Cataclysm, for ratherastory, part 1 of 2
Title: Cataclysm
Recipient: ratherastory
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 11,000
Warnings: language and show level violence.
Author’s Notes: I wanted to let ratherastory know that I would’ve never written so much (could’ve written more if not for time constraints) if I wasn’t trying to do the great prompt provided justice. I hope you enjoy the story! You shared some great ideas! I want to also thank my beta amber1960for her kind help. You are awesome! You really helped me clarify some story points and offered great suggestions.
Summary: The prompt was based on what might have happened to Castiel and the Winchesters after “Do You Believe in Miracles?” the season 9 finale. With specific emphasis on how Castiel is affected by the events.
Today is the worst day of Castiel’s existence. Considering the fact that he has witnessed the Great American Dust Bowl, the fall of the Zhou dynasty, and the Flood, as well as other numerous and varied catastrophes, that should have helped put this into perspective. It didn’t. Cas had won a minor battle over Metatron using his own overblown ego to entrap him, and the only infinitesimally small comfort he took from any of this was that the egomaniacal bastard was now behind bars in Heaven’s prison where he would be unable to hurt anyone else. That miniscule victory had come at a great cost, a very great cost.
Cas had done his best to aid Dean Winchester. He and Gadreel had used a ruse to gain access to Heaven but everything had gone suddenly, swiftly, horribly, inexplicably, wrong. The torment of knowing his failure to find the Angel Tablet quickly and break Metatron’s connection to its power had been the pivotal factor in the battle was catastrophic enough. The knowledge that a simple delay had cost his friend his life, had cost him Dean, was utterly unbearable.
Dean had gone up against Metatron, despite the odds against him, and been brutally cut down. Slaughtered. No quarter given, no mercy. Now Cas was devastated and Dean was dead. Castiel would’ve gladly suffered any number of heinous fates to have prevented that. When Metatron, gloating, had said “ultimately this was all about saving one human right? And he’s dead too.” Cas had felt as though Metatron had pierced him through with the Angel Blade. He was well acquainted with guilt and loss by now. His experiences as a human and to a larger degree, his time in the company of the Winchesters, had taught him much about guilt, grief, love, and loss. The negative end of the human emotional range was well-traveled territory.
Despite the visceral realization of his loss, Castiel had forced himself to sit there long enough for his plan to come to fruition. To see Metatron locked away, before departing Heaven with a word to Hannah that he’d return when he was able. He couldn’t have explained the depth of his grief if he’d taken the time to try. Angels aren’t known for their thorough grasp of the human condition. Even Cas doubted he could have found the words to articulate it properly and he’d spent more time among humans than nearly any other angel. He knew only one person that would truly understand his pain Sam.
He’d arrived at the bunker to find Sam in the midst of a summoning spell created to draw Crowley there to resurrect his brother. Driven into action by his anguish, the young man was pacing agitatedly, near frantic, around the circle’s perimeter and had nearly mown him down in his fervor to repeat the necessary preparations.
“Cas?”
“Sam.”
“The son of a bitch isn’t coming! I’ve already summoned him three times! He isn’t going to show. Doesn’t he have to, if he’s summoned? He has to. He has to.”
Pain splintered Sam’s voice and the words came out in a broken, barely discernable snarl. “Crowley, you worthless piece of crap, you dick, save my brother!”
Cas waited long enough for Sam to take a breath and said, “I’d like to see him, Sam. Take me to him, please.”
“Cas, he’s…he’s dead. Metatron… you don’t have enough grace left to bring him back. If you try… it’s probably going to end with you both dead. I can’t believe… If something…”
“I have to try, Sam.”
They entered Dean’s room expecting to see a corpse but what greeted them was even more disturbing. Crowley. The self-proclaimed king of Hell and Dean were standing side by side at the foot of the bed. Cas had only just had enough time to process that something was very wrong when Crowley had gripped Dean’s arm, snapped his fingers and they had vanished. With his typical smug, salacious tone, he’d rasped, “Hello, boys, goodbye boys.” and gone, leaving Sam and Cas in his wake trying to sort out what they’d seen.
“Dean?”
Castiel heard Sam choke out his brother’s name and prayed he had at least been spared the sight of those horrible eyes. His brother’s ink black eyes. Dean’s human eyes had been beautiful. They were a rare green that reminded Cas of lush peat bogs and sphagnum moss and sea-water though none of those things did true justice to their color. They were the feature that had first made Dean remarkable when Cas had known little more of the man other than the order to raise him meant he had an important purpose. Now they were gone.
Behind him, Sam breathed out a strangled sound and clutched at the door frame to support himself. Whether or not Sam had seen those horrid black eyes wasn’t important for the moment. Clearly, he’d seen enough. Sam swayed precariously and his breaths, rapid and shallow as they were, clearly indicated his distress as his world disintegrated around him for the second time in the space of less than a day.
“Crowley took him. He just…took him?”
If Cas couldn’t save one Winchester, he would save the other. For now, he would focus on Sam. He would focus on doing what was required to get the job done. He put an arm around the larger man’s waist, supporting his weight, and led him down the hall away from Dean’s room. He walked him to a leather chair, shifted his stance and eased Sam down onto the seat.
Cas is angry, truthfully, he is furious this is happening now. Now, when his borrowed grace is petering out. Now, when Metatron’s traitorous actions have thrown Heaven into complete chaos. Now, when so many things depended on him. When the angels needed him. Worse, when Sam and Dean needed him. He wants to smite or decimate something. Here he is instead, practically useless...so tired. Metatron, Crowley, and anyone else even remotely responsible for this tragedy deserves no better than oblivion, but he‘d promised himself he would be a better example, a better leader this time, so he had agreed to imprison Metatron. Crowley he would deal with in due course. He didn’t know how yet but he knew he would. Cas briefly entertained all the ways he would have enjoyed defiling Crowley’s corpse but it wasn’t the vessel’s fault and in any case, the thought of killing the demon wasn‘t enough to make him feel better. His grace is rapidly waning. He is near helpless to do more than the most rudimentary angelic tasks and he had failed Dean. The thought is acid bitter in his mind. Once, he had been powerful enough to defy Heaven and Hell. Now…? How infuriating, this futility! How had humans learned to cope with such demeaning helplessness? He takes a deep breath and forces himself to focus. He has to help. He will find a way to get Dean back. He just needs a plan.
I…no, we, we will get Dean back.
He has a plan. Taking care of Sam is something he knows about. Something he can do. Dean had taught him. Pale and visibly shaking, Sam now sits with his head in his hands. Cas puts a hand on his shoulder and stands close beside him for a long moment but Sam doesn’t immediately acknowledge his presence. Castiel waits. He had watched the Earth for thousands of years before there were Winchesters. He knows the value of patience. He waits and prays that, for the time being, knowing he is here will be sufficient for Sam.
Some time passes and Sam slowly raises his hand and lays it atop Castiel’s. He feels the long, elegant fingers entwine briefly with his own, just long enough to share their warmth and mark his companionship before they are pulling away to card through Sam’s long, unruly hair. Cas moves to the sink and runs a glass of cool water from the tap and returns to Sam placing it in his hand. He wishes he could think of something reassuring to say but he can’t. He knows that even those who have been human for all of their existence often find it difficult to express their feelings and emotions under similar circumstances. He finds that fact oddly comforting, although the list of humans that have had to cope with a situation as dire as Sam’s must thankfully be short.
Cas wraps a blanket around Sam and places the second glass of water in his hand and brings it to his lips to encourage him to drink. He places the medication in his palm and Sam swallows it drinking deeply from the glass. He doesn’t balk, doesn’t question, he is numb to everything but his fully consuming grief. Shock has set in and the delicate, carefully crafted façade that had gotten Sam through the traumatic night is falling away as morning and reality set in. Cas pulls a chair as close as possible to the bed, to Sam, and lets their mutual pain bind them more closely together. After a while his grief is quieter, interspersed with uneven breaths and heavily sighing silences and Cas listens until, after a young eternity, the man’s body gives in and he is forced into a discomfited unconsciousness by a combination of weariness brought on by grief, his numerous other burdens, and the medication from Dean’s personal pharmaceutical stash Castiel isn‘t supposed to know about.
Castiel leans against the uncomfortably rigid chair. He feels weak, achingly tired. Angels don’t sleep. He folds his trench coat into the approximation of a pillow and puts it beneath his head. Being this close to human is so draining. Perhaps if he can just have some quiet this new sensation of nauseating fatigue will subside. He doesn’t get to find out. He is awoken a brief time later by Sam calling Dean’s name and struggling in his sleep. He wonders how often Sam has had these nightmares. He wonders how often Dean sought to comfort him because of them.
Sam is most certainly wrestling with the kind of demons you can’t make manifest themselves. Cas knows it won’t be an easy victory. He removes his shoes and tie. He gingerly climbs onto the bed so he doesn’t wake him. Once he sees to it that Sam is tucked in properly he lays next to him on top of the covers and puts an arm around him. Praying and planning, he makes Sam a promise he’ll use all his strength to keep. We will get Dean back. Beside him, Sam burrows into his pillow and clutches Cas’ arm raking deep furrows in the flesh with his fingers. Troubled still, he calls for his absent brother in the midst of his latest nightmare.
It is much more difficult being human than Castiel had first imagined. Now he understands why God required angels to care for them. In some aspects they are overly simplistic, in others, highly complex. Their emotions make them strong yet fragile in a way that requires a word that has yet to be coined and can’t be adequately defined, only felt. Their humanity is both a strength and a weakness. They need all the help they can get.
Cas was thinking about his time as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent. It hadn’t been fun. Disembodied, amorphous existence was not pleasant nor comforting. He thinks now loneliness was the first emotion he had truly fathomed in the same way human beings perceive it. Cas, not fitting in well with the cosmos, too different from the other angels who couldn’t understand his need to express himself, or afraid they’d be similarly tainted from experiencing emotions, had shunned him. He had drifted alone, endlessly. Separated from the boys, from everything, he had found that time to be unbearably lonely. Deprivation tank lonely. That is the closest his experiences come to being able to truly relate to forced, undesired separation. A cold, involuntary shudder courses through him. He would have preferred facing Lucifer again to that. He has seen what loneliness could do to his charges and he aches for Sam, feels an acute trepidation for Dean, and yearns for neither of them to have to cope with such pain ever again.
Cas makes his way to the kitchen. Sam will probably be famished when he wakes and even if he’s not, he’ll need to eat. He needs to keep his strength up if he’s going to assist Cas with his plan. Castiel feels better knowing he has a course of action. Now he has a strategy, next, he will need to gather weapons. Cas smiles for the first time in weeks, he knows exactly the ammunition he needs and who his fellow soldiers will be. His plan will take effort but he has faith that it will all come together.
Cas had had very little experience with cooking before becoming human, for obvious reasons. He really has come to enjoy the challenge of this activity. The first skill he’d mastered in this arena had been reheating leftover burritos in the microwave at Dean’s suggestion. Then had come using an electric bread maker correctly. Basic preparation methods, making sure he knew what could or could not be baked, boiled, braised or microwaved was next. Small steps. Dean, to his credit, had proven himself a patient teacher and an accomplished chef despite a few missteps by Cas. Once they had agreed to disagree over the true origins of Cheez Whiz everything had proceeded quite smoothly. Only a direct commandment from the Lord himself would have ever convinced Castiel that the hideous concoction was or had ever been, actual cheese. It was vile tasting. Dean loved it.
Cas chooses to prepare something simple and not too heavy for their meal. He makes toast, then puts coffee on to brew while cutting various types of fruit into chunks for a fruit salad. He really enjoys seeing the bright colors, inhaling the ripe scents, the sweet, intriguing tastes and textures of fruits. He decides he is fond of all of them, with exception of the Kiwi. He finds those…unsettling.
When Castiel passes the open door of Dean’s room he sees the bloodied linens, the slight impressions from his weight on the blanket where Sam must have lain out Dean’s corpse. On the floor a tiny array of smudged droplets, a constellation of blood, is creased by a sole tread mid way between the threshold and the bed. Sam shouldn’t have to deal with that. He strips the bed of its linens and scrubs away the blood on the floor but it is going to take a level of skill he doesn’t possess to get the blood out of the mattress and pillow. It’s time to call for the crack troops. He dials his cell and takes the linens to the laundry room to wash. S.O.S. messages sent, he pockets the phone and turns his attention to the task at hand. He loads the sheets and pillowcase into the washer but pauses, unsure if the blanket too, should be part of this load when he sees the blood again.
There is no doubt it was a mortal wound given the circumference of the stain. The average human body contains only a little more than five liters of blood and a good portion of Dean’s is slowly drying in a darkening, solid mass denoting death at the blanket’s center. Unable to hold back his grief any longer, Cas closes the laundry room door and leans against it allowing it to support his weight, which suddenly seems too great a burden for him. Castiel buries his face in the edge of the softness and breathes in the scent of his friend because it is all Cas has left of him. The weight of that knowledge is all but crushing him. Only hope allows him to continue, it is the gossamer thread that binds him together when pain threatens to pull him apart. Tears flood his eyes soaking into the blanket. He lets them come. When he has control of himself again he takes in a deep breath and steadies himself. Scents of wood smoke, perspiration, leather, blood, and a faint aroma reminiscent of the ocean linger and Cas catalogs them in his memory. The parts are so much less than the whole but they are all that is left. He grips hope tightly, pushes the blanket into the machine, pours in the detergent, and goes to see if Sam needs him.
Sam is standing in the kitchen barefooted, wearing the same clothing as before. Cas sees Dean’s blood spotting the material near the shirt collar, a dark, sticky smudge of it on his jeans. He should launder those too, but now isn’t the most appropriate time to pester his friend with triviality. He watches Sam pouring his coffee, sees the miniscule tremors in his fingers. The posture of his body, always slightly slumped, in a subconscious effort to make his height less noticeable, seems to have sunken in more deeply on itself, an attempt to ward off the pain. Castiel forces his facial muscles into a smile he does not feel and sets a pitcher of orange juice on the table.
“I thought it might be nice to have breakfast, despite the fact it’s later than breakfast is traditionally served, unless you go to the IHOP, of course.” It is a stupid, insignificant thing to say but it serves its purpose and breaks the tension. Sam faces him and drags himself out of his thoughts, their stupor taking longer than normal to release him.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Cas.” He even attempts a smile. It’s heartbreaking.
Sam sits at the table and spoons fruit into a bowl and eats silently, automatically, hardly chewing. He is glaring at a point on the wall behind Cas, going through the motions that ensure survival but not life. Life requires an intact soul. Survival is for animals. Or demons. Cas’ thoughts reach back to the day of the assault on Hell. The day he first met Dean.
He had been commanded to enter Hell to facilitate the release of the righteous man from its burning, stinking depths. Anna and he had chosen the garrison’s best, and he and his angelic brothers and sisters had plunged into that hateful place and waded through blood and fear and won. Every vile, repulsive demon in creation seemed to stand against them. He’d fought so many they had become a mindless blur of tooth and claw, brimstone and terror, black smoke and bodies falling beneath his blade. Time stretched forward meaninglessly, but he fought on, the battle seemingly endless. Everywhere his eyes fell, were only pain and destruction, his fellow soldiers in the throes of deadly battle, wailing, wretchedly tormented souls, and yet more damned demons. A thick miasma of foul, arid stench and bleak darkness had lain heavily over everything, seeming to weigh his efforts down. Then he’d seen his objective. A soul set apart. He alone glowed slightly, softly backlit by the brightness of his remaining humanity. Even the darkness, smut, and filth of that horrible place could not have hidden his light from Castiel.
Dean had been chained at wrist and ankles. He had stood over the remnants of some poor damned soul made bloody and unrecognizable by the torture it had endured and he’d knelt, holding what was left of it to his chest, begging for its forgiveness. With great tenderness, he had laid the grisly mass back in its resting place on the stony, bone strewn ground. Then enraged, he had hauled hard on his chains with both hands trying furiously to free himself. Screaming hoarse prayers, cursing, and struggling with the manacles that bound him, Dean had labored at them frenetically while they etched bloody runnels into his limbs. As the mutilated soul beside him became whole again, Dean had stood, dropped his chains, picked up a straight razor, and looked down at it with a deeply doleful, resigned sorrow, remorse and compassion battling for dominance on his features.
“I am so very sorry. Forgive me.”
Cas had been close enough to hear him when Dean drove the blade into the flesh of his own body and raked it brutally up his forearm. When he’d staggered back and nearly fallen to his knees Castiel had been there to support his weight, holding him upright. He had turned his face toward Cas and breathed out, “Oh, thank God, you heard me! I hoped…I knew somebody heard me.” There had been such relief there, so much joy on his countenance. “Thank God you’ve come. I knew… what the hell took you?”
Sam had finished eating and still sat silently boring craters in the wall with his glare, his coffee cold and untouched, beside him. Time for Cas to put his plan into motion. “Sam, time to get to work. I need you to locate some demons. I need a tracking spell. I have a few errands. I made you a list of items that may require research. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. If you need anything pray and I’ll get your message. Hannah knows to expect your call.”
Sam had listened intently as Cas laid out the plan for him. He had given Sam just enough detail to flesh out the strategy and had been patient with his frequent questions. He’d answered him directly and proceeded only when Sam seemed able to process what he’d heard. Sam was a very intelligent man. He was, by human intellectual standards, extremely gifted, and an exceptional hunter as well, but now in his exhausted and grief dulled state, Sam was currently bordering on occupying the same category as fools, drunks, and children. He was fighting hard to move forward. Using the reserves of strength that make humanity so remarkable, and motivated by his love for his brother, he would keep going until every option had been explored or he was on his deathbed. Perhaps even then.
Cas left Sam as he’d so often found him, hunched over his laptop, clicking up the research link of his choice. Castiel climbed into the Lincoln and drove back to the playground that currently held the entrance to Heaven. Conserving his grace, he had chosen to do as much as possible in the ways humans typically achieved them. It was a slow, confining way to travel but there was nothing else to be done and he was gradually growing accustomed. At some point the heavenly entrance would have to be moved, but that could wait. For now, Hannah and Neil had their hands full trying to sort out the chaos Metatron had left behind.
Drawing the symbols carefully, Cas steps into the sandbox. There is a brief moment of light and movement before a large vortex formed from a swirl of sand surrounds him, then as the spell takes hold, the likeness of an elevator car materializes in its place. In the elevator Hannah’s words came back to him, “What will you do about your grace? If you don’t replenish it you will die.” The grace he carried now had not been meant for him and he can daily feel it leaching out, fading in its strength. It was a poor substitute for his own. He seems limited to being able to hear angel radio and the occasional minor miracle. When he’d healed Gadreel after Dean’s attack, he’d felt distressed, faintly nauseous, and utterly drained for several minutes. Every day he seems less an angel and more and more human. And humans died. They always died.
He isn’t sure what might happen if he dies. Would it be painful? How long would it take? Would that death mean simply no longer being an angel? Would he revert back to a human vessel named Cas or Steve or Jimmy Novak perhaps, to end his days - or would both angel and vessel cease simultaneously? He wonders if he will be able to get his job at the Gas n’ Sip back if he becomes human. What were the future implications for his soul? Souls? There are too many complex questions and too few answers. So much he doesn’t know and he is troubled by not knowing. He is tired already and getting a nagging, painful headache.
The elevator doors part and Castiel sees Hannah surrounded by other angels all vying for her attention. She is doing her best to calm them and answer questions and make the decisions required of her. It is difficult to be a leader, Cas knew. There are still many unresolved leadership issues to deal with and the consequences of Metatron’s tyranny to mitigate as much as possible. So much to do. Hannah, Castiel knows, is hoping he willingly chooses to take on the leadership role left vacant by Metatron’s betrayal but whether or not that occurs at some point in the future is immaterial. He has to make every effort to save the Winchesters and he needs to find his own grace if that is possible. Heaven will have to take care of itself for now.
Hannah smiles warmly, waves the others away, and takes both his hands in hers to give them a brief squeeze. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Cas knows, she is incapable of understanding the true depth of his loss but he appreciates the gesture. Angels understand compassion as a concept but only in the superficial sense. Most, without free will, find it difficult to grasp beyond the terms of an interesting academic discussion.
“Hannah, I need your help.”
Hannah immediately dispatched an angel to watch over Sam in Cas’ absence. She ushered him into Metatron’s former office so that Castiel could share privately with her concerning her role in his assault plan. After a detailed discussion over allocation and dispersal of resources, followed by devising a rudimentary deployment schedule, Hannah poised a few logistics questions. Once those queries were thoroughly analyzed and answered, Cas felt much more secure in the likelihood that the assault would, in fact, succeed and the plan was set.
“Commander is there anything else you need?”
“Former commander, Hannah”
“But sir…”
“I’m needed elsewhere. For now, it’s just Castiel”
“Castiel, sir, what else can I do to help?”
“Has God arrived? Or Joshua, has anyone seen him?”
Hannah went to the laptop on the massive wooden desk, performed a few keystrokes, and met Castiel’s gaze. “There’s no evidence of God’s return yet but according to our files, Joshua is here. He’s returned to the Garden, checking in as of last Tuesday.”
Being cast out of Heaven and the ensuing civil war had been catastrophic to the angel population. Many of them had been injured or killed. Some of them had been so terrified they’d gone into deep cover on Earth. Thousands, still lost, were unaccounted for, their whereabouts unknown. A few, deeply traumatized, sadly, had gone insane. To make matters worse, Crowley, now freed from the threat Abaddon had posed, had moved to consolidate his power and was having angels slaughtered. He had immediately begun taking full advantage of his latest and best asset, Dean, to track and kill any angels unfortunate enough to come across his path. Being turned had not diminished Dean’s hunting skills.
“I’m going to see Joshua. We need a new prophet.”
Hannah comes from behind the desk and stands just at Castiel’s elbow in what he recognizes as an attempt to be supportive, It was a move he had himself, used many times. She is learning. For Cas, that is something important and he takes solace in that small joy.
“Sir, you’re in no shape to be traveling so far. Let me request he come here or send a message.”
Cas doesn’t want to be away from Sam any longer than is necessary and he still has numerous preparations to make, so he allows himself to be persuaded. A message is quickly dispatched to Joshua.
Feeling the weight of every day of his existence, Castiel leans heavily on the edge of the desk and rubs a hand over the persistent pressure above his eyes. Angels feel only the pain of serious injury or their death blows. Minor aches and pains aren’t something they are accustomed to. His mouth is so dry it is difficult to work up enough saliva to swallow. He hasn’t gotten used to the need to stay hydrated. He imagines dying of thirst would be extremely unpleasant. He really needs to drink something. There are so many choices. Tea, milk, coffee, water, various forms of alcohol, Kool-Aid, energy drinks. He has shunned those since a bizarre incident involving a case of Red Bull, two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, and a dozen glazed jelly doughnuts. It hadn’t ended well.
“Hannah could you bring me the fragments of the Angel Tablet and a glass of water, please? Perhaps a bottle of aspirin? ”
She looks mildly alarmed at his request but goes to retrieve them. She quickly returns with a small bag tucked under her arm and the items requested on a tray as well as a can of Diet Coke, some carrot sticks, a peanut and jelly sandwich and a pair of Toblerone chocolate bars.
“I thought you might enjoy these, my vessel is fond of them” she says by way of explanation, and hands off the bag and tray to Cas.
He is grateful for her kindness and sinks into the nearest chair. It seems like eons since he was here last but it has truly only been a little more than a day. “He’s dead, too!” It takes serious concentration to keep Metatron’s words out of his thoughts. He pours several aspirin into his hand and drinks most of the water in his glass before swallowing them down. “He’s dead, too!”
He takes a resolute bite of the sandwich. Smooth peanut butter and apple jelly. “An A for effort” as Sam would say. He makes a mental note to introduce Hannah to the glories of the music by Offenbach, the beautiful intricacies of the Turkish language, some Czarist era Russian poetry, and the taste of grape jelly when there is time.
Hannah takes one of the chocolate bars and strips away the paper covering. She takes an experimental bite and smiles. Angels don’t get hungry. It is likely she is only doing this because she has heard humans don’t enjoy eating alone or perhaps she is braver than he thought.
“Sir,” she hesitates, “Sir, I’d like to be there.” Her expression is sheepish, uncertain, as she waits for Castiel’s response.
“I’d be honored to go into battle beside you Hannah.”
“Thank you, sir.” She breaks eye contact and wanders over to a bookcase fingering the dark leather binding of an ancient first edition. “I mean more than that I want to get to know humans. The Winchesters, sir. Despite everything, I think I must have misjudged them. I mean, if they are so important to you, I must have. Do you think that would be… alright?”
The words come out in a torrent and she is twisting her hands together nervously, knotting and unknotting them as she speaks. Castiel is proud of her. That required a lot of effort. He doesn’t want to embarrass her further so he nods and says softly, “I think that will be fine.” and ignores her look of relief, turning his attention to the carrot sticks. Yes, Hannah will make a more than adequate guardian for the Winchesters if Cas is unable to find and restore his grace. He only hopes he’ll have time to train his replacement properly. Taking care of the boys is not a job for the faint hearted, but Castiel had known Hannah had potential from the beginning.
There is a firm knock on the office door and a ginger-haired female angel Castiel doesn’t recognize reports “Joshua says what you need will be waiting at the vehicle for you, and that God is on the way but not to wait for him. He may be delayed again. You’re correct to assume Dean Winchester has to be retrieved right away.” She pauses and squints at the small, pink, square Post-it in her hand. “Also, he realizes Sam is at a critical juncture and really appreciates you keeping an eye on him and...and, yes, Joshua said to say, “he’s rooting for you boys.”
It’s time to return home. It strikes Cas as odd that the bunker seems like more of a home to him than the corridors of Heaven now. But psychoanalyzing himself is a hobby for a rainy day. He has work to do. He pockets the chocolate bar, takes the small bag containing the pieces of the Angel Tablet, and hugs Hannah. She offers him a kind smile as he leaves, promising she’ll be ready at his signal and will continue helping with the search for his grace. Impatient now, Cas is pacing in the elevator illusion and quickly finds himself standing in the midst of the sandbox back on the playground that marks Heaven‘s entrance. He is eager to get back to Sam. Eager to see the pieces of his plan begin to come together.
Joshua had always been extremely meticulous at his job. He knew God was in the details. He thought things through thoroughly. That was one of the reasons God had chosen him to maintain the Garden. The newly conscripted prophet was there, bound, gagged, and sleeping soundly, strapped down in the back seat of the Lincoln when Cas got back. Castiel wondered what lengths Joshua may have had to go to obtain the next prophet due to Metatron‘s meddling. Was there any part of Heaven and Earth Metatron hadn’t tainted with his interference? Cas would have to remember to send the gardener a nice thank you gift, perhaps a lovely fruit basket.
When Cas arrives at the bunker, Byron, the angel that had, unbeknownst to Sam, been watching over him in Castiel’s absence, manifests himself and fills Castiel in on his observations. Byron then assists with getting the prophet secured and withdraws until Cas can assess whether or not he’d be needed for further assistance. Having other angels in the bunker isn’t something Castiel is sure Sam is entirely comfortable with considering the issues related to his time with Gadreel. He follows the rending sounds of a scream to the dungeon and opens the doors in time to see Sam bury the Demon Knife to its hilt in the thigh of a demon while dousing its bald head with holy water. The beleaguered Hell spawn screams a string of blasphemy that could have made Lilith blush and bargains for its life before Sam breaks its jaw with a brutal right hook. Sam is a masterful interrogator on a typical day. Today, Castiel almost feels sorry for the poor, luckless demonic creature. Cas makes eye contact with Sam, who lifts his chin slightly in acknowledgement, and doesn’t miss a beat when he backhands the demon. Cas closes the doors shutting away most of the noise and leaves him to work off some of his grief. Castiel makes himself a glass of cold water and goes to inquire of Byron how much experience he has had with healing. His headache is back. Human bodies are entirely too fragile.
Sam comes into the kitchen as Cas is tossing together a taco salad for their evening meal. He sits at the table rubbing absently at the bloodstains across his knuckles and morosely watches Cas serve the food.
“You found another prophet?”
“Yes. And you interrogated the demons and put together the tracking spell?”
“Yeah.”
“Hannah and the others will be ready.” As Cas sets out cloth napkins and silverware, his gaze falls on Sam’s right hand. The skin over the knuckles is beaten raw, an angry, splotched red beneath the demon blood, a rough split is torn open below the joint of his third digit.
“You should eat something, Sam. Go wash up.”
Sam gets up and lumbers over to the sink. Despite his size, which could have made him cumbersome, he usually moves with a lithe, energetic gait, but sorrow has robbed him of it. He lathers up and scrubs his hands briskly and dries them before silently returning to the table. The silence of the bunker had always seemed peaceful before. Now, however, it doesn’t seem so, tonight it feels cloying and heavy. Cas takes a plate of salad, a large glass of iced tea and a bottle of beer and puts them down in front of Sam then he sets out the same for himself. He then fills a painted wooden tray with like items and takes them to the library for the prophet who, to his credit, had only attempted to escape twice since returning to consciousness.
Poor man. He is bound, seated in a comfortable leather chair in the library. Castiel gently reassures him that he’ll come to no harm, which is, not strictly speaking, true. Prophets in the vicinity of the Winchesters didn’t usually have a long lifespan but he is not in any immediate danger. Cas hopes that he will have the opportunity to get to know this prophet well. He regretted not having spent more time with Kevin. He had been a bright, amusing young man with excellent taste in music. Cas misses him. While Castiel is still learning the subtler intricacies of human relationships, he knows the Winchesters have found Kevin’s loss and the circumstances surrounding his death, difficult to come to grips with. He feels certain that this single death is central to the situation the three of them are currently coping with, even if he has yet to completely understand how the complex nexus of emotions and events has linked them. Had he had not been so distracted with his own issues, he may have been able to prevent all this. He wishes he had. A sharp ache has settled in his chest and envelops him when he thinks about Kevin’s fate, when he pictures Dean and recalls all his friends have been through. We will get Dean back!
He feels a deep sense of sympathy for this prophet. Those who receive a higher calling must suffer in greater degree, it seems. Another lesson he has had thoroughly reinforced during his time with Sam and Dean. Castiel tells the man his questions will soon be answered in his most soothing voice, unties his right hand, gives him a small blue plastic spork, cautions him not drink the beer on an empty stomach, and has Byron stand guard. Cas pities the prophet, sputtering incoherently, terrified, and confused as he is, but Sam is his first priority. Byron can introduce the prophet to the parameters of his new life.
Sam is warily inspecting the bits of his salad. He pushes them around with his fork and eats very little. More than half of the beer has vanished. He chews and swallows, chews and swallows. Cas eats, waiting. Sam begins to tremble. The movement is so slight that if Castiel had not been anticipating it, it could’ve gone unnoticed. The build is gradual but increasing in intensity. Cas isn’t sure but thinks it may be a delayed manifestation of the physical symptoms of shock. Sam has had to cope with much in his short life and has experienced two highly traumatic events in a brief period of time. Sam is shaking more vigorously now. He puts his fork down and clinches his hands in his lap, gripping the seams of his jeans to try to stop their movement. His eyes downcast and sheltered by his long bangs, Sam speaks, rough voiced, very quietly, “Cas, did…did you see Dean’s eyes? Did you see them?”
Without waiting for a response, he pushes his plate away, slumps over the table, and buries his face in his hands. Cas is around the table, beside him, quickly. There is so much pain here. The limits of his humanness are never more frustrating than when he sees others in pain. As Castiel watches, this giant man, this human monolith breaks apart and crumbles. He shakes and weeps and implodes with sorrow and Castiel stands with him. He wishes he could spare Sam this. Cas rubs his shoulder and repeats the promise he made before. We will get Dean back.
After a few minutes, Sam is calmer and retreats behind the iron hard psychological armor that comes from constant stress, repeated exposure to evil, and long, difficult years of hunting. He is no longer the quixotic, doe-eyed youth, so eager to know about angels, that he was when Cas first met him. Much has happened to Sam Winchester since then and nearly all of it has damaged him. Sam rises to his feet. Cas moves away slightly and watches him retreat to his room with his laptop and a half full bottle of whiskey and knows now that the coping process has truly begun. It is going to be a very long night.
Castiel dismisses Byron for the night, cleans up the kitchen and searches for the recipes he will need for tomorrow. They will be rising early. He leaves them on the counter within view. He goes to check his munitions. Nearly everything is in place for the assault. He will meet with his troops at breakfast and see that Hannah has the angel beacons properly deployed. Then it is only a matter of drawing Dean to the battlefield and dealing with Crowley. According to reports, he is not taking an active role in the attacks. That should work to their advantage. Satisfied he has made all the preparations he can, he shuts off the lights.
Cas hears the shattering glass and sees the broken remnants of the empty whiskey bottle in the hall outside Sam’s room. Sam is standing, a little unsteadily, over the mess with the jagged neck of the bottle clutched in his hand and for an instant Cas fears he may plunge it into his skin but instead he gingerly picks up the largest pieces and drops them into the waste basket near the door. When Sam sees him, the color comes up in his face and he mutters something about being clumsy and turns away. Castiel goes to get a broom and dustpan. He pointedly ignores the blush. There is no harm in allowing Sam to keep his dignity.
After the glass is cleaned up he surveys the damage. Cas has a small cut on his index finger and one on his thumb. Sam has a thin scratch on his right palm and a deep bleeding gash on the left side of his chest. He isn’t sure how it got there. Cas goes to secure the prophet for the night and finds him, thankfully, already sleeping. One less thing to worry about.
He locates the First Aid kit and returns to Sam’s room. Sam is lying on the bed reading the Bible on his laptop. Cas has often marveled at the ingenuity of God’s most cherished works. Cas washes his hands and dampens a washcloth with warm water and sits beside Sam. “Let me look at those cuts, Sam.”
“It’s not bad. I’m fine.” Sam makes a small dismissive gesture without making eye contact.
“You are not fine and I’m not leaving until I clean and bandage you up. If you‘d prefer to argue about this until morning, that’s fine.” Cas takes a firm hold on his friend’s wrist.
“I don’t need you to…stop fussing, it’s just a few cuts. I don’t need you…”
“I’m not leaving. Argue all you like. I’m not leaving.”
“Damn it, Cas, I don’t need you…I don’t…I…this is when Dean would tell me to stop being a pain in the ass.”
“Stop being a pain in the ass, Sam.”
Cas had fully expected an argument. The Winchester men are famously known for their stubbornness. Cas had watched Sam’s face waiting for the expression that indicated he had dug his heels in and the shouting was about to begin in earnest. With the mention of his brother, he was instead, suddenly docile, all the fight seemed to go out of him, leaving him unexpectedly vulnerable. Sam exhales a slow, listless breath, and sets aside his reading, he opens his shirt so Cas can have a clearer view of the cut on his chest and presents his damaged hand. Sam leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes wearily, as if the simple act of capitulating had taken all the strength he has left.
Cas washes all the wounds thoroughly using a light touch. He applies an antiseptic cream and bandages with precision and then finds the pain medication and sets it and a glass of water aside on the nightstand. He is clearing everything away when Sam’s voice breaks the silence.
“Do you really think this is gonna work, Cas?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Is he gonna be Dean again, really Dean?”
“I believe so.”
Sam seems somewhat relieved at this response and gives him a tentative smile that quickly fades. “Cas, if Dean isn’t, I…can’t. I can’t let him...He’d hate being … You know that’s the last thing he’d want.”
“I know.”
Sam’s words, roughened by emotion, and slightly slurred by alcohol, come pouring out. “Cas, if this doesn’t work, I may have to… he wanted me to let him go. Said it was better that way, but I can’t … and if… I’m not sure I can watch him die again. If he’s not Dean… If I can’t do it…”
“I’m not leaving you. We will get Dean back. We will get Dean back.”
Castiel repeats it like a mantra, like a lullaby, softly over and over, until he sees the faintest glimmer of hope in his friend’s eyes and feels Sam gradually, by infinitesimally small increments, begin to relax. Cas continues to talk with him focusing on pleasant, trivial matters. Time passes and when he’s run out of things to say, he simply stays quietly beside Sam resting a hand lightly on his arm, until he’s on the verge of drifting off into an uneasy slumber. Then Cas uses the tracking spell. It’s time to contact his ringer. The pieces are slowly falling into place. For Sam, for his troops. By sunrise they’d be ready for deployment.
With a few hours remaining until dawn Cas pulls out his cell and takes photographs of items around the bunker that remind him of Dean. There are many. He wanders out to the garage and photographs the Impala and a battered old junker Dean had recently purchased. He had been intent on restoring the derelict vehicle despite the fact that it seemed to Cas to be nothing more than a rusting monument to lost causes. The Winchesters drawn to a lost cause and a fallen failure of a angel… The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. They had to succeed this time. He could not imagine Sam’s existence or his own without Dean.
When he reenters the bunker from the garage Castiel hears guttural, indistinct noises coming from Sam’s room. Sounds of distress. Sam is having another nightmare. Tossing and flailing about, a deep frown is shadowing his features and furrowing his brow. Cas climbs gingerly onto Sam’s bed and lies with his shoulder resting against Sam. If he, even subconsciously, is aware of Castiel’s presence perhaps it will help calm him. He brushes the dark hair back gently and settles himself on the mattress. Cas had had vivid, horrid nightmares for the first time after taking in those writhing, hungry, monstrous Leviathans and still, on occasion, woke to find himself bolting upright, gasping for air, soaked in sweat, and terrified it might not be a nightmare. He is startled out of his thoughts when Sam calls out abruptly for Dean, rolls over onto his side in his sleep and pins Cas with his large arm. Even the best plans can have unforeseen consequences. Hopefully he’d be able to extricate himself from this situation in the morning before Sam wakes but for now, they should both get some sleep. His last conscious thought is one of Dean. Do demons dream? And if so, is he having nightmares of Hell in Hell tonight? It is a very troubling thought, knowing there is no one to there to comfort Dean.
Cas wakes to a soft snore very like a cat’s purr and sees a head covered with hair in dark, wavy locks and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He rises quietly so as not to disturb Sam, who is, at least for the moment, sleeping soundly and goes to shower and brush his teeth. They are human things to do and he enjoys them. Their routine helps him focus his mind as he reviews the battle plan. Their orderliness is calming.
After dressing he goes to make breakfast. He prepares buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup. He puts coffee on and fries several strips of bacon. He is expecting the arrival of the troops very soon now and is setting the table when Sam groggy, a little lethargic, and still damp from the shower comes in. He has combed back his wet hair, shaved, and dressed in a brown and tan flannel shirt that complements his eyes and a faded, slightly worn pair of jeans.
A sharp knock sounds at the door and Sam goes to answer it. He greets Garth, Mrs. Tran, and Jody Mills with a round of hugs. Seeing him happy, even briefly, in the midst of this crisis makes Cas feel warm and less grieved too. Sam ushers the small group into the kitchen where food is served, drinks poured, and plans reviewed. Cas makes a final check over the box of munitions he has gathered and hands them over to Garth and Mrs. Tran along with their lists of assignments. Hannah has acknowledged his signal and set the angel beacons out along the route as instructed, to draw Dean to them. She and the others will lure him to the chosen field.
If their demon intelligence is accurate, and Cas believes it is, Dean will be commanding a small strike force of elite troops and not the massive horde Cas had initially feared. Castiel knows Sam can be very persuasive when he’s in search of information, he doubts the demons could’ve successfully lied to them. Even demons have their breaking point.
Recipient: ratherastory
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 11,000
Warnings: language and show level violence.
Author’s Notes: I wanted to let ratherastory know that I would’ve never written so much (could’ve written more if not for time constraints) if I wasn’t trying to do the great prompt provided justice. I hope you enjoy the story! You shared some great ideas! I want to also thank my beta amber1960for her kind help. You are awesome! You really helped me clarify some story points and offered great suggestions.
Summary: The prompt was based on what might have happened to Castiel and the Winchesters after “Do You Believe in Miracles?” the season 9 finale. With specific emphasis on how Castiel is affected by the events.
Today is the worst day of Castiel’s existence. Considering the fact that he has witnessed the Great American Dust Bowl, the fall of the Zhou dynasty, and the Flood, as well as other numerous and varied catastrophes, that should have helped put this into perspective. It didn’t. Cas had won a minor battle over Metatron using his own overblown ego to entrap him, and the only infinitesimally small comfort he took from any of this was that the egomaniacal bastard was now behind bars in Heaven’s prison where he would be unable to hurt anyone else. That miniscule victory had come at a great cost, a very great cost.
Cas had done his best to aid Dean Winchester. He and Gadreel had used a ruse to gain access to Heaven but everything had gone suddenly, swiftly, horribly, inexplicably, wrong. The torment of knowing his failure to find the Angel Tablet quickly and break Metatron’s connection to its power had been the pivotal factor in the battle was catastrophic enough. The knowledge that a simple delay had cost his friend his life, had cost him Dean, was utterly unbearable.
Dean had gone up against Metatron, despite the odds against him, and been brutally cut down. Slaughtered. No quarter given, no mercy. Now Cas was devastated and Dean was dead. Castiel would’ve gladly suffered any number of heinous fates to have prevented that. When Metatron, gloating, had said “ultimately this was all about saving one human right? And he’s dead too.” Cas had felt as though Metatron had pierced him through with the Angel Blade. He was well acquainted with guilt and loss by now. His experiences as a human and to a larger degree, his time in the company of the Winchesters, had taught him much about guilt, grief, love, and loss. The negative end of the human emotional range was well-traveled territory.
Despite the visceral realization of his loss, Castiel had forced himself to sit there long enough for his plan to come to fruition. To see Metatron locked away, before departing Heaven with a word to Hannah that he’d return when he was able. He couldn’t have explained the depth of his grief if he’d taken the time to try. Angels aren’t known for their thorough grasp of the human condition. Even Cas doubted he could have found the words to articulate it properly and he’d spent more time among humans than nearly any other angel. He knew only one person that would truly understand his pain Sam.
He’d arrived at the bunker to find Sam in the midst of a summoning spell created to draw Crowley there to resurrect his brother. Driven into action by his anguish, the young man was pacing agitatedly, near frantic, around the circle’s perimeter and had nearly mown him down in his fervor to repeat the necessary preparations.
“Cas?”
“Sam.”
“The son of a bitch isn’t coming! I’ve already summoned him three times! He isn’t going to show. Doesn’t he have to, if he’s summoned? He has to. He has to.”
Pain splintered Sam’s voice and the words came out in a broken, barely discernable snarl. “Crowley, you worthless piece of crap, you dick, save my brother!”
Cas waited long enough for Sam to take a breath and said, “I’d like to see him, Sam. Take me to him, please.”
“Cas, he’s…he’s dead. Metatron… you don’t have enough grace left to bring him back. If you try… it’s probably going to end with you both dead. I can’t believe… If something…”
“I have to try, Sam.”
They entered Dean’s room expecting to see a corpse but what greeted them was even more disturbing. Crowley. The self-proclaimed king of Hell and Dean were standing side by side at the foot of the bed. Cas had only just had enough time to process that something was very wrong when Crowley had gripped Dean’s arm, snapped his fingers and they had vanished. With his typical smug, salacious tone, he’d rasped, “Hello, boys, goodbye boys.” and gone, leaving Sam and Cas in his wake trying to sort out what they’d seen.
“Dean?”
Castiel heard Sam choke out his brother’s name and prayed he had at least been spared the sight of those horrible eyes. His brother’s ink black eyes. Dean’s human eyes had been beautiful. They were a rare green that reminded Cas of lush peat bogs and sphagnum moss and sea-water though none of those things did true justice to their color. They were the feature that had first made Dean remarkable when Cas had known little more of the man other than the order to raise him meant he had an important purpose. Now they were gone.
Behind him, Sam breathed out a strangled sound and clutched at the door frame to support himself. Whether or not Sam had seen those horrid black eyes wasn’t important for the moment. Clearly, he’d seen enough. Sam swayed precariously and his breaths, rapid and shallow as they were, clearly indicated his distress as his world disintegrated around him for the second time in the space of less than a day.
“Crowley took him. He just…took him?”
If Cas couldn’t save one Winchester, he would save the other. For now, he would focus on Sam. He would focus on doing what was required to get the job done. He put an arm around the larger man’s waist, supporting his weight, and led him down the hall away from Dean’s room. He walked him to a leather chair, shifted his stance and eased Sam down onto the seat.
Cas is angry, truthfully, he is furious this is happening now. Now, when his borrowed grace is petering out. Now, when Metatron’s traitorous actions have thrown Heaven into complete chaos. Now, when so many things depended on him. When the angels needed him. Worse, when Sam and Dean needed him. He wants to smite or decimate something. Here he is instead, practically useless...so tired. Metatron, Crowley, and anyone else even remotely responsible for this tragedy deserves no better than oblivion, but he‘d promised himself he would be a better example, a better leader this time, so he had agreed to imprison Metatron. Crowley he would deal with in due course. He didn’t know how yet but he knew he would. Cas briefly entertained all the ways he would have enjoyed defiling Crowley’s corpse but it wasn’t the vessel’s fault and in any case, the thought of killing the demon wasn‘t enough to make him feel better. His grace is rapidly waning. He is near helpless to do more than the most rudimentary angelic tasks and he had failed Dean. The thought is acid bitter in his mind. Once, he had been powerful enough to defy Heaven and Hell. Now…? How infuriating, this futility! How had humans learned to cope with such demeaning helplessness? He takes a deep breath and forces himself to focus. He has to help. He will find a way to get Dean back. He just needs a plan.
I…no, we, we will get Dean back.
He has a plan. Taking care of Sam is something he knows about. Something he can do. Dean had taught him. Pale and visibly shaking, Sam now sits with his head in his hands. Cas puts a hand on his shoulder and stands close beside him for a long moment but Sam doesn’t immediately acknowledge his presence. Castiel waits. He had watched the Earth for thousands of years before there were Winchesters. He knows the value of patience. He waits and prays that, for the time being, knowing he is here will be sufficient for Sam.
Some time passes and Sam slowly raises his hand and lays it atop Castiel’s. He feels the long, elegant fingers entwine briefly with his own, just long enough to share their warmth and mark his companionship before they are pulling away to card through Sam’s long, unruly hair. Cas moves to the sink and runs a glass of cool water from the tap and returns to Sam placing it in his hand. He wishes he could think of something reassuring to say but he can’t. He knows that even those who have been human for all of their existence often find it difficult to express their feelings and emotions under similar circumstances. He finds that fact oddly comforting, although the list of humans that have had to cope with a situation as dire as Sam’s must thankfully be short.
Cas wraps a blanket around Sam and places the second glass of water in his hand and brings it to his lips to encourage him to drink. He places the medication in his palm and Sam swallows it drinking deeply from the glass. He doesn’t balk, doesn’t question, he is numb to everything but his fully consuming grief. Shock has set in and the delicate, carefully crafted façade that had gotten Sam through the traumatic night is falling away as morning and reality set in. Cas pulls a chair as close as possible to the bed, to Sam, and lets their mutual pain bind them more closely together. After a while his grief is quieter, interspersed with uneven breaths and heavily sighing silences and Cas listens until, after a young eternity, the man’s body gives in and he is forced into a discomfited unconsciousness by a combination of weariness brought on by grief, his numerous other burdens, and the medication from Dean’s personal pharmaceutical stash Castiel isn‘t supposed to know about.
Castiel leans against the uncomfortably rigid chair. He feels weak, achingly tired. Angels don’t sleep. He folds his trench coat into the approximation of a pillow and puts it beneath his head. Being this close to human is so draining. Perhaps if he can just have some quiet this new sensation of nauseating fatigue will subside. He doesn’t get to find out. He is awoken a brief time later by Sam calling Dean’s name and struggling in his sleep. He wonders how often Sam has had these nightmares. He wonders how often Dean sought to comfort him because of them.
Sam is most certainly wrestling with the kind of demons you can’t make manifest themselves. Cas knows it won’t be an easy victory. He removes his shoes and tie. He gingerly climbs onto the bed so he doesn’t wake him. Once he sees to it that Sam is tucked in properly he lays next to him on top of the covers and puts an arm around him. Praying and planning, he makes Sam a promise he’ll use all his strength to keep. We will get Dean back. Beside him, Sam burrows into his pillow and clutches Cas’ arm raking deep furrows in the flesh with his fingers. Troubled still, he calls for his absent brother in the midst of his latest nightmare.
It is much more difficult being human than Castiel had first imagined. Now he understands why God required angels to care for them. In some aspects they are overly simplistic, in others, highly complex. Their emotions make them strong yet fragile in a way that requires a word that has yet to be coined and can’t be adequately defined, only felt. Their humanity is both a strength and a weakness. They need all the help they can get.
Cas was thinking about his time as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent. It hadn’t been fun. Disembodied, amorphous existence was not pleasant nor comforting. He thinks now loneliness was the first emotion he had truly fathomed in the same way human beings perceive it. Cas, not fitting in well with the cosmos, too different from the other angels who couldn’t understand his need to express himself, or afraid they’d be similarly tainted from experiencing emotions, had shunned him. He had drifted alone, endlessly. Separated from the boys, from everything, he had found that time to be unbearably lonely. Deprivation tank lonely. That is the closest his experiences come to being able to truly relate to forced, undesired separation. A cold, involuntary shudder courses through him. He would have preferred facing Lucifer again to that. He has seen what loneliness could do to his charges and he aches for Sam, feels an acute trepidation for Dean, and yearns for neither of them to have to cope with such pain ever again.
Cas makes his way to the kitchen. Sam will probably be famished when he wakes and even if he’s not, he’ll need to eat. He needs to keep his strength up if he’s going to assist Cas with his plan. Castiel feels better knowing he has a course of action. Now he has a strategy, next, he will need to gather weapons. Cas smiles for the first time in weeks, he knows exactly the ammunition he needs and who his fellow soldiers will be. His plan will take effort but he has faith that it will all come together.
Cas had had very little experience with cooking before becoming human, for obvious reasons. He really has come to enjoy the challenge of this activity. The first skill he’d mastered in this arena had been reheating leftover burritos in the microwave at Dean’s suggestion. Then had come using an electric bread maker correctly. Basic preparation methods, making sure he knew what could or could not be baked, boiled, braised or microwaved was next. Small steps. Dean, to his credit, had proven himself a patient teacher and an accomplished chef despite a few missteps by Cas. Once they had agreed to disagree over the true origins of Cheez Whiz everything had proceeded quite smoothly. Only a direct commandment from the Lord himself would have ever convinced Castiel that the hideous concoction was or had ever been, actual cheese. It was vile tasting. Dean loved it.
Cas chooses to prepare something simple and not too heavy for their meal. He makes toast, then puts coffee on to brew while cutting various types of fruit into chunks for a fruit salad. He really enjoys seeing the bright colors, inhaling the ripe scents, the sweet, intriguing tastes and textures of fruits. He decides he is fond of all of them, with exception of the Kiwi. He finds those…unsettling.
When Castiel passes the open door of Dean’s room he sees the bloodied linens, the slight impressions from his weight on the blanket where Sam must have lain out Dean’s corpse. On the floor a tiny array of smudged droplets, a constellation of blood, is creased by a sole tread mid way between the threshold and the bed. Sam shouldn’t have to deal with that. He strips the bed of its linens and scrubs away the blood on the floor but it is going to take a level of skill he doesn’t possess to get the blood out of the mattress and pillow. It’s time to call for the crack troops. He dials his cell and takes the linens to the laundry room to wash. S.O.S. messages sent, he pockets the phone and turns his attention to the task at hand. He loads the sheets and pillowcase into the washer but pauses, unsure if the blanket too, should be part of this load when he sees the blood again.
There is no doubt it was a mortal wound given the circumference of the stain. The average human body contains only a little more than five liters of blood and a good portion of Dean’s is slowly drying in a darkening, solid mass denoting death at the blanket’s center. Unable to hold back his grief any longer, Cas closes the laundry room door and leans against it allowing it to support his weight, which suddenly seems too great a burden for him. Castiel buries his face in the edge of the softness and breathes in the scent of his friend because it is all Cas has left of him. The weight of that knowledge is all but crushing him. Only hope allows him to continue, it is the gossamer thread that binds him together when pain threatens to pull him apart. Tears flood his eyes soaking into the blanket. He lets them come. When he has control of himself again he takes in a deep breath and steadies himself. Scents of wood smoke, perspiration, leather, blood, and a faint aroma reminiscent of the ocean linger and Cas catalogs them in his memory. The parts are so much less than the whole but they are all that is left. He grips hope tightly, pushes the blanket into the machine, pours in the detergent, and goes to see if Sam needs him.
Sam is standing in the kitchen barefooted, wearing the same clothing as before. Cas sees Dean’s blood spotting the material near the shirt collar, a dark, sticky smudge of it on his jeans. He should launder those too, but now isn’t the most appropriate time to pester his friend with triviality. He watches Sam pouring his coffee, sees the miniscule tremors in his fingers. The posture of his body, always slightly slumped, in a subconscious effort to make his height less noticeable, seems to have sunken in more deeply on itself, an attempt to ward off the pain. Castiel forces his facial muscles into a smile he does not feel and sets a pitcher of orange juice on the table.
“I thought it might be nice to have breakfast, despite the fact it’s later than breakfast is traditionally served, unless you go to the IHOP, of course.” It is a stupid, insignificant thing to say but it serves its purpose and breaks the tension. Sam faces him and drags himself out of his thoughts, their stupor taking longer than normal to release him.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Cas.” He even attempts a smile. It’s heartbreaking.
Sam sits at the table and spoons fruit into a bowl and eats silently, automatically, hardly chewing. He is glaring at a point on the wall behind Cas, going through the motions that ensure survival but not life. Life requires an intact soul. Survival is for animals. Or demons. Cas’ thoughts reach back to the day of the assault on Hell. The day he first met Dean.
He had been commanded to enter Hell to facilitate the release of the righteous man from its burning, stinking depths. Anna and he had chosen the garrison’s best, and he and his angelic brothers and sisters had plunged into that hateful place and waded through blood and fear and won. Every vile, repulsive demon in creation seemed to stand against them. He’d fought so many they had become a mindless blur of tooth and claw, brimstone and terror, black smoke and bodies falling beneath his blade. Time stretched forward meaninglessly, but he fought on, the battle seemingly endless. Everywhere his eyes fell, were only pain and destruction, his fellow soldiers in the throes of deadly battle, wailing, wretchedly tormented souls, and yet more damned demons. A thick miasma of foul, arid stench and bleak darkness had lain heavily over everything, seeming to weigh his efforts down. Then he’d seen his objective. A soul set apart. He alone glowed slightly, softly backlit by the brightness of his remaining humanity. Even the darkness, smut, and filth of that horrible place could not have hidden his light from Castiel.
Dean had been chained at wrist and ankles. He had stood over the remnants of some poor damned soul made bloody and unrecognizable by the torture it had endured and he’d knelt, holding what was left of it to his chest, begging for its forgiveness. With great tenderness, he had laid the grisly mass back in its resting place on the stony, bone strewn ground. Then enraged, he had hauled hard on his chains with both hands trying furiously to free himself. Screaming hoarse prayers, cursing, and struggling with the manacles that bound him, Dean had labored at them frenetically while they etched bloody runnels into his limbs. As the mutilated soul beside him became whole again, Dean had stood, dropped his chains, picked up a straight razor, and looked down at it with a deeply doleful, resigned sorrow, remorse and compassion battling for dominance on his features.
“I am so very sorry. Forgive me.”
Cas had been close enough to hear him when Dean drove the blade into the flesh of his own body and raked it brutally up his forearm. When he’d staggered back and nearly fallen to his knees Castiel had been there to support his weight, holding him upright. He had turned his face toward Cas and breathed out, “Oh, thank God, you heard me! I hoped…I knew somebody heard me.” There had been such relief there, so much joy on his countenance. “Thank God you’ve come. I knew… what the hell took you?”
Sam had finished eating and still sat silently boring craters in the wall with his glare, his coffee cold and untouched, beside him. Time for Cas to put his plan into motion. “Sam, time to get to work. I need you to locate some demons. I need a tracking spell. I have a few errands. I made you a list of items that may require research. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. If you need anything pray and I’ll get your message. Hannah knows to expect your call.”
Sam had listened intently as Cas laid out the plan for him. He had given Sam just enough detail to flesh out the strategy and had been patient with his frequent questions. He’d answered him directly and proceeded only when Sam seemed able to process what he’d heard. Sam was a very intelligent man. He was, by human intellectual standards, extremely gifted, and an exceptional hunter as well, but now in his exhausted and grief dulled state, Sam was currently bordering on occupying the same category as fools, drunks, and children. He was fighting hard to move forward. Using the reserves of strength that make humanity so remarkable, and motivated by his love for his brother, he would keep going until every option had been explored or he was on his deathbed. Perhaps even then.
Cas left Sam as he’d so often found him, hunched over his laptop, clicking up the research link of his choice. Castiel climbed into the Lincoln and drove back to the playground that currently held the entrance to Heaven. Conserving his grace, he had chosen to do as much as possible in the ways humans typically achieved them. It was a slow, confining way to travel but there was nothing else to be done and he was gradually growing accustomed. At some point the heavenly entrance would have to be moved, but that could wait. For now, Hannah and Neil had their hands full trying to sort out the chaos Metatron had left behind.
Drawing the symbols carefully, Cas steps into the sandbox. There is a brief moment of light and movement before a large vortex formed from a swirl of sand surrounds him, then as the spell takes hold, the likeness of an elevator car materializes in its place. In the elevator Hannah’s words came back to him, “What will you do about your grace? If you don’t replenish it you will die.” The grace he carried now had not been meant for him and he can daily feel it leaching out, fading in its strength. It was a poor substitute for his own. He seems limited to being able to hear angel radio and the occasional minor miracle. When he’d healed Gadreel after Dean’s attack, he’d felt distressed, faintly nauseous, and utterly drained for several minutes. Every day he seems less an angel and more and more human. And humans died. They always died.
He isn’t sure what might happen if he dies. Would it be painful? How long would it take? Would that death mean simply no longer being an angel? Would he revert back to a human vessel named Cas or Steve or Jimmy Novak perhaps, to end his days - or would both angel and vessel cease simultaneously? He wonders if he will be able to get his job at the Gas n’ Sip back if he becomes human. What were the future implications for his soul? Souls? There are too many complex questions and too few answers. So much he doesn’t know and he is troubled by not knowing. He is tired already and getting a nagging, painful headache.
The elevator doors part and Castiel sees Hannah surrounded by other angels all vying for her attention. She is doing her best to calm them and answer questions and make the decisions required of her. It is difficult to be a leader, Cas knew. There are still many unresolved leadership issues to deal with and the consequences of Metatron’s tyranny to mitigate as much as possible. So much to do. Hannah, Castiel knows, is hoping he willingly chooses to take on the leadership role left vacant by Metatron’s betrayal but whether or not that occurs at some point in the future is immaterial. He has to make every effort to save the Winchesters and he needs to find his own grace if that is possible. Heaven will have to take care of itself for now.
Hannah smiles warmly, waves the others away, and takes both his hands in hers to give them a brief squeeze. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Cas knows, she is incapable of understanding the true depth of his loss but he appreciates the gesture. Angels understand compassion as a concept but only in the superficial sense. Most, without free will, find it difficult to grasp beyond the terms of an interesting academic discussion.
“Hannah, I need your help.”
Hannah immediately dispatched an angel to watch over Sam in Cas’ absence. She ushered him into Metatron’s former office so that Castiel could share privately with her concerning her role in his assault plan. After a detailed discussion over allocation and dispersal of resources, followed by devising a rudimentary deployment schedule, Hannah poised a few logistics questions. Once those queries were thoroughly analyzed and answered, Cas felt much more secure in the likelihood that the assault would, in fact, succeed and the plan was set.
“Commander is there anything else you need?”
“Former commander, Hannah”
“But sir…”
“I’m needed elsewhere. For now, it’s just Castiel”
“Castiel, sir, what else can I do to help?”
“Has God arrived? Or Joshua, has anyone seen him?”
Hannah went to the laptop on the massive wooden desk, performed a few keystrokes, and met Castiel’s gaze. “There’s no evidence of God’s return yet but according to our files, Joshua is here. He’s returned to the Garden, checking in as of last Tuesday.”
Being cast out of Heaven and the ensuing civil war had been catastrophic to the angel population. Many of them had been injured or killed. Some of them had been so terrified they’d gone into deep cover on Earth. Thousands, still lost, were unaccounted for, their whereabouts unknown. A few, deeply traumatized, sadly, had gone insane. To make matters worse, Crowley, now freed from the threat Abaddon had posed, had moved to consolidate his power and was having angels slaughtered. He had immediately begun taking full advantage of his latest and best asset, Dean, to track and kill any angels unfortunate enough to come across his path. Being turned had not diminished Dean’s hunting skills.
“I’m going to see Joshua. We need a new prophet.”
Hannah comes from behind the desk and stands just at Castiel’s elbow in what he recognizes as an attempt to be supportive, It was a move he had himself, used many times. She is learning. For Cas, that is something important and he takes solace in that small joy.
“Sir, you’re in no shape to be traveling so far. Let me request he come here or send a message.”
Cas doesn’t want to be away from Sam any longer than is necessary and he still has numerous preparations to make, so he allows himself to be persuaded. A message is quickly dispatched to Joshua.
Feeling the weight of every day of his existence, Castiel leans heavily on the edge of the desk and rubs a hand over the persistent pressure above his eyes. Angels feel only the pain of serious injury or their death blows. Minor aches and pains aren’t something they are accustomed to. His mouth is so dry it is difficult to work up enough saliva to swallow. He hasn’t gotten used to the need to stay hydrated. He imagines dying of thirst would be extremely unpleasant. He really needs to drink something. There are so many choices. Tea, milk, coffee, water, various forms of alcohol, Kool-Aid, energy drinks. He has shunned those since a bizarre incident involving a case of Red Bull, two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, and a dozen glazed jelly doughnuts. It hadn’t ended well.
“Hannah could you bring me the fragments of the Angel Tablet and a glass of water, please? Perhaps a bottle of aspirin? ”
She looks mildly alarmed at his request but goes to retrieve them. She quickly returns with a small bag tucked under her arm and the items requested on a tray as well as a can of Diet Coke, some carrot sticks, a peanut and jelly sandwich and a pair of Toblerone chocolate bars.
“I thought you might enjoy these, my vessel is fond of them” she says by way of explanation, and hands off the bag and tray to Cas.
He is grateful for her kindness and sinks into the nearest chair. It seems like eons since he was here last but it has truly only been a little more than a day. “He’s dead, too!” It takes serious concentration to keep Metatron’s words out of his thoughts. He pours several aspirin into his hand and drinks most of the water in his glass before swallowing them down. “He’s dead, too!”
He takes a resolute bite of the sandwich. Smooth peanut butter and apple jelly. “An A for effort” as Sam would say. He makes a mental note to introduce Hannah to the glories of the music by Offenbach, the beautiful intricacies of the Turkish language, some Czarist era Russian poetry, and the taste of grape jelly when there is time.
Hannah takes one of the chocolate bars and strips away the paper covering. She takes an experimental bite and smiles. Angels don’t get hungry. It is likely she is only doing this because she has heard humans don’t enjoy eating alone or perhaps she is braver than he thought.
“Sir,” she hesitates, “Sir, I’d like to be there.” Her expression is sheepish, uncertain, as she waits for Castiel’s response.
“I’d be honored to go into battle beside you Hannah.”
“Thank you, sir.” She breaks eye contact and wanders over to a bookcase fingering the dark leather binding of an ancient first edition. “I mean more than that I want to get to know humans. The Winchesters, sir. Despite everything, I think I must have misjudged them. I mean, if they are so important to you, I must have. Do you think that would be… alright?”
The words come out in a torrent and she is twisting her hands together nervously, knotting and unknotting them as she speaks. Castiel is proud of her. That required a lot of effort. He doesn’t want to embarrass her further so he nods and says softly, “I think that will be fine.” and ignores her look of relief, turning his attention to the carrot sticks. Yes, Hannah will make a more than adequate guardian for the Winchesters if Cas is unable to find and restore his grace. He only hopes he’ll have time to train his replacement properly. Taking care of the boys is not a job for the faint hearted, but Castiel had known Hannah had potential from the beginning.
There is a firm knock on the office door and a ginger-haired female angel Castiel doesn’t recognize reports “Joshua says what you need will be waiting at the vehicle for you, and that God is on the way but not to wait for him. He may be delayed again. You’re correct to assume Dean Winchester has to be retrieved right away.” She pauses and squints at the small, pink, square Post-it in her hand. “Also, he realizes Sam is at a critical juncture and really appreciates you keeping an eye on him and...and, yes, Joshua said to say, “he’s rooting for you boys.”
It’s time to return home. It strikes Cas as odd that the bunker seems like more of a home to him than the corridors of Heaven now. But psychoanalyzing himself is a hobby for a rainy day. He has work to do. He pockets the chocolate bar, takes the small bag containing the pieces of the Angel Tablet, and hugs Hannah. She offers him a kind smile as he leaves, promising she’ll be ready at his signal and will continue helping with the search for his grace. Impatient now, Cas is pacing in the elevator illusion and quickly finds himself standing in the midst of the sandbox back on the playground that marks Heaven‘s entrance. He is eager to get back to Sam. Eager to see the pieces of his plan begin to come together.
Joshua had always been extremely meticulous at his job. He knew God was in the details. He thought things through thoroughly. That was one of the reasons God had chosen him to maintain the Garden. The newly conscripted prophet was there, bound, gagged, and sleeping soundly, strapped down in the back seat of the Lincoln when Cas got back. Castiel wondered what lengths Joshua may have had to go to obtain the next prophet due to Metatron‘s meddling. Was there any part of Heaven and Earth Metatron hadn’t tainted with his interference? Cas would have to remember to send the gardener a nice thank you gift, perhaps a lovely fruit basket.
When Cas arrives at the bunker, Byron, the angel that had, unbeknownst to Sam, been watching over him in Castiel’s absence, manifests himself and fills Castiel in on his observations. Byron then assists with getting the prophet secured and withdraws until Cas can assess whether or not he’d be needed for further assistance. Having other angels in the bunker isn’t something Castiel is sure Sam is entirely comfortable with considering the issues related to his time with Gadreel. He follows the rending sounds of a scream to the dungeon and opens the doors in time to see Sam bury the Demon Knife to its hilt in the thigh of a demon while dousing its bald head with holy water. The beleaguered Hell spawn screams a string of blasphemy that could have made Lilith blush and bargains for its life before Sam breaks its jaw with a brutal right hook. Sam is a masterful interrogator on a typical day. Today, Castiel almost feels sorry for the poor, luckless demonic creature. Cas makes eye contact with Sam, who lifts his chin slightly in acknowledgement, and doesn’t miss a beat when he backhands the demon. Cas closes the doors shutting away most of the noise and leaves him to work off some of his grief. Castiel makes himself a glass of cold water and goes to inquire of Byron how much experience he has had with healing. His headache is back. Human bodies are entirely too fragile.
Sam comes into the kitchen as Cas is tossing together a taco salad for their evening meal. He sits at the table rubbing absently at the bloodstains across his knuckles and morosely watches Cas serve the food.
“You found another prophet?”
“Yes. And you interrogated the demons and put together the tracking spell?”
“Yeah.”
“Hannah and the others will be ready.” As Cas sets out cloth napkins and silverware, his gaze falls on Sam’s right hand. The skin over the knuckles is beaten raw, an angry, splotched red beneath the demon blood, a rough split is torn open below the joint of his third digit.
“You should eat something, Sam. Go wash up.”
Sam gets up and lumbers over to the sink. Despite his size, which could have made him cumbersome, he usually moves with a lithe, energetic gait, but sorrow has robbed him of it. He lathers up and scrubs his hands briskly and dries them before silently returning to the table. The silence of the bunker had always seemed peaceful before. Now, however, it doesn’t seem so, tonight it feels cloying and heavy. Cas takes a plate of salad, a large glass of iced tea and a bottle of beer and puts them down in front of Sam then he sets out the same for himself. He then fills a painted wooden tray with like items and takes them to the library for the prophet who, to his credit, had only attempted to escape twice since returning to consciousness.
Poor man. He is bound, seated in a comfortable leather chair in the library. Castiel gently reassures him that he’ll come to no harm, which is, not strictly speaking, true. Prophets in the vicinity of the Winchesters didn’t usually have a long lifespan but he is not in any immediate danger. Cas hopes that he will have the opportunity to get to know this prophet well. He regretted not having spent more time with Kevin. He had been a bright, amusing young man with excellent taste in music. Cas misses him. While Castiel is still learning the subtler intricacies of human relationships, he knows the Winchesters have found Kevin’s loss and the circumstances surrounding his death, difficult to come to grips with. He feels certain that this single death is central to the situation the three of them are currently coping with, even if he has yet to completely understand how the complex nexus of emotions and events has linked them. Had he had not been so distracted with his own issues, he may have been able to prevent all this. He wishes he had. A sharp ache has settled in his chest and envelops him when he thinks about Kevin’s fate, when he pictures Dean and recalls all his friends have been through. We will get Dean back!
He feels a deep sense of sympathy for this prophet. Those who receive a higher calling must suffer in greater degree, it seems. Another lesson he has had thoroughly reinforced during his time with Sam and Dean. Castiel tells the man his questions will soon be answered in his most soothing voice, unties his right hand, gives him a small blue plastic spork, cautions him not drink the beer on an empty stomach, and has Byron stand guard. Cas pities the prophet, sputtering incoherently, terrified, and confused as he is, but Sam is his first priority. Byron can introduce the prophet to the parameters of his new life.
Sam is warily inspecting the bits of his salad. He pushes them around with his fork and eats very little. More than half of the beer has vanished. He chews and swallows, chews and swallows. Cas eats, waiting. Sam begins to tremble. The movement is so slight that if Castiel had not been anticipating it, it could’ve gone unnoticed. The build is gradual but increasing in intensity. Cas isn’t sure but thinks it may be a delayed manifestation of the physical symptoms of shock. Sam has had to cope with much in his short life and has experienced two highly traumatic events in a brief period of time. Sam is shaking more vigorously now. He puts his fork down and clinches his hands in his lap, gripping the seams of his jeans to try to stop their movement. His eyes downcast and sheltered by his long bangs, Sam speaks, rough voiced, very quietly, “Cas, did…did you see Dean’s eyes? Did you see them?”
Without waiting for a response, he pushes his plate away, slumps over the table, and buries his face in his hands. Cas is around the table, beside him, quickly. There is so much pain here. The limits of his humanness are never more frustrating than when he sees others in pain. As Castiel watches, this giant man, this human monolith breaks apart and crumbles. He shakes and weeps and implodes with sorrow and Castiel stands with him. He wishes he could spare Sam this. Cas rubs his shoulder and repeats the promise he made before. We will get Dean back.
After a few minutes, Sam is calmer and retreats behind the iron hard psychological armor that comes from constant stress, repeated exposure to evil, and long, difficult years of hunting. He is no longer the quixotic, doe-eyed youth, so eager to know about angels, that he was when Cas first met him. Much has happened to Sam Winchester since then and nearly all of it has damaged him. Sam rises to his feet. Cas moves away slightly and watches him retreat to his room with his laptop and a half full bottle of whiskey and knows now that the coping process has truly begun. It is going to be a very long night.
Castiel dismisses Byron for the night, cleans up the kitchen and searches for the recipes he will need for tomorrow. They will be rising early. He leaves them on the counter within view. He goes to check his munitions. Nearly everything is in place for the assault. He will meet with his troops at breakfast and see that Hannah has the angel beacons properly deployed. Then it is only a matter of drawing Dean to the battlefield and dealing with Crowley. According to reports, he is not taking an active role in the attacks. That should work to their advantage. Satisfied he has made all the preparations he can, he shuts off the lights.
Cas hears the shattering glass and sees the broken remnants of the empty whiskey bottle in the hall outside Sam’s room. Sam is standing, a little unsteadily, over the mess with the jagged neck of the bottle clutched in his hand and for an instant Cas fears he may plunge it into his skin but instead he gingerly picks up the largest pieces and drops them into the waste basket near the door. When Sam sees him, the color comes up in his face and he mutters something about being clumsy and turns away. Castiel goes to get a broom and dustpan. He pointedly ignores the blush. There is no harm in allowing Sam to keep his dignity.
After the glass is cleaned up he surveys the damage. Cas has a small cut on his index finger and one on his thumb. Sam has a thin scratch on his right palm and a deep bleeding gash on the left side of his chest. He isn’t sure how it got there. Cas goes to secure the prophet for the night and finds him, thankfully, already sleeping. One less thing to worry about.
He locates the First Aid kit and returns to Sam’s room. Sam is lying on the bed reading the Bible on his laptop. Cas has often marveled at the ingenuity of God’s most cherished works. Cas washes his hands and dampens a washcloth with warm water and sits beside Sam. “Let me look at those cuts, Sam.”
“It’s not bad. I’m fine.” Sam makes a small dismissive gesture without making eye contact.
“You are not fine and I’m not leaving until I clean and bandage you up. If you‘d prefer to argue about this until morning, that’s fine.” Cas takes a firm hold on his friend’s wrist.
“I don’t need you to…stop fussing, it’s just a few cuts. I don’t need you…”
“I’m not leaving. Argue all you like. I’m not leaving.”
“Damn it, Cas, I don’t need you…I don’t…I…this is when Dean would tell me to stop being a pain in the ass.”
“Stop being a pain in the ass, Sam.”
Cas had fully expected an argument. The Winchester men are famously known for their stubbornness. Cas had watched Sam’s face waiting for the expression that indicated he had dug his heels in and the shouting was about to begin in earnest. With the mention of his brother, he was instead, suddenly docile, all the fight seemed to go out of him, leaving him unexpectedly vulnerable. Sam exhales a slow, listless breath, and sets aside his reading, he opens his shirt so Cas can have a clearer view of the cut on his chest and presents his damaged hand. Sam leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes wearily, as if the simple act of capitulating had taken all the strength he has left.
Cas washes all the wounds thoroughly using a light touch. He applies an antiseptic cream and bandages with precision and then finds the pain medication and sets it and a glass of water aside on the nightstand. He is clearing everything away when Sam’s voice breaks the silence.
“Do you really think this is gonna work, Cas?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Is he gonna be Dean again, really Dean?”
“I believe so.”
Sam seems somewhat relieved at this response and gives him a tentative smile that quickly fades. “Cas, if Dean isn’t, I…can’t. I can’t let him...He’d hate being … You know that’s the last thing he’d want.”
“I know.”
Sam’s words, roughened by emotion, and slightly slurred by alcohol, come pouring out. “Cas, if this doesn’t work, I may have to… he wanted me to let him go. Said it was better that way, but I can’t … and if… I’m not sure I can watch him die again. If he’s not Dean… If I can’t do it…”
“I’m not leaving you. We will get Dean back. We will get Dean back.”
Castiel repeats it like a mantra, like a lullaby, softly over and over, until he sees the faintest glimmer of hope in his friend’s eyes and feels Sam gradually, by infinitesimally small increments, begin to relax. Cas continues to talk with him focusing on pleasant, trivial matters. Time passes and when he’s run out of things to say, he simply stays quietly beside Sam resting a hand lightly on his arm, until he’s on the verge of drifting off into an uneasy slumber. Then Cas uses the tracking spell. It’s time to contact his ringer. The pieces are slowly falling into place. For Sam, for his troops. By sunrise they’d be ready for deployment.
With a few hours remaining until dawn Cas pulls out his cell and takes photographs of items around the bunker that remind him of Dean. There are many. He wanders out to the garage and photographs the Impala and a battered old junker Dean had recently purchased. He had been intent on restoring the derelict vehicle despite the fact that it seemed to Cas to be nothing more than a rusting monument to lost causes. The Winchesters drawn to a lost cause and a fallen failure of a angel… The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. They had to succeed this time. He could not imagine Sam’s existence or his own without Dean.
When he reenters the bunker from the garage Castiel hears guttural, indistinct noises coming from Sam’s room. Sounds of distress. Sam is having another nightmare. Tossing and flailing about, a deep frown is shadowing his features and furrowing his brow. Cas climbs gingerly onto Sam’s bed and lies with his shoulder resting against Sam. If he, even subconsciously, is aware of Castiel’s presence perhaps it will help calm him. He brushes the dark hair back gently and settles himself on the mattress. Cas had had vivid, horrid nightmares for the first time after taking in those writhing, hungry, monstrous Leviathans and still, on occasion, woke to find himself bolting upright, gasping for air, soaked in sweat, and terrified it might not be a nightmare. He is startled out of his thoughts when Sam calls out abruptly for Dean, rolls over onto his side in his sleep and pins Cas with his large arm. Even the best plans can have unforeseen consequences. Hopefully he’d be able to extricate himself from this situation in the morning before Sam wakes but for now, they should both get some sleep. His last conscious thought is one of Dean. Do demons dream? And if so, is he having nightmares of Hell in Hell tonight? It is a very troubling thought, knowing there is no one to there to comfort Dean.
Cas wakes to a soft snore very like a cat’s purr and sees a head covered with hair in dark, wavy locks and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He rises quietly so as not to disturb Sam, who is, at least for the moment, sleeping soundly and goes to shower and brush his teeth. They are human things to do and he enjoys them. Their routine helps him focus his mind as he reviews the battle plan. Their orderliness is calming.
After dressing he goes to make breakfast. He prepares buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup. He puts coffee on and fries several strips of bacon. He is expecting the arrival of the troops very soon now and is setting the table when Sam groggy, a little lethargic, and still damp from the shower comes in. He has combed back his wet hair, shaved, and dressed in a brown and tan flannel shirt that complements his eyes and a faded, slightly worn pair of jeans.
A sharp knock sounds at the door and Sam goes to answer it. He greets Garth, Mrs. Tran, and Jody Mills with a round of hugs. Seeing him happy, even briefly, in the midst of this crisis makes Cas feel warm and less grieved too. Sam ushers the small group into the kitchen where food is served, drinks poured, and plans reviewed. Cas makes a final check over the box of munitions he has gathered and hands them over to Garth and Mrs. Tran along with their lists of assignments. Hannah has acknowledged his signal and set the angel beacons out along the route as instructed, to draw Dean to them. She and the others will lure him to the chosen field.
If their demon intelligence is accurate, and Cas believes it is, Dean will be commanding a small strike force of elite troops and not the massive horde Cas had initially feared. Castiel knows Sam can be very persuasive when he’s in search of information, he doubts the demons could’ve successfully lied to them. Even demons have their breaking point.