Fic: Paper Ships 1/?
Title: Paper Ships 1/?
Author: yellow_pomelo
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Blanket from S1 to the end of S5
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~3, 200
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters.
Summary: Castiel wanders into a dusty little town. From there, he might just find his way back to that path between Point A and Point B he lost sight of.
Notes: AU starting from late S5. My first multi-chap fic, so look out for jumps through time.
It’s dim, air thick with smoke and the scent of alcohol; loud with chatter and the low hum of music playing over old speakers.
The crowd tonight is rowdy, not unexpected for a small town bar, and their Friday night cheer is infectious, jumping from patron to patron and to the staff that serve their drinks. Laughter can be heard from all corners of the bar, especially around the pool tables where two men have gathered an audience as they play for more than just bragging rights.
Castiel sits at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall and far removed from the others who have chosen bar stools over booths or tables.
He takes sips from his bottle of beer. One sip every ten minutes. No more and no faster.
He is not to become drunk, but he will be here until closing.
From behind him, Castiel hears the sound of cheering as one of the men sink a miraculous shot that earns him a hundred dollars.
“Well what do we have here,” the bartender smirks as she sidles up to him, cloth in hand drying off a glass, “The Little Engine that could, come back to chug-chug-chug through another Friday night."
Castiel isn’t sure if there are other bartenders, but she is the only one he has seen and he wonders why she bothers spending time on him when he tips poorly and there are many others she could be serving.
She sets down her glass, tucks her cloth away and pulls out a rag from under the counter to start wiping at the bar top by Castiel’s hand, “You know that drinkin’s supposed to be fun, don’t cha?” she arches her brows, continues when Castiel doesn’t respond, “Either that or to ease your worries.”
He says nothing because he is certainly not having fun, but it would take more than all the alcohol on tap to make him feel better. Perhaps more alcohol than the whole state could provide him and Castiel isn’t sure if that's a comfort or not.
He doubts his troubles could be washed away by mortal means. It is better that he not be tempted to try.
The bartender doesn’t seem to mind his continued silence, though her hand stills and her smirk drops, “This here’s the third Friday I’ve seen you, and every time you come, you sit yourself back here in the dark and work your way through your drink like a dippy bird that’s lost his top hat.”
Castiel looks up at her, notes the light brown of her hair and the freckles dotting her cheeks. There are fine lines on her face, marking her tendency towards happiness though he sees that she’s had her fair share of sorrows, “Is there a problem with my drinking habits?”
The bartender is unsmiling now, but there’s a softness to her mouth, “I ain’t kicking you out or telling you to drink faster or nothin’. ‘S just that you seem awfully lonely and you’ve got to know that there ain’t no answers at the bottom of that bottle.”
“I know,” Castiel nods slightly, “But thank you. For your concern.”
The bartender hums and considers him for a moment before she grins, sticks out a hand which Castiel accepts hesitantly, “Name’s Annie. Well, Annabelle - but that’s what everyone called my Grannie.”
“Castiel,” he returns with a faint smile. It’s been a while since he’s had occasion for small talk.
He expects a remark about his name, but Annie doesn’t make one, just starts wiping at a sticky spot near a bowl of peanuts, “You new in town? Seems you’re startin’ up a routine, and I like to know my regulars.”
“I only meant to pass through...” Castiel can hear the men around the pool table setting up their shots, challenges being called and accepted and the rustle of bills being thrown onto the green, “But it seems that I have business here after all.”
A waitress signals her and Annie pulls a few bottles from off the wall behind her, hands them across the bar to the waitress, “You some kinda business man then?”
Castiel takes a sip from his bottle, “You could say that.”
Annie squints her eyes suspiciously, probably keen on weeding out trouble before it can disturb her town.
She has nothing to fear though. Castiel is not here to disrupt the life in this town, but she has good instincts because he is still far from a mild and weary traveller.
“I’m looking after things for my... friend,” the term is inadequate, but Annie doesn’t notice and seems to find the vague explanation satisfactory.
“What’s your friend’s name?” she bends closer, elbows on the bar, “He a local?”
Castiel shakes his head, watches a couple enter the bar and head straight for what must be their regular booth, before turning his gaze back to the woman peering curiously at him, “No.”
Annie bobs her head, lifting one hand to pat her cheek absently as her eyes skitter away from Castiel’s unblinking stare, “I suppose it would be a bit nosy of me to ask what sort of business you’re lookin’ after, huh?”
The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitch upwards as Annie’s lips press into a thin, embarrassed line, “It would be.”
She toots and leans back, hands gripping the edge of the bar, “Not one to beat around the bush, I see.”
“Not unless it’s on fire.”
Annie laughs, surprised, and claps her hands together as she holds back a snort, “You know, you’re not half bad for such a gloomy lookin’ guy,” she flashes him a toothy grin to show she means no offense.
Castiel smiles tiredly. Despite her reaction, he thinks the joke was still wasted on her.
“You got any other friend’s ‘round here, ‘sides the one you’re taking care of business for?”
He shakes his head, gestures at himself to remind her that he’s a stranger, “Not really.”
Annie shrugs, throwing both her arms out and twisting her wrist to encompass all the patrons and the town outside the door, “Well, the folk around here are nice enough - s’long as you’re nice right back at ‘em - and this is a bar,” she flicks her pony tail over her shoulder, “You should get that stick out your ass and go talk to someone.”
Castiel’s eyes slide about the room, taking in the clusters of friends littered throughout the bar, some already propping up drunken companions. There are a few drinking games being played out and a bleary-eyed man trying to figure out how to work the ancient jukebox near the back. The group around the pool tables have divided into two, each side silently supporting one of the players with fists shaking up and down as if chanting and beating war drums.
He turns back to his drink, “I’m fine as I am.”
“Aw, c’mon. You’re breaking hearts just sittin’ here,” she pouts, slapping her hands to her hips, disapproving the waste of attention he apparently garners, “Some of the girls’ve been eying you since your first day.”
Castiel strokes a thumb down the side of his bottle, tips it towards him so he can peer down the neck to gauge how much is left, “I’d rather not.”
Annie is silent for a moment and Castiel thinks she must have gone off to tend to her other customers when she says, voice gentle and sympathetic, “Oh, honey, I’ve seen that look one too many times.”
He looks up to find her eyes creased sadly, watching him with lips pursed.
“What’s her name?”
“Who?” he cocks his head, not understanding what she’s asking.
“The one you’re waitin’ on.”
He listens to the sound of pool cues being dropped on the tables, hollered goodnights as booted feet make their way outside; the sound of backs being slapped, truck engines starting up and drunk victory whoops hurled at the sky.
“I’m not waiting.”
She frowns, confused, “... Someone waitin’ on you?”
Castiel sips his beer.
***
The town is rather small. It has more than just one road and it has a roomy central square, but Castiel wouldn’t bother trying to find it on a map.
He didn’t use a map to find his way here, but this is not his destination, merely a layover as he crosses between cities. Castiel doesn’t really know why he’s travelling as he is. He could transport himself in the blink of an eye, but he came to this town, hitchhiking with truckers and other passersby.
This way is slow and dusty, but Castiel finds himself compelled to use the roads, blacktop cracked and hot in the sun or worn grey and rounded by rains. Somehow it grounds him, it’s comforting and makes him feel as though he is approaching something instead of drifting near-aimlessly like he knows he is.
Maybe he needs to feel like he’s going somewhere.
And he does have somewhere he needs to be - he just has to find it.
Castiel walks down the main street of the town, eyes drinking in the faded store fronts of various shops and the quaint flowerboxes that line the road, trying to add a smattering of colour to the dust.
The streets are paved and there are cars parked by the curb, but he feels like he’s walked into a town of the Old West, like those of the movies that he’d seen during nights spent in motels - riddled with historical inaccuracies but still summarizing the feel of the times - and he thinks he should correct the path of his steps to take him down the center of the street instead of along the sidewalk.
He grins to himself, wondering if it would make him look like the new sheriff in town or the villain come to duel.
Or perhaps just a vagabond in need of water, he thinks as an older woman hurries past him, mouth wrinkling in distaste as she takes in his road worn appearance; faded and grey as the cement slabs she walks upon.
Castiel doesn’t mind. If he wants to be clean, it would take no more than a thought to be so, but like his urge to use earthly transport, he indulges in renting motel rooms and using showers. He even earns money, though by less than honourable methods.
He has come to think of his hustling as a lesson. Not for him, but for the fools who play against him. He reminds them of how easily the world can change, how they can be toppled from their thrones with one strike.
Or he might just be teaching them to horde what they have so it doesn’t get snatched away.
Either lesson is a good lesson.
Of course, in this town there is probably only one bar, two at most. Hustling will be a tricky business and Castiel is glad that food and drink and cleanliness are all human needs he can ignore. All he requires is a place to sleep, and even then, shelter is not a necessity though it would be preferable to being prodded by police officers and ordered off of park benches.
Castiel takes a turn off the main street and finds that the town has an inn instead of a motel. Fitting for the Old West that is not the Old West.
He offers the nervous looking clerk at the front desk a polite smile and obtains a room on the ground floor for the night; makes a few inquiries about local eateries and confirms that there are, in fact, two bars.
The balding clerk answers all his questions carefully, as if expecting Castiel’s next request to be for directions to the nearest bank so he might rob it. Castiel can understand that they mustn’t get many strangers coming through town, and even fewer who appear to have no luggage and are in need of soap and water.
Castiel just smiles again, politely, takes his room key and walks the short distance to his room. It’s still early, and he debates whether it would be better to rest in a series of short naps or to sleep uninterrupted through the night.
He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to dream.
***
“Cas.”
Someone’s calling his name.
“Cas, wake up.”
Not his name - his moniker - but somehow that makes it more important that he answers the call.
“Cas,” he hears the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh, feels a distant stinging sensation, “You feathery bastard. You better wake up or I’m going to pluck you bald.”
Castiel cracks his eyes open - his vessel’s eyes - and tries to focus on the hazy shape leaning over him.
“Oh, thank god,” Dean sits back on his heels, scrubs a hand furiously over his face as he tries to rub the concern from his features, “You scared the shit out of me, man. You can’t keep collapsing like this. You’ve gotta learn how to sleep.”
“Dean,” he says. Not a question because he could never mistake someone else for the man.
Dean leans back in, the worry he’d tried wiping from his face instantly returning; hands closing around Castiel’s shoulders and anxious green eyes peering down at him, “I’m here, Cas.”
“Did you slap me?”
A heavy breath whooshes out from between Dean’s lips and he grins then, pats the side of Castiel’s face a few times where it stings, “And I’d punch you, if it would save your life.”
Castiel frowns, not following Dean’s logic, “You would damage your hand.”
“Yeah,” Dean rolls his eyes, sliding a palm between Castiel’s shoulder blades and helping him sit up, “But how often do you get to save someone by punching them?”
Castiel recognizes that this is a rhetorical question, but thinks back on Dean’s earlier statement and sets out to clarify the situation, “I was not in danger of death and your slap did not heal me, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head, sighing as he drapes one of Castiel’s arms across his shoulders and pulls him to his feet, “Obviously, but I had to drag you off the sidewalk and you were out for hours. I’m just saying that it would be awesome if it helped.”
Castiel regards Dean carefully and thinks he grasps the sentiment, so he tells the man he’s leaning on, “I would punch you too, if it would save your life.”
Dean just looks at him sideways, brows arched and smile wry, “You already did that, Cas.”
***
The next morning finds Castiel sitting by the fountain in the town square, watching the depressingly low level of water work its way up to spurt feebly from the top of the fountain before dribbling back into the main basin. It wasn’t a very good idea to install a fountain in such an arid environment and he’s sure that the townsfolk all regret the decision.
The town is already roused, trying to finish most of their work before the summer heat settles in. He too, should be looking for his next ride, but he feels strangely exhausted and loathes the idea of doing anything.
Normally, sleeping recharges him even if it is emotionally draining, but last night was different. His dreams have never been like those that humans experience as they are memories rather than imaginings, but they have always retained a dreamlike quality. They are soft about the edges, insubstantial, and they could be held at a safe distance like he’s looking in on someone else’s life from very far away.
The dreams from last night had been vivid, complete with both the thoughts he’d had and the sensations he’d felt. Nothing has been that sharp since he was a full angel. They hadn’t felt like memories at all. It had been like he was there again, with Dean, getting dragged down the block to where the car had been parked; Dean scolding him for not sleeping like he needed to and telling him that he wouldn’t catch Castiel if he passed out again.
It was not an enjoyable night, to say the least. It was a memory, and so Castiel couldn’t have changed the course of events, but he had been aware the whole time. Known that it had already happened and it wasn’t real, but still trying to break free from the script. As if by speaking to this Dean in his memories, his dreams, he might fix everything.
Castiel massages his temples, willing his depressing mood away and turning his attention from the sad fountain to the more lively pedestrians strolling about the square.
It’s a Friday, so almost everyone looks energetic, looking forward to the evening when they’ll be done with their work and able to start their weekends.
He can see a shop assistant at the local grocer flapping a hand against the handle of his broom, nonsensical sounds spilling from his mouth as he pretends to play a guitar while sweeping out the threshold of the store. The woman arranging oranges near him adds vocals and slaps out a beat against her thigh, beaming and waving a hand in greeting whenever a customer approaches.
There is an old man sitting on the porch of a restaurant, pipe smoking as he talks animatedly to a waitress wiping down the table next to him. The conversation seems pleasant and relaxed, neither caring that the old man is not actually eating anything and doesn’t intend to order. He probably visits regularly and is accepted as a fixture of the establishment.
Outside one of the bars, a woman watches as a youth stands on a ladder, adjusting the signage above the door. She directs him to rotate the letters a little, drawled orders amused as the lad struggles to straighten the ‘O’ in ‘Watering Hole,’ though it is a perfect circle. When he finally expresses his frustration, challenging her to complete the task herself, she just laughs, ponytail flicking out with the jerk of her head.
It is rather nice, Castiel thinks, that all the townsfolk seem to be in sync with each other. Their routines suggesting the familiarity and comfort that they feel, something Castiel misses.
Then the boy, who can’t be older than fifteen, is climbing down the ladder, shaking his head and waving his arms around as he huffs at the woman who is presumably his boss. He’s not really angry, he exaggerates the movement of his body to show her that he is, but Castiel can see that he is merely frustrated with her demands and is probably regretting the friendship they obviously share.
With one last harrumph, the lad starts off across the square, cutting through the middle where the fountain is. He’s heading for the grocery store and pays Castiel no mind, but as he gets closer, Castiel finds his breath growing short.
Castiel knows he’s never seen him before, but the boy’s face is familiar all the same. His brown hair is shorter and a little curlier and his expression much more relaxed, no dark circles under his eyes and brow free of haunted creases. His skin is tanned darker and his eyes are a little more brown, but it is the lanky beanpole of his frame and the sour pout of his lips that give him away.
Castiel very carefully doesn’t stare as the youth stalks past him, but he thinks he knows now why he is here.
He doesn’t trust in fate anymore, but if ever he needed a sign that not all is lost, he just saw it.
Part 2
A/N: I'm writing as I post, so comments and feedback are much appreciated!
Author: yellow_pomelo
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Blanket from S1 to the end of S5
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~3, 200
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters.
Summary: Castiel wanders into a dusty little town. From there, he might just find his way back to that path between Point A and Point B he lost sight of.
Notes: AU starting from late S5. My first multi-chap fic, so look out for jumps through time.
It’s dim, air thick with smoke and the scent of alcohol; loud with chatter and the low hum of music playing over old speakers.
The crowd tonight is rowdy, not unexpected for a small town bar, and their Friday night cheer is infectious, jumping from patron to patron and to the staff that serve their drinks. Laughter can be heard from all corners of the bar, especially around the pool tables where two men have gathered an audience as they play for more than just bragging rights.
Castiel sits at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall and far removed from the others who have chosen bar stools over booths or tables.
He takes sips from his bottle of beer. One sip every ten minutes. No more and no faster.
He is not to become drunk, but he will be here until closing.
From behind him, Castiel hears the sound of cheering as one of the men sink a miraculous shot that earns him a hundred dollars.
“Well what do we have here,” the bartender smirks as she sidles up to him, cloth in hand drying off a glass, “The Little Engine that could, come back to chug-chug-chug through another Friday night."
Castiel isn’t sure if there are other bartenders, but she is the only one he has seen and he wonders why she bothers spending time on him when he tips poorly and there are many others she could be serving.
She sets down her glass, tucks her cloth away and pulls out a rag from under the counter to start wiping at the bar top by Castiel’s hand, “You know that drinkin’s supposed to be fun, don’t cha?” she arches her brows, continues when Castiel doesn’t respond, “Either that or to ease your worries.”
He says nothing because he is certainly not having fun, but it would take more than all the alcohol on tap to make him feel better. Perhaps more alcohol than the whole state could provide him and Castiel isn’t sure if that's a comfort or not.
He doubts his troubles could be washed away by mortal means. It is better that he not be tempted to try.
The bartender doesn’t seem to mind his continued silence, though her hand stills and her smirk drops, “This here’s the third Friday I’ve seen you, and every time you come, you sit yourself back here in the dark and work your way through your drink like a dippy bird that’s lost his top hat.”
Castiel looks up at her, notes the light brown of her hair and the freckles dotting her cheeks. There are fine lines on her face, marking her tendency towards happiness though he sees that she’s had her fair share of sorrows, “Is there a problem with my drinking habits?”
The bartender is unsmiling now, but there’s a softness to her mouth, “I ain’t kicking you out or telling you to drink faster or nothin’. ‘S just that you seem awfully lonely and you’ve got to know that there ain’t no answers at the bottom of that bottle.”
“I know,” Castiel nods slightly, “But thank you. For your concern.”
The bartender hums and considers him for a moment before she grins, sticks out a hand which Castiel accepts hesitantly, “Name’s Annie. Well, Annabelle - but that’s what everyone called my Grannie.”
“Castiel,” he returns with a faint smile. It’s been a while since he’s had occasion for small talk.
He expects a remark about his name, but Annie doesn’t make one, just starts wiping at a sticky spot near a bowl of peanuts, “You new in town? Seems you’re startin’ up a routine, and I like to know my regulars.”
“I only meant to pass through...” Castiel can hear the men around the pool table setting up their shots, challenges being called and accepted and the rustle of bills being thrown onto the green, “But it seems that I have business here after all.”
A waitress signals her and Annie pulls a few bottles from off the wall behind her, hands them across the bar to the waitress, “You some kinda business man then?”
Castiel takes a sip from his bottle, “You could say that.”
Annie squints her eyes suspiciously, probably keen on weeding out trouble before it can disturb her town.
She has nothing to fear though. Castiel is not here to disrupt the life in this town, but she has good instincts because he is still far from a mild and weary traveller.
“I’m looking after things for my... friend,” the term is inadequate, but Annie doesn’t notice and seems to find the vague explanation satisfactory.
“What’s your friend’s name?” she bends closer, elbows on the bar, “He a local?”
Castiel shakes his head, watches a couple enter the bar and head straight for what must be their regular booth, before turning his gaze back to the woman peering curiously at him, “No.”
Annie bobs her head, lifting one hand to pat her cheek absently as her eyes skitter away from Castiel’s unblinking stare, “I suppose it would be a bit nosy of me to ask what sort of business you’re lookin’ after, huh?”
The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitch upwards as Annie’s lips press into a thin, embarrassed line, “It would be.”
She toots and leans back, hands gripping the edge of the bar, “Not one to beat around the bush, I see.”
“Not unless it’s on fire.”
Annie laughs, surprised, and claps her hands together as she holds back a snort, “You know, you’re not half bad for such a gloomy lookin’ guy,” she flashes him a toothy grin to show she means no offense.
Castiel smiles tiredly. Despite her reaction, he thinks the joke was still wasted on her.
“You got any other friend’s ‘round here, ‘sides the one you’re taking care of business for?”
He shakes his head, gestures at himself to remind her that he’s a stranger, “Not really.”
Annie shrugs, throwing both her arms out and twisting her wrist to encompass all the patrons and the town outside the door, “Well, the folk around here are nice enough - s’long as you’re nice right back at ‘em - and this is a bar,” she flicks her pony tail over her shoulder, “You should get that stick out your ass and go talk to someone.”
Castiel’s eyes slide about the room, taking in the clusters of friends littered throughout the bar, some already propping up drunken companions. There are a few drinking games being played out and a bleary-eyed man trying to figure out how to work the ancient jukebox near the back. The group around the pool tables have divided into two, each side silently supporting one of the players with fists shaking up and down as if chanting and beating war drums.
He turns back to his drink, “I’m fine as I am.”
“Aw, c’mon. You’re breaking hearts just sittin’ here,” she pouts, slapping her hands to her hips, disapproving the waste of attention he apparently garners, “Some of the girls’ve been eying you since your first day.”
Castiel strokes a thumb down the side of his bottle, tips it towards him so he can peer down the neck to gauge how much is left, “I’d rather not.”
Annie is silent for a moment and Castiel thinks she must have gone off to tend to her other customers when she says, voice gentle and sympathetic, “Oh, honey, I’ve seen that look one too many times.”
He looks up to find her eyes creased sadly, watching him with lips pursed.
“What’s her name?”
“Who?” he cocks his head, not understanding what she’s asking.
“The one you’re waitin’ on.”
He listens to the sound of pool cues being dropped on the tables, hollered goodnights as booted feet make their way outside; the sound of backs being slapped, truck engines starting up and drunk victory whoops hurled at the sky.
“I’m not waiting.”
She frowns, confused, “... Someone waitin’ on you?”
Castiel sips his beer.
***
The town is rather small. It has more than just one road and it has a roomy central square, but Castiel wouldn’t bother trying to find it on a map.
He didn’t use a map to find his way here, but this is not his destination, merely a layover as he crosses between cities. Castiel doesn’t really know why he’s travelling as he is. He could transport himself in the blink of an eye, but he came to this town, hitchhiking with truckers and other passersby.
This way is slow and dusty, but Castiel finds himself compelled to use the roads, blacktop cracked and hot in the sun or worn grey and rounded by rains. Somehow it grounds him, it’s comforting and makes him feel as though he is approaching something instead of drifting near-aimlessly like he knows he is.
Maybe he needs to feel like he’s going somewhere.
And he does have somewhere he needs to be - he just has to find it.
Castiel walks down the main street of the town, eyes drinking in the faded store fronts of various shops and the quaint flowerboxes that line the road, trying to add a smattering of colour to the dust.
The streets are paved and there are cars parked by the curb, but he feels like he’s walked into a town of the Old West, like those of the movies that he’d seen during nights spent in motels - riddled with historical inaccuracies but still summarizing the feel of the times - and he thinks he should correct the path of his steps to take him down the center of the street instead of along the sidewalk.
He grins to himself, wondering if it would make him look like the new sheriff in town or the villain come to duel.
Or perhaps just a vagabond in need of water, he thinks as an older woman hurries past him, mouth wrinkling in distaste as she takes in his road worn appearance; faded and grey as the cement slabs she walks upon.
Castiel doesn’t mind. If he wants to be clean, it would take no more than a thought to be so, but like his urge to use earthly transport, he indulges in renting motel rooms and using showers. He even earns money, though by less than honourable methods.
He has come to think of his hustling as a lesson. Not for him, but for the fools who play against him. He reminds them of how easily the world can change, how they can be toppled from their thrones with one strike.
Or he might just be teaching them to horde what they have so it doesn’t get snatched away.
Either lesson is a good lesson.
Of course, in this town there is probably only one bar, two at most. Hustling will be a tricky business and Castiel is glad that food and drink and cleanliness are all human needs he can ignore. All he requires is a place to sleep, and even then, shelter is not a necessity though it would be preferable to being prodded by police officers and ordered off of park benches.
Castiel takes a turn off the main street and finds that the town has an inn instead of a motel. Fitting for the Old West that is not the Old West.
He offers the nervous looking clerk at the front desk a polite smile and obtains a room on the ground floor for the night; makes a few inquiries about local eateries and confirms that there are, in fact, two bars.
The balding clerk answers all his questions carefully, as if expecting Castiel’s next request to be for directions to the nearest bank so he might rob it. Castiel can understand that they mustn’t get many strangers coming through town, and even fewer who appear to have no luggage and are in need of soap and water.
Castiel just smiles again, politely, takes his room key and walks the short distance to his room. It’s still early, and he debates whether it would be better to rest in a series of short naps or to sleep uninterrupted through the night.
He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to dream.
***
“Cas.”
Someone’s calling his name.
“Cas, wake up.”
Not his name - his moniker - but somehow that makes it more important that he answers the call.
“Cas,” he hears the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh, feels a distant stinging sensation, “You feathery bastard. You better wake up or I’m going to pluck you bald.”
Castiel cracks his eyes open - his vessel’s eyes - and tries to focus on the hazy shape leaning over him.
“Oh, thank god,” Dean sits back on his heels, scrubs a hand furiously over his face as he tries to rub the concern from his features, “You scared the shit out of me, man. You can’t keep collapsing like this. You’ve gotta learn how to sleep.”
“Dean,” he says. Not a question because he could never mistake someone else for the man.
Dean leans back in, the worry he’d tried wiping from his face instantly returning; hands closing around Castiel’s shoulders and anxious green eyes peering down at him, “I’m here, Cas.”
“Did you slap me?”
A heavy breath whooshes out from between Dean’s lips and he grins then, pats the side of Castiel’s face a few times where it stings, “And I’d punch you, if it would save your life.”
Castiel frowns, not following Dean’s logic, “You would damage your hand.”
“Yeah,” Dean rolls his eyes, sliding a palm between Castiel’s shoulder blades and helping him sit up, “But how often do you get to save someone by punching them?”
Castiel recognizes that this is a rhetorical question, but thinks back on Dean’s earlier statement and sets out to clarify the situation, “I was not in danger of death and your slap did not heal me, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head, sighing as he drapes one of Castiel’s arms across his shoulders and pulls him to his feet, “Obviously, but I had to drag you off the sidewalk and you were out for hours. I’m just saying that it would be awesome if it helped.”
Castiel regards Dean carefully and thinks he grasps the sentiment, so he tells the man he’s leaning on, “I would punch you too, if it would save your life.”
Dean just looks at him sideways, brows arched and smile wry, “You already did that, Cas.”
***
The next morning finds Castiel sitting by the fountain in the town square, watching the depressingly low level of water work its way up to spurt feebly from the top of the fountain before dribbling back into the main basin. It wasn’t a very good idea to install a fountain in such an arid environment and he’s sure that the townsfolk all regret the decision.
The town is already roused, trying to finish most of their work before the summer heat settles in. He too, should be looking for his next ride, but he feels strangely exhausted and loathes the idea of doing anything.
Normally, sleeping recharges him even if it is emotionally draining, but last night was different. His dreams have never been like those that humans experience as they are memories rather than imaginings, but they have always retained a dreamlike quality. They are soft about the edges, insubstantial, and they could be held at a safe distance like he’s looking in on someone else’s life from very far away.
The dreams from last night had been vivid, complete with both the thoughts he’d had and the sensations he’d felt. Nothing has been that sharp since he was a full angel. They hadn’t felt like memories at all. It had been like he was there again, with Dean, getting dragged down the block to where the car had been parked; Dean scolding him for not sleeping like he needed to and telling him that he wouldn’t catch Castiel if he passed out again.
It was not an enjoyable night, to say the least. It was a memory, and so Castiel couldn’t have changed the course of events, but he had been aware the whole time. Known that it had already happened and it wasn’t real, but still trying to break free from the script. As if by speaking to this Dean in his memories, his dreams, he might fix everything.
Castiel massages his temples, willing his depressing mood away and turning his attention from the sad fountain to the more lively pedestrians strolling about the square.
It’s a Friday, so almost everyone looks energetic, looking forward to the evening when they’ll be done with their work and able to start their weekends.
He can see a shop assistant at the local grocer flapping a hand against the handle of his broom, nonsensical sounds spilling from his mouth as he pretends to play a guitar while sweeping out the threshold of the store. The woman arranging oranges near him adds vocals and slaps out a beat against her thigh, beaming and waving a hand in greeting whenever a customer approaches.
There is an old man sitting on the porch of a restaurant, pipe smoking as he talks animatedly to a waitress wiping down the table next to him. The conversation seems pleasant and relaxed, neither caring that the old man is not actually eating anything and doesn’t intend to order. He probably visits regularly and is accepted as a fixture of the establishment.
Outside one of the bars, a woman watches as a youth stands on a ladder, adjusting the signage above the door. She directs him to rotate the letters a little, drawled orders amused as the lad struggles to straighten the ‘O’ in ‘Watering Hole,’ though it is a perfect circle. When he finally expresses his frustration, challenging her to complete the task herself, she just laughs, ponytail flicking out with the jerk of her head.
It is rather nice, Castiel thinks, that all the townsfolk seem to be in sync with each other. Their routines suggesting the familiarity and comfort that they feel, something Castiel misses.
Then the boy, who can’t be older than fifteen, is climbing down the ladder, shaking his head and waving his arms around as he huffs at the woman who is presumably his boss. He’s not really angry, he exaggerates the movement of his body to show her that he is, but Castiel can see that he is merely frustrated with her demands and is probably regretting the friendship they obviously share.
With one last harrumph, the lad starts off across the square, cutting through the middle where the fountain is. He’s heading for the grocery store and pays Castiel no mind, but as he gets closer, Castiel finds his breath growing short.
Castiel knows he’s never seen him before, but the boy’s face is familiar all the same. His brown hair is shorter and a little curlier and his expression much more relaxed, no dark circles under his eyes and brow free of haunted creases. His skin is tanned darker and his eyes are a little more brown, but it is the lanky beanpole of his frame and the sour pout of his lips that give him away.
Castiel very carefully doesn’t stare as the youth stalks past him, but he thinks he knows now why he is here.
He doesn’t trust in fate anymore, but if ever he needed a sign that not all is lost, he just saw it.
Part 2
A/N: I'm writing as I post, so comments and feedback are much appreciated!