s still out there. It’s gonna come back.”
Sam blinked, and chuckled. This was so Dean’s line. His brother must be really, really tired, forgetting to say this himself. “We gotta kill it, of course. We find out what it is and how to kill it, and then we kill it. Remember the plan? It’s still good.”
Dean hesitated, and then his eyes slowly lit up, like sunrise over an ocean, deep and green and gold. “So…we go see Bobby?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go see Bobby.”
Dean’s grin was beautiful, and Sam didn’t feel stupid at all, thinking that. Dean’s grin was always beautiful.
Part 17