Entertaining Angels (17/?)
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: 1874
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
But first, a note on the last chapter: Remember, shiny peeps, that this was from Sam’s perspective, and does not necessarily reflect the author’s views. So, for instance, it is Sam who feels like God abandoned Castiel, not necessarily me. And it is Sam who blames John for Dean’s lack of self-worth, not me. (Though I certainly don’t think John HELPED at all, but I’m more inclined to believe that it was a combination of factors, and yeah, this is totally a post for another day. Can we just agree that John was imperfect and leave it at that?) Also, no, this will not be Wincest. Sam was just feeling very fuzzy-headed and affectionate in that last bit.
Anyway. On with the story.
17
It was too bad they were all so tired during supper, because even Dean had to admit that the red beans and rice were pretty damn tasty, in a far too wholesome, plain-goodness kind of way. Sam was barely keeping his eyes open, Missouri’s chit-chat lacked spark, and poor Castiel didn’t seem to take to the food with his usual relish. He ate mechanically and quietly, sometimes pausing to sneeze or cough. He was getting a little better at remembering to use the handkerchief Dean had given him, though.
The brief nap between the psychic-mojo weirdness and dinner had obviously not been long enough. Castiel had the afghan from Missouri’s couch still wrapped around his shoulders, and he huddled under it, occasionally rubbing the dangly string fringe between thumb and forefinger. Somehow it only made him look smaller, wearier.
Dean was worn out, too-who knew that just sitting on a couch doing some mental calisthenics could be so utterly exhausting? But his leg was bouncing under the table, even so. They needed to get back on the road. Evening was coming outside, and it would be nice to stay the night here, get some rest, let the kid sleep in a house. But that thing was coming back, and Sam couldn’t give him a timeline on when, just that it would.
He was already going over maps in his head, the well-known route to Bobby’s. They could make it in five hours. Maybe less, if he pushed. Completely doable, even as tired as he was. He would get some gas station coffee, turn up the music…
No, scratch that. Music on low, let Cas and Sammy sleep.
Missouri sighed gustily, and he glanced over, automatically gritting his teeth as he waited for a scolding. But she just shook her head gently. “You be careful now, boy. I don’t want to be hearing about no car accident involving a classic Chevy somewhere in Nebraska. You hear me?”
He managed a smile. “I hear you.” Missouri meant well, even if she did think Dean was only a little better than something foul and stinking ground into the carpet.
She rolled her eyes. “Mercy, child, I do not. I think you need to watch your mouth more often and learn some manners, but you’re a fine young man for all that. Why do you go around always assuming the worst?”
Across the table, Sam blinked once, slowly. “Because he’s Dean,” he deadpanned. He was holding his head in that carefully still way that told Dean he had a monster headache, but he still found the energy to be a smartass.
Dean scowled and shoveled beans and rice into his mouth. They’d already had this conversation a bunch of times, and he didn’t want to have it again. He assumed the worst because that was always the safest way to go, always. Period. Full stop. The end.
He didn’t get proved wrong very often, either.
Castiel sneezed again, a short, weary kerschoo, quickly cut off, as if the poor kid didn’t have the energy even to clear his sinuses properly. Dean looked over at him, his expression instantly softening as he took in the young boy swaying in his seat, blinking dazedly at nothing, head nodding toward his plate. Yeah, so this one had proved him wrong. It was the exception that proved the rule, wasn’t it?
His hand darted over to splay across the kid’s chest just in time to keep him from toppling into his food. “Hey, kiddo. You done eating?”
Cas nodded, then yawned cavernously, rubbing his eye with one small fist, which was still holding a fork. A little spatter of red bean stuff landed on Dean’s arm, and he looked at it for a moment, then back to the boy. “Yeah, okay. You can sleep in the car, all right?”
Missouri wouldn’t let them leave without packing them a bunch of leftovers in an aluminum tray she produced from somewhere. Also cookies (some kind of puffy wheat-germ-oatmeal-honey things for Castiel, though Dean figured the poor kid had to be getting tired of oatmeal by now). And sandwiches. And the Children’s Tylenol and Vick’s VapoRub. And a bunch of juice boxes, which, okay, who knew that Kansas psychic ladies kept juice boxes in their pantry? But Castiel’s eyes lit up at those, and they were 100% juice and therefore good enough for Sam, so they took them.
When the boy seemed reluctant to give up the afghan, she insisted they take that, too. Dean protested-it looked like a nice blanket, one of those tapestry-like ones with pictures of various landmarks from around Lawrence-but she just said it was kitschy and she didn’t want it anyway. Then there were the hugs and the “Thanks for everything” and Sam’s sincere gratitude and Castiel’s lovely, sleepy smile, and Dean let her hug him, too, since she seemed to want to so bad.
All in all, they were pretty well supplied for a five-hour trip up through Nebraska to South Dakota.
X
Sam put his head against the window and fell asleep five minutes out of Lawrence. Castiel drank a juice box and gazed quietly out on fields of Kansas wheat as dusk gave way to twilight, staying awake long enough to see moonlight spill across the plains, then curled up under the afghan and followed him. Dean kept an eye on them both, playing AC/DC on low volume and humming silently, mouthing the words.
Castiel coughed even in his sleep, hoarse, exhausted-sounding rasps that shook his entire body, seeming ripped from his gut through his lungs. The Tylenol didn’t seem to be doing anything anymore, though initially the relief had been obvious. Dean was starting to think about doctors and antibiotics and ERs, and damn it, he wasn’t Sam. It was just the sniffles. It was going to clear up just fine.
Besides, they didn’t have any insurance for the boy. No birth certificate, no documentation. He was…Dean chuckled aloud at the thought. God, he was an illegal alien, straight from heaven to Midwest America with no stop at Ellis Island in between.
No, there was absolutely no use worrying about it. If it came to it they could stop at a clinic for a check-up, pay in cash, get a prescription and go on. None of this was going to mean a thing if they couldn’t take care of that demonic monster riding their ass, though.
So, yeah. Bobby first. Then the rest of this shit.
Heading north, nearing the border, a light dusting of snow whitened the world. Temperatures on bank signs in the small towns they passed through hovered at freezing and just below. Cold, but not too cold. Winter was coming in for a landing, but hadn’t settled down yet. Dean thought about stopping long enough to grab a handful of snow and stuff it down Sam’s shirt-it would be worth it to get a giggle out of Cas-but decided that it was more important to get to Bobby, who was well-warded and chock-full of juicy information.
About that time, he realized that Castiel wasn’t coughing anymore. Dean almost put his neck out jerking around to stare at him, but all he saw was a little tuft of dark, messy hair sticking out of the blanket-ball the boy had turned into. He watched long enough to catch the slight rise and fall of breathing, and then the wheels hit the rumble strip on the side of the road and he had to look forward, returning his attention to driving.
Sam startled when the Impala hit the rumble strip, rushing upward and blinking hard. “Wha’z that? Di’ we kill a lion?”
Dean almost choked on a guffaw. “No, man. We didn’t kill a lion.”
“It sounded like a lion. It was growling and…and shaking the car.”
“I promise you, not a lion. You ever heard of lions in Nebraska?”
Sam turned sideways in his seat to regard him seriously, his eyes wide and earnest and still partly asleep. “Anything could happen, Dean. It could have been a ghost lion.”
“Well, then, it would already be dead, wouldn’t it? Go back to sleep, dude. We’re still about half an hour from Bobby’s.”
Sam seemed to consider this carefully, then accepted Dean’s logic and rolled away to put his head back down on the window. “Okay. But drive safe, man. Don’t hit any lions.”
“No worries, Sammy. No killing the big kitty-cats.”
Sam’s answer was a snuffling wheeze, already fading off again. Dean smiled softly and watched the road, though he spared a few glances in the rear-view to make sure Cas was okay. All seemed well on that front, too.
Singer’s Salvage Yard had a little sprinkle of snow on all the wrecks, too, like powdered sugar on a pile of toys in a child’s messy room, strangely incongruous instead of really being pretty, despite the moonlight. It occurred to Dean, then, that they maybe could have called ahead, if only to make sure that he was back from the Dominican. But hey, Bobby was used to them showing up at weird times by now.
Dean just really hoped he was back.
A glimpse of the beat-up old truck parked next to the house had him slumping in relief. With a grateful sigh, Dean pulled the Impala up next to Bobby’s truck, and saw the porch light already flipping on, Bobby leaning across the window next to the door to peer out at them. He shook Sam’s shoulder enough to rouse him back to snorting, mumbling wakefulness, then went around the back to get Castiel.
“Hey, kiddo. Time to wake up. We’re here. Time to meet Uncle Bobby…”
His hand was still inches away from touching Castiel’s blanket-covered shoulder when he knew that something was very, very wrong. That was…that was heat he was feeling, radiating from the boy in torpid waves. He was laying too still, too quiet…
Abruptly shaking in terror, Dean ripped the blanket away, revealing the kid’s face, flushed and red, his mouth partly open. Dean’s knees went a little weak when he saw the small chest still rising and falling, and he caught himself on the door. Castiel winced minutely as the cold air from outside hit his face, but nothing else moved. Dean laid a hand on his chest, felt the shallow movement, the rattling inside. He shook him. Nothing happened.
Damn, damn, damn. Damn.
He was distantly aware of Sam’s voice behind him, sleepily explaining, Bobby’s incredulous baritone interrupting now and then. Dean was entirely preoccupied with wrapping Castiel up in the afghan, lifting him into his arms. The boy was utterly limp, dead weight, but still the lightest burden he’d ever carried.
He made his way to the porch, Cas a hot bundle clenched to his chest. His feet felt numb, wooden. Sam turned from his explanations to offer them a grin, his eyes more alert now. “Kid’s still sleeping, huh?”
Dean swallowed. He was looking at Bobby, he realized, instinctively expecting the older man to have the answer. Bobby always had the answer.
His own voice sounded so small, so frightened. Like a child himself. “I can’t wake him up.”
Part 18
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: 1874
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
But first, a note on the last chapter: Remember, shiny peeps, that this was from Sam’s perspective, and does not necessarily reflect the author’s views. So, for instance, it is Sam who feels like God abandoned Castiel, not necessarily me. And it is Sam who blames John for Dean’s lack of self-worth, not me. (Though I certainly don’t think John HELPED at all, but I’m more inclined to believe that it was a combination of factors, and yeah, this is totally a post for another day. Can we just agree that John was imperfect and leave it at that?) Also, no, this will not be Wincest. Sam was just feeling very fuzzy-headed and affectionate in that last bit.
Anyway. On with the story.
17
It was too bad they were all so tired during supper, because even Dean had to admit that the red beans and rice were pretty damn tasty, in a far too wholesome, plain-goodness kind of way. Sam was barely keeping his eyes open, Missouri’s chit-chat lacked spark, and poor Castiel didn’t seem to take to the food with his usual relish. He ate mechanically and quietly, sometimes pausing to sneeze or cough. He was getting a little better at remembering to use the handkerchief Dean had given him, though.
The brief nap between the psychic-mojo weirdness and dinner had obviously not been long enough. Castiel had the afghan from Missouri’s couch still wrapped around his shoulders, and he huddled under it, occasionally rubbing the dangly string fringe between thumb and forefinger. Somehow it only made him look smaller, wearier.
Dean was worn out, too-who knew that just sitting on a couch doing some mental calisthenics could be so utterly exhausting? But his leg was bouncing under the table, even so. They needed to get back on the road. Evening was coming outside, and it would be nice to stay the night here, get some rest, let the kid sleep in a house. But that thing was coming back, and Sam couldn’t give him a timeline on when, just that it would.
He was already going over maps in his head, the well-known route to Bobby’s. They could make it in five hours. Maybe less, if he pushed. Completely doable, even as tired as he was. He would get some gas station coffee, turn up the music…
No, scratch that. Music on low, let Cas and Sammy sleep.
Missouri sighed gustily, and he glanced over, automatically gritting his teeth as he waited for a scolding. But she just shook her head gently. “You be careful now, boy. I don’t want to be hearing about no car accident involving a classic Chevy somewhere in Nebraska. You hear me?”
He managed a smile. “I hear you.” Missouri meant well, even if she did think Dean was only a little better than something foul and stinking ground into the carpet.
She rolled her eyes. “Mercy, child, I do not. I think you need to watch your mouth more often and learn some manners, but you’re a fine young man for all that. Why do you go around always assuming the worst?”
Across the table, Sam blinked once, slowly. “Because he’s Dean,” he deadpanned. He was holding his head in that carefully still way that told Dean he had a monster headache, but he still found the energy to be a smartass.
Dean scowled and shoveled beans and rice into his mouth. They’d already had this conversation a bunch of times, and he didn’t want to have it again. He assumed the worst because that was always the safest way to go, always. Period. Full stop. The end.
He didn’t get proved wrong very often, either.
Castiel sneezed again, a short, weary kerschoo, quickly cut off, as if the poor kid didn’t have the energy even to clear his sinuses properly. Dean looked over at him, his expression instantly softening as he took in the young boy swaying in his seat, blinking dazedly at nothing, head nodding toward his plate. Yeah, so this one had proved him wrong. It was the exception that proved the rule, wasn’t it?
His hand darted over to splay across the kid’s chest just in time to keep him from toppling into his food. “Hey, kiddo. You done eating?”
Cas nodded, then yawned cavernously, rubbing his eye with one small fist, which was still holding a fork. A little spatter of red bean stuff landed on Dean’s arm, and he looked at it for a moment, then back to the boy. “Yeah, okay. You can sleep in the car, all right?”
Missouri wouldn’t let them leave without packing them a bunch of leftovers in an aluminum tray she produced from somewhere. Also cookies (some kind of puffy wheat-germ-oatmeal-honey things for Castiel, though Dean figured the poor kid had to be getting tired of oatmeal by now). And sandwiches. And the Children’s Tylenol and Vick’s VapoRub. And a bunch of juice boxes, which, okay, who knew that Kansas psychic ladies kept juice boxes in their pantry? But Castiel’s eyes lit up at those, and they were 100% juice and therefore good enough for Sam, so they took them.
When the boy seemed reluctant to give up the afghan, she insisted they take that, too. Dean protested-it looked like a nice blanket, one of those tapestry-like ones with pictures of various landmarks from around Lawrence-but she just said it was kitschy and she didn’t want it anyway. Then there were the hugs and the “Thanks for everything” and Sam’s sincere gratitude and Castiel’s lovely, sleepy smile, and Dean let her hug him, too, since she seemed to want to so bad.
All in all, they were pretty well supplied for a five-hour trip up through Nebraska to South Dakota.
X
Sam put his head against the window and fell asleep five minutes out of Lawrence. Castiel drank a juice box and gazed quietly out on fields of Kansas wheat as dusk gave way to twilight, staying awake long enough to see moonlight spill across the plains, then curled up under the afghan and followed him. Dean kept an eye on them both, playing AC/DC on low volume and humming silently, mouthing the words.
Castiel coughed even in his sleep, hoarse, exhausted-sounding rasps that shook his entire body, seeming ripped from his gut through his lungs. The Tylenol didn’t seem to be doing anything anymore, though initially the relief had been obvious. Dean was starting to think about doctors and antibiotics and ERs, and damn it, he wasn’t Sam. It was just the sniffles. It was going to clear up just fine.
Besides, they didn’t have any insurance for the boy. No birth certificate, no documentation. He was…Dean chuckled aloud at the thought. God, he was an illegal alien, straight from heaven to Midwest America with no stop at Ellis Island in between.
No, there was absolutely no use worrying about it. If it came to it they could stop at a clinic for a check-up, pay in cash, get a prescription and go on. None of this was going to mean a thing if they couldn’t take care of that demonic monster riding their ass, though.
So, yeah. Bobby first. Then the rest of this shit.
Heading north, nearing the border, a light dusting of snow whitened the world. Temperatures on bank signs in the small towns they passed through hovered at freezing and just below. Cold, but not too cold. Winter was coming in for a landing, but hadn’t settled down yet. Dean thought about stopping long enough to grab a handful of snow and stuff it down Sam’s shirt-it would be worth it to get a giggle out of Cas-but decided that it was more important to get to Bobby, who was well-warded and chock-full of juicy information.
About that time, he realized that Castiel wasn’t coughing anymore. Dean almost put his neck out jerking around to stare at him, but all he saw was a little tuft of dark, messy hair sticking out of the blanket-ball the boy had turned into. He watched long enough to catch the slight rise and fall of breathing, and then the wheels hit the rumble strip on the side of the road and he had to look forward, returning his attention to driving.
Sam startled when the Impala hit the rumble strip, rushing upward and blinking hard. “Wha’z that? Di’ we kill a lion?”
Dean almost choked on a guffaw. “No, man. We didn’t kill a lion.”
“It sounded like a lion. It was growling and…and shaking the car.”
“I promise you, not a lion. You ever heard of lions in Nebraska?”
Sam turned sideways in his seat to regard him seriously, his eyes wide and earnest and still partly asleep. “Anything could happen, Dean. It could have been a ghost lion.”
“Well, then, it would already be dead, wouldn’t it? Go back to sleep, dude. We’re still about half an hour from Bobby’s.”
Sam seemed to consider this carefully, then accepted Dean’s logic and rolled away to put his head back down on the window. “Okay. But drive safe, man. Don’t hit any lions.”
“No worries, Sammy. No killing the big kitty-cats.”
Sam’s answer was a snuffling wheeze, already fading off again. Dean smiled softly and watched the road, though he spared a few glances in the rear-view to make sure Cas was okay. All seemed well on that front, too.
Singer’s Salvage Yard had a little sprinkle of snow on all the wrecks, too, like powdered sugar on a pile of toys in a child’s messy room, strangely incongruous instead of really being pretty, despite the moonlight. It occurred to Dean, then, that they maybe could have called ahead, if only to make sure that he was back from the Dominican. But hey, Bobby was used to them showing up at weird times by now.
Dean just really hoped he was back.
A glimpse of the beat-up old truck parked next to the house had him slumping in relief. With a grateful sigh, Dean pulled the Impala up next to Bobby’s truck, and saw the porch light already flipping on, Bobby leaning across the window next to the door to peer out at them. He shook Sam’s shoulder enough to rouse him back to snorting, mumbling wakefulness, then went around the back to get Castiel.
“Hey, kiddo. Time to wake up. We’re here. Time to meet Uncle Bobby…”
His hand was still inches away from touching Castiel’s blanket-covered shoulder when he knew that something was very, very wrong. That was…that was heat he was feeling, radiating from the boy in torpid waves. He was laying too still, too quiet…
Abruptly shaking in terror, Dean ripped the blanket away, revealing the kid’s face, flushed and red, his mouth partly open. Dean’s knees went a little weak when he saw the small chest still rising and falling, and he caught himself on the door. Castiel winced minutely as the cold air from outside hit his face, but nothing else moved. Dean laid a hand on his chest, felt the shallow movement, the rattling inside. He shook him. Nothing happened.
Damn, damn, damn. Damn.
He was distantly aware of Sam’s voice behind him, sleepily explaining, Bobby’s incredulous baritone interrupting now and then. Dean was entirely preoccupied with wrapping Castiel up in the afghan, lifting him into his arms. The boy was utterly limp, dead weight, but still the lightest burden he’d ever carried.
He made his way to the porch, Cas a hot bundle clenched to his chest. His feet felt numb, wooden. Sam turned from his explanations to offer them a grin, his eyes more alert now. “Kid’s still sleeping, huh?”
Dean swallowed. He was looking at Bobby, he realized, instinctively expecting the older man to have the answer. Bobby always had the answer.
His own voice sounded so small, so frightened. Like a child himself. “I can’t wake him up.”
Part 18