Fic: Never Have I Ever
The first of many spawned from the epicness of 5x10. Or you could go here and read some filthy f!Dean/p!Dean thigh holster smut. Or, y'know, both.
Title: Never Have I Ever
Rating: PG-13 (GASP WHAT, I know.)
Pairings/Characters: Bobby, Castiel, Dean, Ellen, Jo, Sam; Gen.
Spoilers: 5x10, obviously.
Warnings: Quite angsty, in retrospect.
Disclaimer: Pffft, I wish.
Words: 2,508
Summary: In which Cas muses on the nature of bourbon, drinking games, and the Apocalypse, and spends some quality time with our favorite Harvelles. And also maybe has his faith irreparably shattered.
A/N: Written for the Oye Como Va Castiel, Ellen & Jo comment!fic meme, with the prompt: Dude, anyone who manages to give us a little bit more of Castiel and Ellen's drinking game will be adored forever. Unbeta'd; feel free to stomp all over my mistakes, as I'm sure they are plenty.
~ ~ ~
The eighth consecutive glass taps quietly against the table as Castiel sighs, "I do."
Ellen Harvelle's eyes are hard-set and betray nothing, much like the sideways ground of her jaw and click of her teeth. Jo, the daughter, is much more animated. The rounds of her eyes grow wide in synch with the gape of her jaw. A sound much like a laugh, but rougher, chokes from her throat as she stares at the line of small glasses spread before Castiel.
He merely blinks.
"O-kay," Jo breaks the silence and pours two more glasses, extending one to Ellen and one to Castiel. She nods when he thanks her, as he has done each time. At first she seemed amused, if not somewhat confused, by his gratefulness, but now she only smiles and mumbles a cheerful, "You're welcome."
The girl is young and painfully innocent as she stares up at Castiel from her seat on the floor. He watches as she toes off her boots and leans back on her hands, shrugging a ragged curtain of blond curls over her shoulder. He likes her. She is simple, affectionate but not flirtatious, and refreshingly authentic. She is hopelessly devoted to her mother and rippled with the scars of an absent father. Castiel sees all of this and a past marred with blood and tragedy when he looks at her, but still she pulses with life.
He wonders if perhaps the apocalypse would be cruel enough to end the life of one so undeserving, and pauses to utter a silent prayer that both Jo and Ellen Harvelle will survive this war unscathed.
Castiel eyes the slosh of amber liquid in his fingers. Bourbon is... strange, but palatable. Behind the sting of peach and apple, Castiel senses the warmth of oak, perhaps cedar, something primal and connected very deeply with the earth. Perhaps this is why humans enjoy drinking so fervently. Perhaps it reconnects them to their organic roots in some way.
"Alright, Cas," Ellen says. She clears her throat as she leans forward on an elbow. "So you like bourbon. Good."
"And you can hold your liquor pretty good there too, champ," Jo chimes with a crooked grin dimpling her cheek.
The pitch of Ellen's voice drops lower. "What say we up the stakes, huh?"
The glass settles against the table and Castiel draws his hands into his lap. "What did you have in mind?"
"Never Have I Ever," Ellen snaps quickly.
A long pause draws out as Castiel waits for the sentence to present itself. When nothing does and Ellen instead continues staring blankly at him, he tips his head slightly. "Never have you what?"
Jo's pliant body hits the floor with a dull thump as spurts of laughter roll from deep in her belly. Castiel considers extending a hand to her aid, but Ellen jerks her smoothly up before he can make the offer. It is staggering, the rhythm and intimacy these women have built, the reliance they have on one another. They live permanently within the others' sights, enough that one can anticipate the others' movement before it is made. It is a synergy Castiel has witnessed consistently from the Winchester brothers over the months. The tension of distrust between them is still apparent, but the complementary rhythm they have fallen into is nothing short of astounding. One feeds off the other to maintain a constant symmetry. It is a beautiful thing, but it makes Castiel thrum with a secret ache. He will never find that balance himself.
He glances briefly from Jo to Ellen, whose lips curl back from her teeth in a slow grin. Beside her, Jo's shoulders still occasionally buck with laughter. "It's a game," Ellen says. "A drinking game. Say if I start - I say something that I've never done. If you have done it, then you throw one back. Then you say something you've never done, and if I've done it, I take one. Got it?"
Castiel absorbs the information carefully. He has witnessed these games before, in dusty bars and once in Bobby's living room around a warm furnace. Games such as this are meant to learn things about the other participants, and in so doing build friendships. Friendship is something Castiel enjoys, as much as he understands it. The few times Dean has referred to him as a friend, a buddy, or another term of endearment, or when Dean threw his arm across Castiel's shoulders and pulled him along in a stuttered but rhythmic walk, Castiel has felt... whole. Since his connection with Heaven has been severed, a gap has gnawed fiercely in Castiel's center. Any measure of acceptance into the routine of the Winchesters' lives served to lessen that ache. Castiel does not feel quite so lonely when Dean suggests perhaps he cares for him as more than simply a combat in arms.
He thinks perhaps he could build a friendship with these Harvelle women.
He nods, once, and picks up the shot glass again. One corner of Ellen's mouth hooks up as she raises hers as well. "Alright then. I'll start. Never have I ever..." She sinks into contemplation briefly, then claps a hand against her knee with a sigh. "Hell, I don't know. Never have I ever been outside the grand ol' USA."
A spark of mischief glints in her eye as Castiel frowns and tips the glass against his lips. The bourbon is blood-warm and dry, both sweet and bitter as it washes along his tongue. Taste is something he is still adjusting to. It is slightly confusing, all the clashing flavors that make up human food and drink. He does not quite understand why humans complicate things more than necessary, making the process of obtaining sustenance much more complex than it is, but he does not begrudge them the frivolity. From the veil of satisfaction that overcomes Dean's face each time he sinks a bite into a cheeseburger (bacon, mayonnaise, cheese, and extra onions - Castiel has observed Dean long enough to glean this pattern of behavior), he suspects it is worth it.
Jo leans forward to re-fill his glass and smiles brightly when he thanks her. "'Kay, now it's your turn. Never have you ever..."
Castiel wavers apprehensively. "I have never -"
"C'mon, boy, get your head in the game," Ellen interrupts brusquely with a wave of her hand. "It ain't called Never Have I Ever for nothin', you know. You gotta say it right."
An apologetic nod later, Castiel tries again. "Never have I ever..." The words sound clumsy and forced pushing off of his tongue; coming from Ellen, they were a graceful vernacular. He shifts subtly in his chair, feeling suddenly awkward with the expectant stares boring into him. "Taken part in such a game."
Again, Jo's eyes grow wide and surprised at the words. "Wow, Mom. Angels play dirty, who'da guessed?"
Ellen hesitates, but drinks the liquid down with barely a wince. She taps the glass twice on the table and, not taking her gaze from Castiel's face, says, "Pour me another one, Joanna Beth."
The glass fills as the next words fire from her slightly-quirked mouth. "Never have I ever met a bona-fide angel of the freakin' Lord, till now of course." Her lips twitch as Castiel empties the next glass and thanks Jo for filling it up again.
"Never have I ever -" better this time, he thinks - "drunk bourbon before tonight."
"Oh," Jo chuckles. "You're gettin' better at this already, Cas."
At the glow of her laugh beneath the words as she winks playfully in her mother's direction, Castiel feels a sudden surge of warmth pass through his body. He smiles, but apparently it does not translate to the muscles and flesh of his body; this is also something he is still adjusting to. Human mannerisms.
Ellen makes a soft snort of amusement before draining another glass. "Never have I ever let a damn tax accountant yuppie drink me under the table, I can say that."
Castiel tips the bourbon into his mouth, but holds it there as Jo's hands slice through the air with the sudden streak of her voice. "No no no! You don't - you're not supposed to drink if you've never done it either!"
Her face crumples into a sympathetic wince as Castiel considers his position. Returning the bourbon to its glass would be uncouth, but he wonders if bending the rules of the game means losing. Then again, victory was never so much his motivation as friendship was. He slowly swallows and returns the glass to the table, then dabs at his mouth with the wrist of his coat. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."
Jo claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, her grip surprisingly strong for such a small frame. "It's okay. We'll consider that one a freebie."
She refills his glass, smiles when he thanks her again, and the game goes on until Ellen throws up her hands in surrender. Jo grabs her mother's fingers loosely out of the air and shakes them, mumbling, "Come on, Mom, don't be a quitter," but Ellen only shakes her head and points firmly across the table at Castiel.
"You are a mound of trouble waitin' to happen, young man," she slurs. Castiel smiles slightly as she climbs rigidly to her feet and loops an arm around her daughter's neck. Jo's laugh is a bright clap of hope slicing through the stillness as they stumble away, and again Castiel prays that the protection of his brothers might find them in the midst of this war.
~ ~ ~
Later, when his presence in Bobby's photograph is just as expected as the rest of them, and when Sam reaches casually around his shoulder to hold him closely in the frame, Castiel feels perhaps that this strange conglomeration of people gathered around him are the first genuine sparks of camaraderie he has ever felt. In an infinite existence constantly shrouded by the voices and presence of a limitless brotherhood, this small band of humans struggling against a force far greater than themselves is his first true family.
This is also perhaps the first time Castiel has felt certain of anything since drawing Dean Winchester from Hell. But even as the weight of an impossible battle several short hours on the horizon sinks into the air, Castiel feels strangely, fleetingly happier than he has in the entirely of his existence.
Because he knows now, with immovable certainty, that this is exactly where he belongs.
Sam claps him on the back after the shutter snaps and everyone scatters their own directions. Deep tracks of exhaustion have settled in Dean's face as he brushes past Castiel in the kitchen. He lays a hand briefly on Castiel's shoulder as he shifts past, muttering a flat-sounding, "G'night, Cas."
Castiel watches his slow trek up the stairs and returns a quiet, "Goodnight, Dean."
Sam follows not long after, Bobby after him. Jo falls asleep curled into a dusty recliner while Ellen is stretched across the couch with a mug of coffee and one of Chuck's books bent into a tight angle. Castiel watches her for a long moment before wandering towards the window. The light clicks off not long after, with a rustle of movement and a sigh at his back. He does not have to turn to see Ellen's profile sneak into his periphery.
"You sleep at all?"
Her voice is barely above a whisper so as not to wake her daughter; Castiel obliges her the same courtesy and lowers his voice. "I rest, but rarely. My body does not require sleep."
A hushed hum of interest is the only sound between them for a long time. Outside there is a symphony of sounds - insects and animals, the babble of a nearby creek and the groan of wind combed through trees. The world is ending, to be sure, but Castiel does not hear its destruction yet. He hopes this is a good sign.
Behind them there is another meshing of sounds - soft snores from Dean's room, the click of a heater rattling to life, the turning of pages from Sam's room, small puffs of breath from Jo's slightly parted lips. They are all quiet sounds, but their presence serves to remind Castiel of the constant glow of life emanating from this group of random people.
His friends. Family, even.
Ellen blows slightly against the rippling surface of her coffee before taking a careful sip. "I wonder what he's doin' out there. This very second." Her jaw tips pointedly at the window before them. "The Big Bad himself."
Castiel inhales carefully and tastes the warmth of coffee on the air, sugary and rich, plus a medley of other fragments - pollen riding a draft through a crack near the front door, the spice of bourbon still sweet on his tongue. He thinks about Dean's hand on his shoulder and releases the breath. "He is... waiting."
The conversation tapers to silence for a long string of seconds before the hard jut of Ellen's elbow meets his ribs. He jumps, startled, and frowns. She laughs almost soundlessly. "So what'd you think of your first drinking game, huh? You a Jack man or a Maker's man?"
Castiel turns back to the window with a fond smirk. "I enjoyed it. Very much. Thank you for allowing me to-"
"Nah," Ellen cuts in. She leans momentarily against his shoulder with her own. "Was our pleasure. Hell, we might not even be around tomorrow, and it's not every day you get to take whisky shots with an angel."
A quick, sharp pull of grief tugs at Castiel's core; he does his best to smother it beneath an obstinate hope. He sighs as he turns to face her and she mirrors the action. "You'll survive," he whispers. "Whatever happens, I have faith that you will. You should too."
Her smile curves just slightly, but Castiel cannot help but find something about the shift bitter. She is... afraid.
In that, too, they are the same.
"I hope you're right," she replies, then squeezes his shoulder and slips into the shadows.
"Ellen."
He sees her pause and turn before the darkness obstructs her completely, feels her expectant stare. He lowers his voice to a whisper again when Jo stirs restlessly. "For what it's worth, I would count the world rich if it held more souls like yours and your daughter's."
The bend of Ellen's lips is slow but genuine. She dips her head in understanding, once, a simple movement. "Yeah, you ain't so bad yourself, kiddo," she says, then turns her back and walks away.
Castiel smiles as he returns to his post and prays, once more, for the safety of the only true family he's ever known.
Dawn comes silently and without an answer, but Castiel trusts that things will work themselves out for the betterment of all of them.
After all, he is as sure of this as he has ever been about anything - a kind God wouldn't allow anything less.
Title: Never Have I Ever
Rating: PG-13 (GASP WHAT, I know.)
Pairings/Characters: Bobby, Castiel, Dean, Ellen, Jo, Sam; Gen.
Spoilers: 5x10, obviously.
Warnings: Quite angsty, in retrospect.
Disclaimer: Pffft, I wish.
Words: 2,508
Summary: In which Cas muses on the nature of bourbon, drinking games, and the Apocalypse, and spends some quality time with our favorite Harvelles. And also maybe has his faith irreparably shattered.
A/N: Written for the Oye Como Va Castiel, Ellen & Jo comment!fic meme, with the prompt: Dude, anyone who manages to give us a little bit more of Castiel and Ellen's drinking game will be adored forever. Unbeta'd; feel free to stomp all over my mistakes, as I'm sure they are plenty.
~ ~ ~
The eighth consecutive glass taps quietly against the table as Castiel sighs, "I do."
Ellen Harvelle's eyes are hard-set and betray nothing, much like the sideways ground of her jaw and click of her teeth. Jo, the daughter, is much more animated. The rounds of her eyes grow wide in synch with the gape of her jaw. A sound much like a laugh, but rougher, chokes from her throat as she stares at the line of small glasses spread before Castiel.
He merely blinks.
"O-kay," Jo breaks the silence and pours two more glasses, extending one to Ellen and one to Castiel. She nods when he thanks her, as he has done each time. At first she seemed amused, if not somewhat confused, by his gratefulness, but now she only smiles and mumbles a cheerful, "You're welcome."
The girl is young and painfully innocent as she stares up at Castiel from her seat on the floor. He watches as she toes off her boots and leans back on her hands, shrugging a ragged curtain of blond curls over her shoulder. He likes her. She is simple, affectionate but not flirtatious, and refreshingly authentic. She is hopelessly devoted to her mother and rippled with the scars of an absent father. Castiel sees all of this and a past marred with blood and tragedy when he looks at her, but still she pulses with life.
He wonders if perhaps the apocalypse would be cruel enough to end the life of one so undeserving, and pauses to utter a silent prayer that both Jo and Ellen Harvelle will survive this war unscathed.
Castiel eyes the slosh of amber liquid in his fingers. Bourbon is... strange, but palatable. Behind the sting of peach and apple, Castiel senses the warmth of oak, perhaps cedar, something primal and connected very deeply with the earth. Perhaps this is why humans enjoy drinking so fervently. Perhaps it reconnects them to their organic roots in some way.
"Alright, Cas," Ellen says. She clears her throat as she leans forward on an elbow. "So you like bourbon. Good."
"And you can hold your liquor pretty good there too, champ," Jo chimes with a crooked grin dimpling her cheek.
The pitch of Ellen's voice drops lower. "What say we up the stakes, huh?"
The glass settles against the table and Castiel draws his hands into his lap. "What did you have in mind?"
"Never Have I Ever," Ellen snaps quickly.
A long pause draws out as Castiel waits for the sentence to present itself. When nothing does and Ellen instead continues staring blankly at him, he tips his head slightly. "Never have you what?"
Jo's pliant body hits the floor with a dull thump as spurts of laughter roll from deep in her belly. Castiel considers extending a hand to her aid, but Ellen jerks her smoothly up before he can make the offer. It is staggering, the rhythm and intimacy these women have built, the reliance they have on one another. They live permanently within the others' sights, enough that one can anticipate the others' movement before it is made. It is a synergy Castiel has witnessed consistently from the Winchester brothers over the months. The tension of distrust between them is still apparent, but the complementary rhythm they have fallen into is nothing short of astounding. One feeds off the other to maintain a constant symmetry. It is a beautiful thing, but it makes Castiel thrum with a secret ache. He will never find that balance himself.
He glances briefly from Jo to Ellen, whose lips curl back from her teeth in a slow grin. Beside her, Jo's shoulders still occasionally buck with laughter. "It's a game," Ellen says. "A drinking game. Say if I start - I say something that I've never done. If you have done it, then you throw one back. Then you say something you've never done, and if I've done it, I take one. Got it?"
Castiel absorbs the information carefully. He has witnessed these games before, in dusty bars and once in Bobby's living room around a warm furnace. Games such as this are meant to learn things about the other participants, and in so doing build friendships. Friendship is something Castiel enjoys, as much as he understands it. The few times Dean has referred to him as a friend, a buddy, or another term of endearment, or when Dean threw his arm across Castiel's shoulders and pulled him along in a stuttered but rhythmic walk, Castiel has felt... whole. Since his connection with Heaven has been severed, a gap has gnawed fiercely in Castiel's center. Any measure of acceptance into the routine of the Winchesters' lives served to lessen that ache. Castiel does not feel quite so lonely when Dean suggests perhaps he cares for him as more than simply a combat in arms.
He thinks perhaps he could build a friendship with these Harvelle women.
He nods, once, and picks up the shot glass again. One corner of Ellen's mouth hooks up as she raises hers as well. "Alright then. I'll start. Never have I ever..." She sinks into contemplation briefly, then claps a hand against her knee with a sigh. "Hell, I don't know. Never have I ever been outside the grand ol' USA."
A spark of mischief glints in her eye as Castiel frowns and tips the glass against his lips. The bourbon is blood-warm and dry, both sweet and bitter as it washes along his tongue. Taste is something he is still adjusting to. It is slightly confusing, all the clashing flavors that make up human food and drink. He does not quite understand why humans complicate things more than necessary, making the process of obtaining sustenance much more complex than it is, but he does not begrudge them the frivolity. From the veil of satisfaction that overcomes Dean's face each time he sinks a bite into a cheeseburger (bacon, mayonnaise, cheese, and extra onions - Castiel has observed Dean long enough to glean this pattern of behavior), he suspects it is worth it.
Jo leans forward to re-fill his glass and smiles brightly when he thanks her. "'Kay, now it's your turn. Never have you ever..."
Castiel wavers apprehensively. "I have never -"
"C'mon, boy, get your head in the game," Ellen interrupts brusquely with a wave of her hand. "It ain't called Never Have I Ever for nothin', you know. You gotta say it right."
An apologetic nod later, Castiel tries again. "Never have I ever..." The words sound clumsy and forced pushing off of his tongue; coming from Ellen, they were a graceful vernacular. He shifts subtly in his chair, feeling suddenly awkward with the expectant stares boring into him. "Taken part in such a game."
Again, Jo's eyes grow wide and surprised at the words. "Wow, Mom. Angels play dirty, who'da guessed?"
Ellen hesitates, but drinks the liquid down with barely a wince. She taps the glass twice on the table and, not taking her gaze from Castiel's face, says, "Pour me another one, Joanna Beth."
The glass fills as the next words fire from her slightly-quirked mouth. "Never have I ever met a bona-fide angel of the freakin' Lord, till now of course." Her lips twitch as Castiel empties the next glass and thanks Jo for filling it up again.
"Never have I ever -" better this time, he thinks - "drunk bourbon before tonight."
"Oh," Jo chuckles. "You're gettin' better at this already, Cas."
At the glow of her laugh beneath the words as she winks playfully in her mother's direction, Castiel feels a sudden surge of warmth pass through his body. He smiles, but apparently it does not translate to the muscles and flesh of his body; this is also something he is still adjusting to. Human mannerisms.
Ellen makes a soft snort of amusement before draining another glass. "Never have I ever let a damn tax accountant yuppie drink me under the table, I can say that."
Castiel tips the bourbon into his mouth, but holds it there as Jo's hands slice through the air with the sudden streak of her voice. "No no no! You don't - you're not supposed to drink if you've never done it either!"
Her face crumples into a sympathetic wince as Castiel considers his position. Returning the bourbon to its glass would be uncouth, but he wonders if bending the rules of the game means losing. Then again, victory was never so much his motivation as friendship was. He slowly swallows and returns the glass to the table, then dabs at his mouth with the wrist of his coat. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."
Jo claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, her grip surprisingly strong for such a small frame. "It's okay. We'll consider that one a freebie."
She refills his glass, smiles when he thanks her again, and the game goes on until Ellen throws up her hands in surrender. Jo grabs her mother's fingers loosely out of the air and shakes them, mumbling, "Come on, Mom, don't be a quitter," but Ellen only shakes her head and points firmly across the table at Castiel.
"You are a mound of trouble waitin' to happen, young man," she slurs. Castiel smiles slightly as she climbs rigidly to her feet and loops an arm around her daughter's neck. Jo's laugh is a bright clap of hope slicing through the stillness as they stumble away, and again Castiel prays that the protection of his brothers might find them in the midst of this war.
~ ~ ~
Later, when his presence in Bobby's photograph is just as expected as the rest of them, and when Sam reaches casually around his shoulder to hold him closely in the frame, Castiel feels perhaps that this strange conglomeration of people gathered around him are the first genuine sparks of camaraderie he has ever felt. In an infinite existence constantly shrouded by the voices and presence of a limitless brotherhood, this small band of humans struggling against a force far greater than themselves is his first true family.
This is also perhaps the first time Castiel has felt certain of anything since drawing Dean Winchester from Hell. But even as the weight of an impossible battle several short hours on the horizon sinks into the air, Castiel feels strangely, fleetingly happier than he has in the entirely of his existence.
Because he knows now, with immovable certainty, that this is exactly where he belongs.
Sam claps him on the back after the shutter snaps and everyone scatters their own directions. Deep tracks of exhaustion have settled in Dean's face as he brushes past Castiel in the kitchen. He lays a hand briefly on Castiel's shoulder as he shifts past, muttering a flat-sounding, "G'night, Cas."
Castiel watches his slow trek up the stairs and returns a quiet, "Goodnight, Dean."
Sam follows not long after, Bobby after him. Jo falls asleep curled into a dusty recliner while Ellen is stretched across the couch with a mug of coffee and one of Chuck's books bent into a tight angle. Castiel watches her for a long moment before wandering towards the window. The light clicks off not long after, with a rustle of movement and a sigh at his back. He does not have to turn to see Ellen's profile sneak into his periphery.
"You sleep at all?"
Her voice is barely above a whisper so as not to wake her daughter; Castiel obliges her the same courtesy and lowers his voice. "I rest, but rarely. My body does not require sleep."
A hushed hum of interest is the only sound between them for a long time. Outside there is a symphony of sounds - insects and animals, the babble of a nearby creek and the groan of wind combed through trees. The world is ending, to be sure, but Castiel does not hear its destruction yet. He hopes this is a good sign.
Behind them there is another meshing of sounds - soft snores from Dean's room, the click of a heater rattling to life, the turning of pages from Sam's room, small puffs of breath from Jo's slightly parted lips. They are all quiet sounds, but their presence serves to remind Castiel of the constant glow of life emanating from this group of random people.
His friends. Family, even.
Ellen blows slightly against the rippling surface of her coffee before taking a careful sip. "I wonder what he's doin' out there. This very second." Her jaw tips pointedly at the window before them. "The Big Bad himself."
Castiel inhales carefully and tastes the warmth of coffee on the air, sugary and rich, plus a medley of other fragments - pollen riding a draft through a crack near the front door, the spice of bourbon still sweet on his tongue. He thinks about Dean's hand on his shoulder and releases the breath. "He is... waiting."
The conversation tapers to silence for a long string of seconds before the hard jut of Ellen's elbow meets his ribs. He jumps, startled, and frowns. She laughs almost soundlessly. "So what'd you think of your first drinking game, huh? You a Jack man or a Maker's man?"
Castiel turns back to the window with a fond smirk. "I enjoyed it. Very much. Thank you for allowing me to-"
"Nah," Ellen cuts in. She leans momentarily against his shoulder with her own. "Was our pleasure. Hell, we might not even be around tomorrow, and it's not every day you get to take whisky shots with an angel."
A quick, sharp pull of grief tugs at Castiel's core; he does his best to smother it beneath an obstinate hope. He sighs as he turns to face her and she mirrors the action. "You'll survive," he whispers. "Whatever happens, I have faith that you will. You should too."
Her smile curves just slightly, but Castiel cannot help but find something about the shift bitter. She is... afraid.
In that, too, they are the same.
"I hope you're right," she replies, then squeezes his shoulder and slips into the shadows.
"Ellen."
He sees her pause and turn before the darkness obstructs her completely, feels her expectant stare. He lowers his voice to a whisper again when Jo stirs restlessly. "For what it's worth, I would count the world rich if it held more souls like yours and your daughter's."
The bend of Ellen's lips is slow but genuine. She dips her head in understanding, once, a simple movement. "Yeah, you ain't so bad yourself, kiddo," she says, then turns her back and walks away.
Castiel smiles as he returns to his post and prays, once more, for the safety of the only true family he's ever known.
Dawn comes silently and without an answer, but Castiel trusts that things will work themselves out for the betterment of all of them.
After all, he is as sure of this as he has ever been about anything - a kind God wouldn't allow anything less.