Eyes of the World

fic: silence (like a cancer grows)

lies_unfurl — Thu, 20 Feb 2014 04:17:07 GMT

title: silence (like a cancer grows)
rating/warnings: R/drinking, mentions of (if not suicidal thoughts) not wanting to live forever, brief mention of Sam not eating properly
pairings: none
summary: post 9.13. Sam and Dean don't talk about what was said before, and things go entirely south.

On AO3

Sam and Dean stop overnight at a motel on their way back to the bunker. They don't talk as they take their usual beds; not a good night passes between them as Dean shuts off the light.

There's nothing left to say, Sam thinks. Nothing unless he or Dean apologizes for what they said before, and the apocalypse will come and pass again before that happens.

In the middle of the night, he wakes up to the sound of Dean crying, his mattress creaking as he thrashes in his sleep. The words, "Sam," and, "Alistair," and, "Gadreel," are all audible between short gasps of breath and half-sobs. For a moment Sam lies there, listening. He's become unaccustomed to Dean's nightmares as a result of having their own rooms in the bunker.

He considers getting up and waking his brother. He could do it. They could talk, and put this behind them.

Sam rolls over and pretends he can't hear it.

On Sam's end, Kevin makes a cameo in almost every single one of his dreams. Sometimes he's whole, sometimes his eyes are gone and he follows Sam with a blank stare.

Sam never screams when he wakes up.

They don't go on hunts. Their days are spent exploring their home and searching for some way to track down Abbadon, Gadreel, Metatron. The bunker is so, so quiet.

"You're troubled, both of you," Cas says softly, perched on the edge of Sam's bed. Ever since Cas cleansed him of Gadreel, they have been spending more time together, just the two of them. Usually it passes in companionable silence; Sam thinks that he prefers that to conversation.

"I guess we are," he finally says, screwing around on his laptop rather than looking at the angel.

"Something that still… baffles me about humanity. A conversation between the two of you could fix this. Or at least it could start the process of fixing it."

Sam closes his eyes. "I don't know if it can be fixed."

"I sometimes wonder if all the messes that I made could have been prevented with speech." Castiel rises from the bed and walks over to Sam. Sam feels the calming weight of a hand on his shoulder. He keeps his eyes closed.

"I can't defend what Dean did," the angel says quietly. "But I can say that it hurts me to watch the two of you hurt so much, when there is nothing I can do."

"Pretty sure he hurt me more," Sam replies. The words sound petty even to his ears, and he hates that so much. Why can't he talk about how angry he is without seeming like the bad guy? It isn't fucking fair. None of this is.

It feels like Gadreel is still with him, sometimes. The way that Dean glances at him and instantly looks away, like Sam is a walking, talking reminder of everything that Dean did wrong.

Sam doesn't even have any pictures of Kevin, he realizes one morning as he robotically peels an orange. There are one or two of Ellen and Jo, a handful of Bobby. There are definitely pictures of Dad, of him and Dean when they were kids, even though those are mostly kept in dusty storage lockers scattered across the Continental 48.

But none of Kevin. Not like Kevin was ever around to do anything even remotely fun. His entire time with the Winchesters was probably the most miserable period of his miserable, short life. Why the fuck would he have wanted to remember any of it?

It shouldn't bother Sam, but photos are tangible proof of existence, and these days he needs something tangible to hold on to, to remember Kevin by. Fuck, he owes it to Kevin to prove that he lived once upon a time.

But there are no photos, and there is nothing he can do about that at this point.

He can't remember the last time he said, "Good morning," "Night," "What're you making?" or anything like that to Dean. Sometimes he talks to Cas, but for the most part, there is no one left to say anything to.

There are days when he can't remember when he last ate. He doesn't know if he is avoiding the kitchen because Dean is so often in it, or just because it doesn't really seem to matter anymore.

When he showers, he swears he can hear whispering in the falling water. Sometimes it sounds like Kevin; sometimes it sounds like all of the thoughts that are boiling inside of him, all of the things that he ignores and tries not to think in the first place, let alone to voice.

His thoughts and his dreams are raucous and screaming. His voice is scratchy from disuse.

When he sleeps, he's never alone. And it isn't just Kevin – it's every creature that's ever found its way under his skin. Sometimes he's staring into a wide and bloody future, the taste of Azazel fresh on his lips. Sometimes Meg writhes between his bones and in his veins, taunting and vibrant and alive.

Other times he's riding high with Lucifer, doing what he was always meant to do. The king of Hell was a million times stronger than Meg or Gadreel, and in those dreams Sam feels complete.

"I hope you and Dean can make your peace," Castiel says to Sam. It's the end of a short speech, an announcement that he is vacating the bunker for the time being, turning his attentions to fighting Metatron in the fields.

"Please," Cas adds, after a moment of silence. "Please, just talk to him."

Sam hugs the angel, and doesn't say anything.

When Sam can't take it anymore, when the effort that it takes to keep silence feels toxic and tangible in his bloodstream, he finds the whiskey that Dean keeps hidden and he drinks it.

Dean finds him an hour later, sitting at the kitchen table with less than an inch of amber left at the bottle's bottom. Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes never leave Sam.

"It was better when it was Lucifer," he says drunkenly to Dean, ignoring his brother's devastated look. "At least I chose him."

Sam wakes up in his bed with a pounding headache. Dean is sitting next to his bed on an old wooden chair that he must have dragged in. His eyes are closed, his hands folded in front of him, like he's praying.

When Sam sits up, Dean opens his eyes. He's been crying, Sam thinks.

"So are you gonna drink until you die?" Dean asks quietly. "Is that it? You'd rather drown in your own puke than talk to me?"

"I got drunk once," Sam mumbles around the thick, fuzzy lining in his mouth. "Stop being so dramatic."

Dean snorts, but passes him a bottle of water that was resting on the nightstand. Sam guzzles it down, spilling half of it down his chin. He should say thank you, but he doesn't.

"We can't go on like this," Dean finally says as Sam polishes off the last of the water. "It's not… it's not working. Man, I can't spend all day waiting for things to explode. I'm sick of it."

"You sure as hell haven't done anything to change it."

"I didn't think it was all up to me." Dean starts to rise, then slumps back down into the chair. "You're killing yourself, Sam. Fuck, you're killing me. And – And I can't take it anymore, I've been trying to give you space and let you come around but it's not working. Sam, please. Please just let me know how I can fix this. We can't live like this."

His head is pounding, and his hands are fists around the sheets of his bed. "You want to live forever, and I don't, and that's the fucking crux of it," he yells. "Don't you get it?"

"I get that you're not dying on my watch!" Dean shouts back. "When the hell have I ever been content to let that happen? Why do you think I'm just going to be okay with it now?"

"Because after everything we've been through, what else is there? We're gonna die one day, Dean. You can't stop it. And what the fuck is there left? Another apocalypse for us to fight? Are we gonna save the world again? We're never going to settle down, or retire, or do anything that'll make us happy. It's always going to be fighting. And maybe I'm sick of that."

He's crying, he realizes. His throat is burning despite the water, and his body just feels so heavy.

Dean stands up, but not before Sam sees the tears in his own eyes.

"I'm not okay with that," he says quietly. "And I'm not gonna be. Don't you ever think that I'll just let you die on my watch. It's not going to happen."

"Maybe it's happening right now," Sam counters. "No matter how slowly."

Dean walks out the door without answering. He shuts the door with an audible click, and then Sam is alone, and the bunker is silent once again.

fic: After the Storm

lies_unfurl — Sun, 19 Jan 2014 03:33:52 GMT

Title: After the Storm
Rating/warnings: PG-13/language and spoilers
Pairing: Castiel/Sam (mild)
Summary: 9.10 coda. Sam and Castiel deal with the fallout of Gadreel leaving.

Notes: also on AO3 if that's what you're into.

Once the Impala has disappeared down the road, Sam closes his eyes and tries to just feel. The January rain drips from his hair and onto his face in uncomfortably frigid rivulets. Other than the drizzle, the night is still and windless – it'd be tolerable, really, if not for the rain. The wetness chills Sam to the bones, making him feel as though he will never know warmth again. His hands shake as he rubs them together in a desperate attempt for heat.

He swallows. There is something missing inside of him, although he cannot pinpoint what.

A noise beside him brings him out of his reverie. He opens his eyes to see Castiel standing next to him, his hand hovering halfway to Sam's shoulder.

"We should go," Castiel says quietly. "The rain isn't beneficial to you."

Cas holds the uncomfortable gesture for a moment longer before his hand drops to his side. Sam can still see his concern, though, written in the tilt of his head and the corners of his eyes.

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, we probably should." Sam turns to the car that Dean left, blinking. "Are there keys, or…?"

"I'll drive," Castiel replies, decisively striding to the car. Sam frowns and follows. He wonders when Cas picked up that particular skill.

The ride is somewhat bumpy (Cas has apparently never heard "right and tight" when it comes to taking right turns, nor has he mastered the skill of slowing down at a yellow light) but it's not too unpleasant. It's cold, given the apparent lack of heating system, but tolerable other than that. There's no attempt to make conversation, although Sam does catch Cas gazing repeatedly at him, still with that worried expression. He tries not to smile when it happens for the third time.

"Does this motel look suitable?"

Sam glances out the window and sees a generic-looking long building called the Norton Inn. There are only a few cars in the parking lot, but there's nothing that screams danger to Sam.

"If you think it's safe, then I'm sure we'll be fine."

Castiel nods and turns into the lot (frankly, a lot sharper than necessary). A bored-looking clerk hands them a key to a room with two singles. Sam finds the quarters to be indistinguishable from any other place he's ever spent the night in.

"Do you want food?" Castiel asks, hovering next to the bed that Sam isn't sitting on. "I'm sure I could find something…"

"No thanks. I just want to sleep. Unless you're hungry?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't feel hunger, at the moment. Once this grace starts fading, maybe… but there's no need to worry about that now."

Sam isn't sure if he knows what Castiel means by "this grace;" there are too many unsorted memories haphazardly strewn across his mind. He will deal with them in the morning, he decides as he ducks into the impossibly tiny bathroom. Right now, he needs to rest more than anything.

He's splashing hot water onto his face when the feeling that he is incomplete strikes again. It is so sudden and so dizzying that he stumbles, sitting hard on the toilet. He bangs his elbow on the counter's sharp corner in the process. An involuntary grunt of pain escapes him.

"Sam?" Castiel calls.

"I'm all right," he replies. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to figure out what's different – why he feels so chilled inside, why everything is at once duller and more real than it has been for months.

Unbidden an image of Kevin's burned-out eyes come to mind. Sam feels sick.

The sensation fades in a few minutes, and Sam finally forces himself to dry off. He has no pajamas to change into, nor any clothes for tomorrow, for that matter.

Screw modesty, he thinks, and strips down to his boxers. The motel is heated, and it is nothing Castiel hasn't seen a thousand times before.

Indeed, Castiel gives him only a cursory glance when he gets out of the bathroom; Sam gets the idea that he is being checked for injuries more than anything else. Castiel is apparently satisfied by what he sees (or doesn't see) because he returns to lying flat on his back, just staring at the motel ceiling. The position probably isn't conductive to sleep, Sam thinks as he shuts off the light and climbs between his own sheets, but then again, Cas probably doesn't need that if he doesn't need food.

"Let me know if you require anything," says Castiel from his prone position in the darkness.

Sam smiles, mildly surprised by the fondness in his voice as he replies, "I will."

Sleep comes quickly, and when it does, it's bad.

The dreams all blur together in bloody scene shifts –a slit throat there; a plea for life here; a sword in a gut, hands awash with bright grace; Metatron looking so damn pleased with himself—

Kevin is the worst. He is so trusting as Sam approaches him, and he dies confused, not knowing who it really was. There was no blood, but the smell of seared flesh permeates throughout every other scene.

"You're a monster," says one of his victims, and in his dream, Sam cannot figure out if he is being ridden by Gadreel or Lucifer, or if it is just him, him on his own; if he was always the one killing, if he could have stopped it at any time—

He wakes up without fanfare. No screaming, no shock, no confused flailing as he tries to figure out where he is. He's just shivering, so, so cold, the covers tangled around him entirely useless.

All of this is so unusual that he isn't surprised when Castiel sits down next to him.

This time, Castiel's hand actually does make it to his shoulder. "Sam. You were having a nightmare."

Sam almost rolls over to look at the angel, but that would require dislodging Castiel's hand, and it's too comforting at the moment for that. "I know. I—"

His voice cracks as it dawns on him how empty he feels without Gadreel. There is no longer any grace twisting in the spaces between his organs, threading through his bones and veins. His heart is pumping of his own accords, his diaphragm contracting as it normally would. His thoughts are raw and uncushioned by the haze of angelic grace. Sam can see and feel as he hasn't been able to for months, and everything feels bland and meaningless.

"I miss him, Cas," Sam says. Again, his voice cracks, and he has to squeeze his eyes closed. He hasn't cried from a nightmare for a long time; or at least, he hasn't cried in front of another person.

"It doesn't feel right. He isn't here anymore, and it's just me, like it should be, but… oh, god, it's like when I was coming down from demon blood. I feel so fucking weak, and so alone--"

He clenches his hands into fists, trying to ground himself with the pierce of his fingernails. "What the fuck is wrong with me? I kicked him out… he killed so many people and angels when he was here; why do I feel so wrong without him? Am I that screwed up?"

"I didn't recognize it before," Castiel murmurs. "I'm sorry."

He squeezes his shoulder and adjusts his position on the bed before elaborating. "Of course you aren't 'screwed up.' You touched upon it yourself, Sam. It's… withdrawal, for lack of a better term. Grace doesn't build a physical dependency – not really. It suppresses all of your bodily systems for a period of time, so you might find yourself getting sick more frequently while your immune system catches up, or having minor problems with food from disuse of your digestive system. It's unpleasant, but your body doesn't physically require Gadreel. But mentally, you've become used to having a presence inside your head. Angels are comforting to their vessels, however intense the experience might be for them. We were made as creatures of light, Sam. To a human, that's… soothing, I suppose. It's why vessels are sometimes rendered incapacitated once we leave them. Not everyone can deal with being left alone."

"The one time I met Jimmy, he seemed pretty happy you were gone." The words come out sounding more accusing than he had wanted them to, and he almost apologizes for that, but Castiel answers first.

"That's true, but even though my departure from him was involuntary, I still took the time to ensure that he remained put-together. I eased his emotional dependency for him. I doubt Gadreel did the same for you."

"Probably not," mumbles Sam.

The room is quiet for a moment, just Castiel rubbing Sam's shoulder softly with his thumb, and Sam trying to organize his thoughts. "How long will it last?"

Castiel makes a small noise in his throat. "He was vesseled in you for around four months. But the fact that he was keeping you suppressed the entire time means that your soul must have been completely surrounded by grace, almost impenetrably so."

He pauses, doing whatever sort of angel calculus one does to determine the length of withdrawal time from angel grace. "It will get worse before it gets better. But it should be over within two weeks."

Sam wonders if he can take two weeks of feeling like there's a void inside of him, like his soul is on an island separate from all other people. This will be the loneliest he has ever been while detoxing, he thinks. Dean is gone, and Sam is not willing to beg for his return. Not yet, anyway.

"You won't go through this alone," Castiel says quietly. His hand stills, just resting on Sam's shoulder. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."

Sam makes a small noise in his throat. "I think I'd like you around for awhile, Cas. If you don't mind."

"Of course not."

Without being asked to, Castiel shifts his position so that he is lying alongside Sam, close to the edge of the bed ill-suited for holding two grown men. Cas doesn't give any sign of discomfort, though. He just wraps his arms around Sam and holds him, resting a comforting hand over his heart.

"Being in close proximity to me might help," he informs Sam, sounding almost hesitant. "The grace within me is not even my own, let alone Gadreel's, but it should ease the sensations you're feeling a bit, at least."

Sam relaxes against Castiel, closing his eyes. Maybe it's the grace thrumming through the angel, or maybe it's how Castiel's forehead is lightly pressed against Sam's neck. It could be how Castiel's fingers are splayed over his heart, too, or else the way Sam is finally warm. But whatever the reason, having Castiel there is undeniably helping him.

"Thanks," Sam says quietly.

He could swear he feels Castiel smile against his neck as he replies, just as softly, "Rest, Sam. I will be here when you wake."

So Sam does, trusting fully that the promise will not be broken. And when he wakes up the next morning, he is unsurprised to find that it has been kept.

The Guilty Ones

lies_unfurl — Wed, 25 Dec 2013 04:45:42 GMT

Title: The Guilty Ones
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Warnings: attempted suicide, spoilers through 9.06
Word count: ~3200
Summary: Cas takes some bad news very poorly, and Dean doesn't do a great job of making things better.

a/n: written for darkforetold for the 2013 spn_j2_xmas exchange.

"Look, Cas." Dean hesitates, fingers drumming nervously over the surface of the kitchen table. Castiel sits across from him, waiting expectantly. He looks so hopeful, so glad to be back in the bunker, if only for a short while (because god knows Ezekiel would throw a fit if he stayed longer than to find a newer, safer apartment/ a place of employment not tracked down by the angels.)

"You know Kevin's been working on those tablets?"

"I'm aware."

"Yeah. Well, it… hasn't been going so great. Ancient languages, long dead tongues, you know the deal. So… well, we kind of got Crowley to help out."

Castiel raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything. Dean nods and rambles on, "It wasn't a great idea, I know, but we were kinda pressed for options, and Crowley… we don't think he was lying. Nothing Kevin's been able to get done since then suggests that what he told us wasn't true—"

"Dean. What did he tell you?"

Dean sighs. He looks at Castiel and says slowly, "He told us that the spell that you – that Metatron performed, it's irreversible. We can't get your grace back, Cas."

All at once, it's as if a shade has been yanked down over Castiel's face. His eyes turn blank, and he sits up slowly. "Well."

"It's still possible Crowley lied. And we're not gonna stop trying. Trying to re-angel you, I mean. But Sam said you deserved to know, and I guess I agreed with him."

"I agree as well. Thank you for telling me this, Dean." Castiel stands up and pushes in his chair. His arms are held stiffly by his side, and he looks over Dean's head as he speaks.

"No problem." Dean gets up and awkwardly claps Cas on the shoulder. "Chin up. Human life's not so bad, hey?"

"No," Castiel agrees, still staring distantly in the direction of the kitchen sink. "I think I'll go… read. Goodbye, Dean."

Dean doesn't think he's seen Castiel pick up a book once during his entire stay at the bunker, but Cas is taking this well, and he doesn't want to press the point. "Bye."

Cas walks quickly out of the kitchen. Dean watches him go, and then wanders off to find Sam.

He finds his brother in the living room on his laptop. Without preamble he says, "I told him."

"Did you?" Sam looks up from the screen and frowns. "How'd he take it?"

"Pretty well. I mean, he didn't flip out or anything." Dean shrugs. This whole experience has left him feeling shaky, with a lump in his throat that makes it hard to talk. "I don't know."

"About as well as we can hope for, I guess." Sam sighs. "You going to go check on him, or…?"

"Nah. I mean, I think he wanted to be alone. I'm gonna go to the target range, I think."

Sam nods. Dean's grateful that Sam knows better than to press, to make some comment about Dean defaulting to shooting shit when things get uncomfortable. "Yell if you need me."

"Of course."

Dean doesn't think about much on his way to grab a gun. The door to Cas's room is shut, and he convinces himself to not slow down as he walks past it. Cas is used to bad news. This is nothing to worry about.

Then he steps into his room, takes one look at the weapons' rack on his wall, and immediately comes to the conclusion that he should, in fact, be pretty damn worried.

Dean doesn't even notice which rifle is missing as he grabs his pistol and books it down the hall.

"Cas!" He pounds on the door, not even feeling the pain of impact in his knuckles. "Open the fucking door, Castiel!"

When no sound comes out, he takes the pistol, aims at the knob, and shoots until the jamb is disintegrated and the door swings open. He tosses the pistol aside (disregarding every rule about gun safety that his father ever taught him) and bolts inside.

Castiel sits frozen on his bed, one of Dean's guns in his hand. His face is pale and empty. On the floor next to him, his bedside lamp is smashed.

Dean's mind blanks out and his entire world reduces to Castiel and the weapon that he holds. His rage forms a sort of white noise in his head as he crosses the room and snatches the gun out of Castiel's hands. He tosses it aside as carelessly as he did with the pistol.

It discharges, and Castiel jumps, and for some reason, that's what does it for Dean. The fury in his mind is hot and crackling, raging through his blood and powering his actions.

He grabs Castiel by his shirt collar and slams him against the wall. "Don't you fucking dare," he snarls. "Suicide? Fucking really, Cas? What, so you make a huge deal about how you fell for humanity, you sacrificed everything to stop the Apocalypse and keep us safe – and then the minute you're faced with being one of us for the rest of your shitty mortal life, you just give up? You're fucking pathetic."

Castiel's hands were clawing at Dean's hands to get him to release his grip, but as soon as the last sentence comes out, they still. Castiel stares at Dean, looking shattered. His eyes are wide, and unshed tears reflect the room's awful fluorescent lights.

Dean lets go, and Castiel sinks to the floor. He sits hunched with his back pressed against the wall, still not speaking.

"Do it." Dean stares at Castiel, still unable to form a coherent thought beyond the rage he is feeling. "Go on, I'm not going to stop you."
Castiel closes his eyes and brings his hands up to his face, and a distant part of Dean wonders if Castiel has ever cried – really truly sobbed, not just shed an occasional tear – before.

"That's what I thought," Dean snaps. He turns away and picks up the rifle. He notices Castiel's angel sword lying on the ground next to the bed, and he sticks that through his belt.

And then he walks out the damaged door, closing it behind him as best he can, and hightails it to the shooting range, where he loses himself in the constant rhythm of the gun, and decidedly doesn't think about what he's just done.

*
When Dean slinks into the kitchen much later, he finds it unoccupied save for Sam – no, for Ezekiel. The electric blue of the angel's grace flashes as Sam enters.

"I repaired the door that you damaged," he says without preamble. "Castiel was too distraught to notice me. I doubt he'll pick up on the change, but if he does, I can see he forgets it soon enough."

Dean stares at the angel as he mindlessly pours out a bowl of cereal for supper. "Why?"

"Because your brother would have noticed the door, if I had done nothing, and he would have asked you about it, and you would have been unable to lie to him. And you know full well that if Sam knows about Castiel's little hissy fit, he would fight against letting Castiel go out on his own. This is the easier option." He frowns at Dean. "You should consider your actions more carefully. Our situation is fragile enough with Castiel around; you have a responsibility to not compromise what we have with such spur-of-the-moment choices."

The speech is cold and calculating, completely inhuman. Dean closes his eyes and wishes that the only other people in the bunker were Sam, Castiel, and Kevin. "Fine," he says. "Whatever. Thanks, I guess."

Ezekiel nods and then, in the blink of an eye, it's only Sam sitting at the table, carefully peeling an orange. "Cereal?" he asks with disapproval. "Dude, I'll make something. Cas is probably hungry too."

"Nah." Dean sits down at the table. His movements all feel slow and deliberate, burdened by the weight of all the things he's keeping secret. "I checked on him earlier. I think he's sleeping things off."

"Oh." Sam frowns, then shrugs. "I can look in on him tonight, I guess."

"If you want to." Dean eats a few spoonfuls, but it's dry and bland-tasting, and he can't really swallow right. He sighs and stands up, pouring the rest back into the bag. "I'm just not that hungry tonight," he says, feeling Sam's eyes on him.

"You feeling sick?"

"No. Just…" Dean runs his fingers through his hair. It's still wet from the shower he took after spending nearly two hours on the shooting range. Droplets of water cling to his fingers, and he absentmindedly wipes his hands on his pants. "I dunno. I think I'll go to bed. It's getting late anyway, isn't it?"

Sam shrugs again, breaking off a segment of his orange. "I haven't been sleeping that much. Haven't needed it I guess."

"Huh. Well, I just wanna hit the hay. Night, Sam."

"Night, Dean."

Dean absentmindedly walks back to his room. As soon as he sits down on his memory-foam mattress, though, he knows that he won't be able to sleep. All he can think about is how devastated Castiel looked when he told him to take the gun, to, to go and fucking kill himself, and what the fuck is wrong with Dean? Shit, he would probably be drinking himself to death if he got dealt Cas's hand.

"Fuck," he mumbles, pacing around the room, and then he repeats the word louder and punches the wall. The pain is sharp and immediate, especially over his knuckles, which are still sensitive from where he pounded against Castiel's door earlier that day. A trickle of blood runs down his index finger.

He stares at the cracked, broken skin for a moment, and then he walks out of his door and up the hall to Castiel's room. This time, the door isn't locked, and Dean lets himself in, even though he really has no right to.

Castiel is in the same place that he was hours ago, all crumpled against the wall. His knees are pulled to his chest, his head lolling back. He tracks Dean warily with reddened eyes as he comes in and shuts the door behind him. He stands over Castiel, just watching him, not really sure what to say.

"What?" Cas asks. His voice is raspy, and Dean figures that he probably hasn't had anything to drink since his crying binge. He's probably on the verge of dehydration, if not fully there already.

"Have you come to order me to go through with… it again? To return my means of ending everything?"

"Shut up," Dean says as he sits on the edge of Castiel's bed. It doesn't escape him that the place where he's sitting, it could have been the sight of… of something very bad if he hadn't intervened when he did. "You're a mess."

"You're bleeding," Cas replies. Dean glances back down at his hands and then shrugs, since it's not as if he can deny it.

They sit in silence for a minute or two, Castiel eventually taking his gaze from Dean and returning to staring vacantly out at the wall across from him. The atmosphere is heavy and tense, and it makes Dean so uncomfortable that he cracks first. "Look, about what I said earlier—"

"You didn't mean it. You were worried about me, and that worry, in the form of anger, was what motivated your words." Cas glances back up at Dean for a second, quirking his lips up in a bitter smile. "Is that it?"

There is something almost mocking about Castiel's words that makes Dean want to indignantly deny it, but, well. Castiel is right. So he just nods.

"I figured. I know."

A large part of Dean just wants to nod and say, So, we're good? No harm, no foul? But he isn't so foolish as to think that would be a good idea, and he knows that if in a day from now or a year from now he finds Castiel dead by his own hand, he will undoubtedly blame himself.

So he just waits for a moment longer, parsing through words and phrases of reassurance or something to toss out to Castiel. Everything is somewhat clichéd, and nothing seems to fit.

Then Castiel himself speaks, straightening up and leaning closer to Dean. "You cannot possibly imagine how… devastating it is to know that I will be one of you until I die whatever meaningless and insignificant death I inevitably do. No," he snaps when Dean opens his mouth to protest. "Don't. Humanity is acceptable, even a thing to be revered, when the person experiencing it was… was meant to be human. I was not intended to live in this form. I am not supposed to breath like you, hunger like you, feel like – like humans do. I am wrong. Don't you understand?"

Dean tries to choose his next word carefully, but… just… what the hell is he supposed to say to that? "No, Cas, I really don't."

Cas sighs and slumps back against the wall. "It is immaterial."

"You almost just killed yourself, dude. I don't think that's 'immaterial.'"

"Being an angel was… different. I felt differently, I processed things differently. Humans have emotions. Desires."

"So, what? You'll throw everything away just cause you've got a sex drive or something?"

The look that Castiel gives him is loathing, disgust, and hurt all in one. "Get out."

"No. What, is that it? You don't want to be human because you've got a sex drive now?" Castiel looks away, and Dean can't believe it. "Seriously?"

"Of course not! Do you really think that, that something so trivial would make me behave in the way that I did? You disgust me." His face is reddened as he pushes himself up, swaying and pressing a hand to the wall for support.
Dean stands to and reaches out to support him, his hand falling on Castiel's shoulder. "Hey. No shame in—"

"Whatever you are thinking, it is wrong. I am not upset about my humanity because of anything so… animalistic."

"Then what?" Unthinking, Dean pushes Castiel into the wall again, though not with so much force as he did the time before – the panic-driven rage of before is now just a churning combination of frustration and worry. "Tell me, Cas. Because I don't think I can help you until you do."
Castiel stills against the wall. "Let me go."

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

"Dean."

"No." Dean presses forward, grabbing Castiel's wrists in his hand and raising them above his head. "Tell. Me."

"There is nothing to tell—" and as Dean adjusts his position to keep Castiel still, his leg brushes against Cas, and—

Oh.

He stares at Castiel, who's red-faced and whose eyes are tightly squeezed shut. "Cas?"

"Leave me be," Cas breathes out. "I do not want to feel; I don't want – I want to be distant, to love without complications and without – without thought of requital—"

"Me?" Dean asks. Belatedly he lets Castiel go and steps away. He carefully keeps his eyes on Castiel's face, and not where he just undeniably felt the press of a hard-on.

"Of course." Castiel opens his eyes and looks at Dean, his face heavy with sarcasm; it brings to mind the first time that he ever got drunk. "Who else?"

Dean closes his eyes, and he knows what he has to do, and he blanks everything else out of his mind. "Castiel."

"What?"

"Take off your shirt."

Castiel stares at him. "I don't want your pity."

"I'm not offering pity." He keeps his gaze calm and straight, ignoring whatever reservations he should have – that this is wrong for Cas, that he hasn't slept with a guy in years. "Tell me I'm wrong, tell me this isn't what you want right now. And if that's the case, I'll leave and we won't talk about this again."

Castiel closes his eyes and swallows. "I'm a mess."

"Doesn't matter."

Castiel holds his gaze. Then, very hesitantly, he begins to unbutton his shirt. He pauses for a second when the deed is done, and then he slowly shrugs this off. Then he just stands there looking at Dean.

"You sure you want this, Cas?"

It's hard to see in the darkness of the bunker, but Dean can make out the bob of Castiel's Adam's apple as he swallows. "More than you know."

Dean nods. Then he steps forward and he kisses Castiel. Cas's lips are dry from the crying, and Dean can feel dried tear streaks as he cups his face, but that doesn't really matter to him.

He guides Castiel to the bed, pushing him down and straddling him with his knees. "Stay still," he says, and Castiel freezes.

Dean kisses him on the lips again, tracing his tongue along their curve. Castiel moans quietly, and Dean wonders how many times he's done this – not that long, he would bet.

He lets his lips trail down Castiel's neck, sucking and marking his pale skin. Cas has been dutiful to Dean's request for motionlessness, but he stirs and jumps a little when Dean uses his teeth close to his collarbone.

"Dean," he murmurs, and Dean presses a finger to his lips.

His lips move down Castiel's bare chest, tracing the lines of his ribs. He reaches down and squeezes Castiel's crotch, awkwardly unzipping and unbuckling his jeans with one hand. He tugs down Castiel's boxers, and Cas arches up as he does.

Dean kisses the tip of Castiel's cock and then takes it into his mouth, his hands rubbing circles over Castiel's hips as he does. He can hear Cas making small gasps, can feel as he bucks up. Dean takes the length of his cock in, tracing his tongue along its veins.

It doesn't take long for Castiel to come with a quiet gasp, his hands clenching and pulling the white bed-sheets up tight. Dean swallows down the come and doesn’t push himself upwards until Castiel has slumped back on the mattress, breathing hard.

Dean swings his legs to the side so he's sitting while Castiel lies there. He tries to ignore the magnitude of what he's just done – fuck the consequences, if this'll keep Cas going for another day. Fuck it, because any talk would have been meaningless comfort, and Cas wouldn't have believed it, and Dean knows that. Don't actions speak louder than words, anyway?

But in the darkness he can feel Castiel watching him. Then Cas asks quietly, "Did that… mean something? Anything? Or was it just you trying to ground me, or reassure me of… something?" He pauses and then says, "Was that a sign of, of requital? Or was it something else altogether?"

It's the one question that he doesn't want to hear. Dean closes his eyes and doesn't answer.

"I think I'd like you to leave," Cas says, and Dean gets up and walks out the door, quietly shutting it behind him. Ezekiel's words, You should consider your actions more carefully, are ringing in his ears. Castiel is sitting in his room with no more hope than before Dean intervened, and Dean can feel his own hard-on straining in his pants, and he doesn't even know where he stands, and nothing is really okay.

fandomaid

lies_unfurl — Tue, 12 Nov 2013 22:35:40 GMT

If anyone feels like "commissioning" me for a fic, I have a threat at fandomaid, found here. It's for a good cause, so if you're interested, there you go!

fic: Long Before Dawn

lies_unfurl — Wed, 10 Jul 2013 23:44:39 GMT

Title: Long Before Dawn
Rating: R
Pairings: onesided Dean/Castiel; mentions to past Castiel/OMCs
Warnings: Abortion, mentions of past non-con, underage (both Dean and Castiel are 17)
Summary: Castiel has been acting cagey for a long time when he finally asks Dean for a ride to an undisclosed location.

Castiel goes up to Dean fifth period Thursday. "I need a ride," he says without preamble. "Saturday. It's going to be most of the day, but… I really need it. I don't have the money for another cab, and—"

"Hey," Dean says, his raised hand cutting off Castiel's near-ramble. "It's cool, I'm free Saturday. When do you want me to pick you up?"

And Castiel looks so, so relieved, like he's just going to hug Dean right there (and Dean certainly wouldn't object to that, to having Castiel and his intoxicating omega scent – but no, no they're friends nothing else remember that Dean, you idiot). "Thank you. I'm in your debt."

"What are friends for?" Dean asks breezily. "So where're we going?"

Cas tenses up and looks away. "Um. Do you mind if I… don't tell you in advance? I know where it is," he adds quickly. "Don't worry about that. Just… I've got reasons."

And that's weird. Cas in general is kinda weird, granted. But he's usually not this cagey, and on top of everything else as of late…

But again, they've been friends for a long time, so Dean figures he can trust Cas on this. "Okay," he agrees. "See you… nine on Saturday?"

"That sounds excellent. Thank you, Dean."

Cas scurries off, his books pressed to his chest. Dean watches him go and tries not to be too worried.

Dean tries to make small talk during the ride, he really does. About the weather, Sam's soccer games, how AP Language is such a bullshit class and why the fuck is Dean even in AP; he's not a genius like Cas – but Cas's answers are all vague, noncommittal, like he's only half there.

Which, really, describes Castiel as of late perfectly.

They've been friends since third grade, way before the whole alpha-omega distinction existed. Castiel was the one who came up and scared away some asshole middle-schoolers who thought Dean would be an easy target, given that his mom was dead and he lived in a dilapidated house with an unmowed lawn and junkies for neighbors.
Dean probably could have fought them off even then; he was always a tall kid. But it was Castiel's seething stare and personal threats (which were really fucking dark for a third grader) that got the jerks to leave Dean alone. And they had bonded, and they had been friends – best friends – ever since. Even though Dean was an alpha, and Castiel was an omega, and it wasn't really… normal to see two opposites be so close without them fucking.

It wasn't that Dean would object to that. But there was no way Cas would be up for it, and Dean liked to think of him as being above the classic male-alpha stereotype; that he was more than a knot with a body attached. They were friends. That was good.

And then… Dean stares at the unfamiliar streets in front of him, trying to figure out when things went bad. A couple of months ago, Cas got mono and was out for two weeks. And when he came back he was… different. Withdrawn and moody, and he smelled kinda gross, all slathered up in some cologne that definitely wasn't his usual dab of Old Spice.

Dean had asked him about it, obviously. He's not really into talking about his feelings, but he isn't a bad friend.

Castiel had said he was fine, though, that he was just freaked out about falling behind after missing so much school. Dean hadn't missed the way his eyes flickered away when he said that; seven years of friendship, and he knows damn well when Castiel is lying. But he let it go, because Cas knows that Dean is there for him, and Dean knows that Cas will talk when he's ready, if he wants to.

"Turn left," Cas says, startling Dean out of his reveries. Dean does as asked. It's a beautiful spring day, the perfect sort to be out for a drive.

"Still not gonna tell me where we're going?" he asks lightly, trying to draw Cas out. He looks downright miserable, all wrapped in a sweatshirt and hunched against the window, like Dean is driving him towards his execution or something.

"We're almost there. Drive down this road for about five minutes, and then bear right. It’s maybe half a mile after that." Castiel hesitates and then adds, "Dean, if you don't want to wait… I mean, I can probably afford a cab back home. A one-way ride. It's going to be a few hours and there isn't much to do down here and I know you're probably going to be uncomfortable I'm really sorry—"

"Hey." Dean reaches over and touches Cas's arm. Cas starts, and then shakes his head.

"Sorry," he says again, quieter. Dean is overcome with the urge to know what's going on, what happened to the tough, ass-kicking Cas of before. Where Castiel's dry humor went, and what the hell happened to the text messages that he would send Dean at night, about whatever miscellaneous things were on his mind.

Dean knows, though, that Cas won't respond well to those questions, so he files them away. "Of course I'll wait. I brought a book, actually. The one Bateman gave us? I haven't started it, and since that essay is due on Wednesday, I figured I probably should."

Castiel relaxes back into his seat. "It isn't too bad. It's a play, actually. I don't know if it's your sort; it's kind of… slice-of-life-ish, but I'm enjoying it."

"Worthy recommendation, then. I figure it's about time I actually read something, instead of just getting the Spark Notes. Bear right here?"

"Yeah." Castiel swallows as Dean makes the move. They drive for about a minute, and then, "Park here."

Dean obeys, not really paying attention to the signs as he focuses on squeezing in between two SUVs. Once the move is made, he turns and looks at Castiel, who's looking even paler than before. "Hey. You okay?"

"I'm fine. Let's go." Cas gets out without waiting for an answer, and Dean, shrugging, follows him.

It's only after the Impala is shut and locked that he looks up at the building and reads the sign. Wichita Center for Omega-Beta Assistance.

Suddenly the spring day doesn't feel so warm anymore. Dean looks over at Castiel, who is deliberately avoiding his gaze, and one by one the pieces slide into place.

The heady cologne, disguising his scent. The sweatshirts. The way he flinches at all of Dean's casual touches.

The two weeks he was absent, and some assorted factoid that Dean gained from one health class or another: that first heats almost always last a week or more, are generally longer than the three-to-five days of mature omegas.

"Cas," he says, trying to keep his voice low and steady. "Cas, who did this to you?"

Castiel swallows and stares down the street. "Dean… I have an appointment; I don't want to miss it…"

There are so many things that Dean wants to ask, and there are so many heated emotions boiling underneath his skin, because there is someone out there who had hurt his best friend, and that someone is going to fucking pay for it. Dean is unquestionably going to make sure of that.

But right now Cas needs him to do something else, to just be there for him. He isn't outright asking for it, but Dean is good at reading between the lines, and right now there's a whole goddamn litany of things that Cas wants, all buried beneath his single request for a ride. And Dean will be fucked if he isn't going to give them all to Castiel.

So he nods and tentatively puts an arm around Castiel's shoulders, and draws him in once he's met with no resistance. "Of course. C'mon, let's get you inside. We can… we'll see what happens later."

The clinic is sterile and polished, the only disruptions from the blandness of it all being colorful posters on STDs, domestic abuse hotlines, and what to do with an unwanted pregnancy.

Castiel goes straight up to the receptionist, and as he's giving her his information, a door opens and a nurse steps out.

"Castiel?" he asks.

Dean watches as Cas looks up and nods, observes the welcoming smile on the nurse's face. "Right this way, please."

And Castiel follows him into a narrow hallway and the door is shut, leaving Dean alone in the waiting room of the abortion clinic – well, no, he thinks as he sits down. It's a clinic for betas and omegas, and it surely helps with more than… that. There will be legal advisors here too, and social workers, and financial planners…

But Castiel isn't here for any of that. He's here to… to terminate a pregnancy that fucking no one knew existed. Probably not even his family, Dean reasons, seeing as he was the one who drove Cas here. Which is probably for the better; the vast majority of Castiel's siblings and extended family that live in the sprawling mansion on the outskirts of Lawrence are total assholes.

Dean seats down and takes out his battered copy of Our Town. During the next three-and-a-half hours, he gets through the entire first act and about half of the second.

He just… images keep flashing through his mind of Castiel in his heat with some shady guy taking advantage of him. Sometimes it's a total stranger who breaks into the Milton mansion; sometimes it's one of Castiel's own relatives (and Dean knows how fucked up that is, but, well… some of Cas's cousins make Dean's skin crawl, and he wouldn't put this past them).

In any scenario that Dean's twisted mind spits out, he is always overcome by how alone Castiel must have felt, how isolated. Given the situation that he's in now, the chances that he would have been brought to a hospital are slim to none; they're damn effective at preventing pregnancies these days.

Dean should have been there for him. He should have read the signs, should have pushed harder to find out what was wrong. There's nothing to justify him not doing so, and there's nothing that can make up for what Castiel has been going through the past few months.

And Dean knows that all he can do is sit there and wait, and still be right where he is now when Castiel comes back out. Take things one step at a time. He can't think of any other way to handle it.

It's around four o'clock when a different nurse holds open the door to the same hallway, and Castiel comes shuffling out of it. His face is paler than usual, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly. Dean thinks he might be walking with a limp, but he's moving along so slowly that it's hard to tell.

As soon as he's in the waiting room Dean is by his side, offering a steady arm. "Hey," he says soothingly – or as soothingly as he can manage under the circumstances, anyway. "How are you feeling? Can you make it out to the car?"

"Of course." Castiel tugs away from Dean's arm – not forcefully, but just tiredly, resigned. Like he wants to be alone. And Dean totally, totally gets that, so he quickly steps away from Cas and lets him have his space. "Dean, I have to make a follow-up appointment. Do you mind waiting for a few more minutes?"

"Of course not. I'll drive you to that too, if you need it."

"Thank you."

When Cas is all set making the appointment, the two of them walk out side-by-side into the Kansas afternoon. The sun is blindingly bright after being in the windowless clinic, but even as Dean shields his eyes, he's still stealing glances at Castiel.

Yeah, he's definitely pale. And his face is pinched into a grimace. Dean doesn't really know much about the procedure, let alone the aftereffects of it, but it doesn't take a medical expert to figure out that Cas is in some sort of pain.

"You can take the back bench if you want," he tells Castiel. "I mean, to lie down in. If you're tired."

"Thank you, but I think I'll be all right."

Dean shrugs and slides into the driver's seat. "Your call. Hey, do you need me to stop at a pharmacy or anything?"

Castiel shakes his head as he pulls his door shut. "I'm fine."

It's a laughably large lie, but Dean just nods his head and pulls out of the clinic. Castiel is in charge here, and if saying that makes him feel better, well, so be it.

They're about ten minutes away from Lawrence when Dean asks, "Do you want to go home? Or do you wanna sleep over? Dad's cooking tonight; he's making burgers, I think…"

Dean tries not to sound too desperate, but it's nearly impossible to disguise his preference for the second option. He doesn't feel right bringing Castiel back to the mansion: not only would he be totally on his own with no one around him knowing anything about what he just went through, but Dean still doesn't know what happened, and it's entirely too likely that someone at Castiel's house broke into his room when he was going through his heat and… and…

"I'm not very hungry, but if you wouldn't mind me staying over… well, I would appreciate that. More than I could really express." Castiel glances over at Dean, and he's doing that thing where the corners of his eyes relax and a sheen of sincerity comes over them and makes his pupils all soft. Dean rarely sees that look, and it's a strange – but not entirely unwelcome – deviance from the usual tough set of Cas's eyes.

"I can't thank you enough for all of this. I know I've dragged you in without explaining everything, and I will eventually, I promise. It's just…"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Dean interrupts. Castiel looks like he might cry, and Dean has never seen that happen, and he never wants to. "What're friends for?"

"I mean it, though," Castiel insists. "There are few people in the world who would just go along with everything you've seen today, and… and I needed that very much. And if you'd grant me the refuge of your house for a night, I would be even further indebted to you."

"You're not indebted to me at all. You'd do the same for me." Which is a really lame thing to say, seeing as Dean can't exactly get pregnant. But it's the sentiment that counts, really, and Dean knows that Castiel understands what he means.

"Still." Castiel leans back in his seat and sighs. "I appreciate this. Really."

"I know. It's okay."

Dean doesn't know what he means by that last part – that it's okay that Cas thinks he owes Dean something? That it wasn't any problem to give up a Saturday to drive his best friend to get an abortion? That whatever Cas has gone through in the past, he's never gonna go through again; Dean will make sure of that?
Dean honestly doesn't know what he's trying to say. But he can't think of anything to add, so he leaves the words hanging in the air, and they drive the rest of the way home in silence.

It's almost 7:00 by the time they get back home. John is sitting in the kitchen, sipping his coffee and reading a book when the two of them stumble in.

He glances up and raises his eyebrows. "Castiel. Nice of you to come by for a visit."

"He can spend the night, right, Dad?" Dean interjects before Cas can respond to the pleasantries. They used to do it all the time when they were kids, but the sleepovers had abruptly ended once they hit high school. It wouldn't be proper for an omega to spend the night at an alpha's house, after all.

John hesitates, but Dean gives him a look. John holds his eyes for a moment, and then he gives a slow nod. "Of course. There're some leftover hamburgers in the fridge for you two, and you can heat up some fries or whatever. Sam's upstairs, doing homework or something."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Winchester," Castiel says quickly. They had spoken out in the driveway about what to tell John, and Cas had said that it was all right for Dean to tell him the truth. Dean knows that Castiel doesn't want to be the one to bring up the subject, though, and he absolutely shouldn't have to be. When John asks what the hell is up (which he undoubtedly will the moment Cas is out of the room) then Dean will be honest with him. He can wait until then, though.

Castiel turns to Dean. "Would it be at all possible for me to use your shower? I'm afraid I'm not very hungry; I'm actually rather tired."

"Of course. Grab a pair of my sweats; you know where they are. You can have the bed. Seriously," he adds as Cas opens his mouth to protest. "The couch is in front of the television; it's the best damn bed in the house."

Castiel tilts his head, and he's got that look of intense gratitude on his face again. "Thank you, Dean."

"No problem." He scratches the back of his neck, not quite comfortable with the amount of appreciation Cas is showing. "Um, have a good shower."

And finally Cas manages a small smirk. "I'm sure I will. Good night, Mr. Winchester."

"Night, Cas."

Then Castiel is gone, and John turns to Dean. "What the hell is up with that kid? Doesn't come over for two months and then suddenly he's stayin' the night?"

Dean sinks into the chair opposite his father, and gives the short version: how weird Cas has been acting, where they went today, how shaken he seems. He doesn't mention his theories about what happened to Castiel, but he knows that his father is going to come to the same conclusion.

"Shit," John murmurs when Dean is done. He seems genuinely shaken by the story. Not that Dean expected any less – his dad has pretty much watched Castiel grow up alongside Dean; he's the closest thing to a third son that he has.

"Tell him he can stay for as long as he wants," John finally says. "I'll handle his family, if anyone comes askin' around. And Dean…"

"Yeah?" Dean asks when his father just trails off.

"Don't… I know you won't, son, but just don't take advantage of him, all right? He's gonna be looking for someone to turn to, and you're going to be there. And I'm telling you right now, you don't want to start anything up without a clear head, okay? Be a friend, and nothing else."

Dean is blushing something furious. "I won't, Dad. Don't worry."

"Good." The shower has stopped running by now, and John reaches over and awkwardly pats his hand. "I'm proud of you. There aren’t a lot of alphas your age who could handle something like this."

"Thanks, Dad." Dean stands up, cracking his back. "For everything."

John just nods, and Dean leaves him be in the kitchen. He goes upstairs, spends ten minutes making fun of Sam's algebra homework and getting the day's stories from his brother (the gist of it is that nothing interesting happened), and then he pads down the hall to his room.

He cracks the door open carefully. It's dark, the shades on his two windows both pulled down. "Cas?"

His eyes are drawn to the corner of his room, where his bed is tucked against the wall. In the dim light from the hallway he can just make out Castiel curled up on the bed.

Dean's first assumption is that Cas is sleeping, and he's about to shut the door and give his friend some space. But then Castiel stirs and sits up, a blanket draped around his shoulders. "Dean."

"Shit, man." He quickly pulls the door shut behind him. Even in the virtually nonexistent light, it was obvious that Castiel had been – still was – crying.
Dean makes his way through the clutter of his room and over to his bed. Once there, he pauses, hesitating. "Do you want to be alone?" he asks, although it's kind of late, given that he's already halfway to being seated on the bed.

Castiel shakes his head and scoots over so that his back is against the wall. "Actually, no. I would very much appreciate it if you stayed."

Dean nods and gingerly sits next to him. He kicks off his shoes and draws his legs up on to the mattress.

For a moment they both sit there, neither knowing just what to do. Then Castiel makes a small noise and rubs at his eyes, and Dean automatically reaches out an arm and wraps it around Castiel's shoulders.

To his surprise, Cas leans into the embrace, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. Dean takes the cue and moves closer to Cas, holding him, letting him sink down until he's using Dean's chest as a pillow.

Dean strokes his hair, just like he used to stroke Sam's when his brother was younger and had a fever or something. "You wanna lie down?"

Castiel's voice is faint, even in the silence of the bedroom. "That would be nice."

So Dean adjusts their position, carefully sliding down until they're both stretched out on the mattress with Dean's back to the wall. One arm is still wrapped around Cas, who has drawn his legs up into a rough imitation of the fetal position.

Dean winces at the thought. He doesn't really want to be thinking in terms of pregnancy-related concepts at the moment.

He continues to run his fingers through Castiel's damp hair as they lie there together. He's trying to figure out what to say, how to even begin to make this better. There's no sort of manual for this thing, though Dean wishes like hell that there were.

It's only when he feels Cas flinch beneath his hands that he finally has something to ask. "What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

There's a beat, and then Castiel answers, somewhat reluctantly, "A bit. Cramps. The doctor said it was normal; he gave me meds, but there's only so much they can do. They'll pass."

Dean makes a quiet noise in his throat. He's not good at verbal comfort, but…

Carefully, Dean adjusts the arm he has wrapped around Castiel so that his hand is splayed across Castiel's torso. He gently begins to rub small circles in the area beneath Castiel's rib cage, increasing the pressure slightly at Cas's soft sigh of pleasure.

"Is this okay?"

"It's excellent."

Castiel gradually relaxes under Dean's touch, and they just… lie there. Side-by-side on Dean's bed, Dean breathing in Castiel's scent, Castiel quietly accepting what little Dean has to give.

There are so many things that Dean wants to say, to ask: who did this to you, where can I find them, how do you want them to die. But he can tell that Cas is nearing sleep, and his friend deserves that after what's gone down today. So Dean keeps his mouth shut for now, and continues to quietly take away all the pain that he can.

fic: At the End of the Rope

lies_unfurl — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 04:02:45 GMT

Title: At the End of the Rope
Rating/warnings: R/ suicidal descriptions
Spoilers: general season 8 spoilers
Pairings: gen
Summary: Naomi gives Castiel an impossible order. He finds a way out.

Notes: this is a short (<1000 words) piece to help me get over the block that's been keeping me from writing. There might be another part; I'm not sure.

This is crossposted to AO3 and tumblr. Most of my fics should be archived on those websites as well as here. To be honest, I've been a bit irritated with livejournal lately -- it's been really slow; it took me several times just to get the "update" page loaded. I don't plan to jump ship anytime soon, but I do feel that it's good to have other options.

"Kill the Winchesters."

Castiel stares at the angel in front of him. He doesn't think he's heard her words right. He can't have, because if he did, then he's just been giving an impossible order. "What?"

"You heard me." She –Naomi, he remembers; her name is Naomi and she has made him do so, so many terrible things that he wishes he had never done – rises from her desk. Her agitation is palpable, and the raw power that flickers around her makes the air in the room crackle. "They have learned about the angel tablet, Castiel. They'll turn around and lock all of us in Heaven, so that we may never carry out our Father's work. You must stop them before it is too late."

"No." He stares up at her, still feeling shock and numbness more than anything. "I – I can’t. The Winchesters are good people; they're my friends—"

"Are they?" In a single movement she is looming over him, and suddenly he's back to before, when there was something drilling through his true form to get to the power coiled in his wings and in his limbs, inside his very essence. He remembers the raw pain of something twisting the strands of his very being, reweaving them into something that he didn't want to be.

"Do you think you are exempt from the powers of the tablet? Do you think that the Winchesters are under the illusion that the ritual with somehow imprison every angel but the one who has deluded himself into thinking that they care for him?" Her wings flare out behind her, sharp and so bright that they leave spots in Castiel's vision. "You're wrong. They'll throw you away just as they will me, and Ezrael, and Azariah, and every one of us that's left. You must kill them Castiel."

A headache starts to pound behind his eyes, and he recognizes what it means – that he is going to obey, even though every single bit of his being is screaming protests, even though there is absolutely no part of him that wants to do this. The headache means that he is going to act as Naomi's puppet, and the Winchesters are going to die, and he doesn't have a choice—

Castiel starts to rise, feels his wings unfurl against his will, preparing for a flight to Earth. He is a second away from leaving Heaven, probably minutes away from killing the two best men the world has ever known when he looks back at Naomi and realizes how foolish he's being.

Because (and Castiel thinks this is a fundamental truth, albeit one he's been blind to for most of his existence) there is always, always a choice. No exceptions. Even if the choice is between living or dying, it is still there, because the whole point, the whole meaning behind this grand game, is that humans and angels and everything else that lives are supposed to choose. They are supposed to make their own paths based on their own decisions, and there is never a point at which there is no decision, because that would mean that God had cleared the path already, and Castiel knows for certain that the Lord is not in the habit of doing that.

A minute before he acts, an old thought, created in a different, but no less desperate time springs to Castiel's mind—

Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it.

He can feel the noose tightening around his neck now as he stills his wings and looks at Naomi. She does not recoil, and he is sitting on a high-up tree branch, watching the world go by beneath him, waiting for the right moment to fling himself from his perch.

"What are you doing?" she snaps. "I gave you an order. Kill the Winchesters."

His nose is bleeding; he blinks, and his vision temporarily blurs because of the liquid pooling in his eyes. The pain inside him as he stands and watches her is beyond measure, like a thousand knives with barbed blades all twisting in different directions.

He stands on the branch, hands pressed against the trunk. The rope chafes his neck, but that doesn't really matter, because it will be over soon.

Castiel meets Naomi's eyes. He could probably read a thousand things in them – confusion, doubt, anger, wrath – but the wind is blowing, ordering him to go, and he just doesn't have time for that.

"No," he says, and for a very brief second, he thinks of Anna as he reaches inside himself, wraps his hand around his Grace, and pulls, tearing and snapping the threads that make him. It's like an inferno has erupted in his chest, self-destruct mode going off. Naomi screams and covers her eyes as he burns, and it hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, but he has made his choice, and he knows that this path is a thousand times better than the one that he would have gone down if he had killed the Winchesters.

The air rushes past Castiel, and he can no longer feel the noose as he plummets down to Earth.

lies_unfurl — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 22:54:24 GMT

Title: Confession
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Rating/warnings: R/misuse of Catholic prayers; PWP
Summary: "Forgive me, Sam, for I have sinned."
Word Count: ~750
Notes: Second of two fics written for a Sassy Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr. Prompt was "Prayer."

"Forgive me, Sam, for I have sinned."

Castiel writhes beneath him, sweaty and come-apart. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips parted so as to let out tiny, desperate gasps. Sam almost doesn't hear the phrase through all of the moans that he's making, but by some streak of luck, he does pick up on it.

Sam stills his rutting for a moment, pauses with his cock alongside Castiel's. Castiel lets out a small whine. "What was that, Cas?"

"I said," and Castiel opens his eyes to look at Sam, and it's one of the most beautiful sights Sam has ever seen, his eyes unmistakably blue even in the darkened room, pupils blown with arousal, "forgive me, for I have sinned."

"What do you mean?" Sam leans down and kisses him. Since falling, Castiel has lost the taste he used to have – something stormy and powerful, lightning and ozone trapped beneath a thin layer of flesh and bone – but he's gained something distinctly human and distinctly him. Sam loves it.

"It has been—" he thrusts up into where Sam's large hand is wrapped around both their cocks; the friction is enough to get something similar to a whimper out of Castiel, "—far too long since my last confession."

It's a prayer, Sam realizes. The confession prayer; he never went to a Catholic church, but he knows his Christian lore well enough. Castiel is addressing it to him, as if he were his God.

Normally, Sam would worry about that. He would think about exactly what that meant, about if it were a warning sign for something because seriously wrong with his fallen angel.

But right now, in the heat of the moment with Castiel pressed hard against his own length – right now, Sam is pretty fucking turned on.

"Go on," he tells Castiel, jerking his hand up over their smooth, sweaty skin. "What do you have to confess?"

"I—" Castiel lets out a small keen as Sam rocks his hips up, ensuring slow, constant pressure. "I have strayed from my assigned path and lost my wings. I can no longer hear my sisters and my brothers."

"Is that it?" Sam asks, thumb circling along the heads of their dicks. "Do you have anything else?"

"I hurt you and Dean. I hurt many people, and I regret that, and wish that I could repent it."

The words come out of his mouth in low, desperate bursts as Sam increases the pace of his hand. He's sitting back now, admiring how Castiel looks beneath him – the hard plane of his chest, his mussed hair, the way his lips are slack with pleasure. At the severity of his words, though, Sam stops his looking and leans down to kiss Castiel again. This time it's long and it's slow, as best a blessing as Sam can give.

When they finally break apart, Sam lays his free hand over Castiel's chest, feeling the steady pounding of his heart. "You're forgiven."

"There's one last thing." Castiel meets Sam's eyes for this, and he looks so damn sincere that Sam is a little afraid of what comes next. "What I confessed to earlier, about falling?"

"Yeah?" Sam runs his hand up and down, up and down. He's close, so close to his own finish, but he keeps himself focused on what Castiel has to say. "What is it, Cas?"

"I don't regret it." And Castiel rocks his hips up and comes, and the sticky liquid that coats Sam's hand and his own cock is enough to drive Sam over the edge with a shout. He ruts against Castiel, semen and sweat coating both of them as their orgasms shudder through them in near-perfect synchronization.

Sam collapses next to Castiel when it's all done. He pulls the fallen angel close, wrapping his arms tight around his torso, and, leaning forward, whispers into his ear, "I would absolve you of that sin, but I don't think it's wrong. Fuck, I know you weren't wrong to fall, Cas, because it brought you here. And I wouldn't trade that for anything."

Castiel makes a quiet 'hmm' noise. He rolls over and kisses Sam, slow and soft. Sam can't tell if he agrees or not; if he really thinks he sinned by falling or what, but that's something to concern himself with later. Right now he has Castiel in his bed and in his arms, and Sam doesn't think there's anywhere else he'd rather be.

fic: Through Heaven's Eyes

lies_unfurl — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 22:49:37 GMT

Title: Through Heaven's Eyes
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After Castiel says something he regrets, he visits Sam in his dreams to try to make things up. It turns into an attempt to convince Sam of his self-worth.
Notes: This is the first of two fics written for a Sassy Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr. The prompt was, "Sam’s soul is the brightest thing Castiel has ever seen, and after he calls him an abomination, Castiel immediately regrets it. He goes to Sam in his sleep and apologizes."

"Sam, of course, is an abomination."

The words slip out of Castiel's alcohol-loosened lips without a second thought. It's something that he was first taught a long time ago, something that Heaven re-indoctrinated into him during his reeducation: Lucifer's vessel is to voluntarily consume the blood of demons, damning himself to the Pit for all eternity. No pure and righteous creature would ever do that.

But he hasn't actually believed that for a very long time. Not since he actually saw Sam Winchester's soul.

Sam is… he doesn't know how to describe it. He's… pure. The demon blood should have tainted him, left a huge, dark blotch over the spread of his soul, but it didn't. Instead, Sam's soul is clean and open, thrumming with a sincerity the likes of which Castiel has never before seen, not in all his centuries of watching saints and prophets live and die.

The words still come out of his mouth, though, and he sees the way Sam's face twitches, the guilt of all his sinful actions written clearly over his features. And for one of the first times in his life, Castiel feels a very potent regret, and so he vows to himself to somehow make it up to Sam.

Later, after the Whore of Babylon is dead and Dean is gone, after Castiel's entire body has turned into one giant ache, and after Sam has collapsed into his bed, his face buried into his pillow and his shoulders shaking with either anger or despair at his brother's leaving – after all of that, Castiel gets his chance to make it up to Sam.

He sinks down next to Sam's sleeping body. He's still fully-clothed, Castiel notes, recognizing in a distant sort of way that going to sleep in the same things that you put on that morning is not normal behavior. Probably he should do something about it – wrestle Sam's giant coat off of his body, take off his shoes, something.

But then Castiel figures he has more pressing matters to attend to, and so he chooses to focus on that. He reaches out and rests a shaking hand on Sam's scalp, carefully tangling his fingers in the long strands. Sam doesn’t stir.

Castiel closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. He's tired and feels very far from Heaven, but he has just enough power left in him to pull this off.

When he opens his eyes again, he's inside a bustling church during Communion. A line of people stretches from one central figure, apparently the priest.

Castiel cranes his neck to see, and his heart sinks. It's Azazel.

He strides through the crowd, pushing past all of the dream-people (who, he notes, are really all demons). Sam is kneeling at the front. He's trembling, his shoulders shaking with the struggle of resisting the goblet Azazel holds out to him. Castiel can't see what's inside, but he can guess that it's not the blood of Christ. In all likelihood, it's blood in a far more literal sense.

In any case, Castiel doesn't stand around to check. Instead, he reaches out and grabs Sam's wrist, tugging him to his feet. Not offering an explanation, he extends his Grace and recreates Sam's dream, turning the church into something far more pleasant.

Sam stares at him, looking confused. His hand, the one not being gripped by Castiel, hovers up near Castiel's cheek. "Cas? What — what's going on? Is it Dean? Did he say yes; is that why you're here?"

"No." He hasn't been able to track Dean down yet, but he's confident that they have enough time to do this while Dean ties up whatever loose ends he has. "Nothing like that."

"Then why?" Sam steps back, gently but firmly tugging his wrist out of Castiel's hold. "Man, you should be getting some rest or something. You looked like hell out there."

"I came to… apologize." The words are like rocks in Castiel's mouth, awkward and unfamiliar, heavy as he forces them out. "For what I said earlier. About you being an… abomination."

"What? Oh." Sam frowns and cocks his head. "That? Why would you apologize? It's true."

Sam turns away from Castiel as he says that, a small and bitter smile twitching at his lips. He stares out at the new dreamscape Castiel's made – the Pacific Ocean just past sunset. The sand under their feet is silvery and the waters are purplish with the reflected twilight. Castiel wove it around memories that Sam has of a beach house rented with Jess years ago.

"Sam, no. It isn't." Castiel steps to his side and stares up at him, begging him to recognize the truth of the matter – that Sam is worth so, so much, and Castiel values him more than he can possibly express. "You are not an abomination, I promise you that. You… you have no idea how pure your soul is, Sam. How brightly you shine among all of the corrupted people out there."

Sam laughs and walks out to stand at the very edge of the water. The sea is calm, and waves lap gently around his feet. "I've got demon blood in me. There's no way that's true. What you said… I mean, you were being honest. I know you were. Being drunk does that: it makes you tell the truth, all the things that you regret later."

Castiel edges towards him, and they stand side-by-side, looking out onto the darkening water. He doesn't know what to say – isn't good with words in general, but is ten times poorer than usual when it comes to comforting.

He reaches down and scoops up a handful of water. He stares at it, at how it catches the pale moonlight, and then he turns to Sam. He lifts his hands up. "Drink this."

Sam blinks at him, recoiling back from the proffered drink. "What?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Well – yeah, but that's salt water, Cas, I—" Sam sputters to a stop, clearly not sure how to react. Castiel stares at him imploringly, keeping his hands steady so he doesn't spill a single drop.

Sam cups his hands over Castiel's and lifts them up to meet his lips. He takes a single long sip, his eyes locked with Castiel the whole time.

After he swallows, he straightens up and wipes his mouth. His brow is furrowed, but his eyes are still locked with Castiel's, and Cas thinks that is a very good sign. "That was clean water. There wasn't any salt in that."

"But you didn't think that at first. You assumed it was one thing, an impure substance. It was only after you trusted me that you saw the error of your ways." An edge of desperation has entered Castiel's voice. He stares at Sam, begging him to understand.

Sam smiles, but it lacks sincerity. There's something sad, and something vaguely like a parent indulging a child at the edges of his lips. "I see where you're going with this. That's… it's kind of you, Cas. You're a good person. "

"So. Are. You." Castiel grabs Sam's hands. They feel rough and warm in his, though maybe that's just because the water was cold against Castiel's palms. He is aware that what he is doing is reckless and stupid, but the world is ending, and there's still a bit of alcohol coursing through his veins.

He stands on his toes and presses his lips against Sam's. Sam starts, and for a moment Castiel fears he will pull away and nothing between them will ever be right again.

But instead, Sam tightens his hold on Castiel's hands, and he leans in, kissing Castiel back fiercely. It's rough and desperate, and somehow sorrowful too. But Castiel does not doubt for a moment that it is right.

"I would not," he gasps to Sam during their short breaks for air, "I would not be doing this… if you were an abomination… trust me."

And he thinks that maybe Sam does.

(Thinks, yes, but he doesn't know for certain – when Sam wakes up, Castiel hears the sound of a prophet praying to Michael, and so he flees from Sam's side to stop Dean from bringing down Armageddon on the world. Things move in a blur after that, and Castiel becomes human, and Sam starts preparing himself for Lucifer, and somehow they never have the chance to talk about what happened. Even after Sam comes back, freshly souled, Castiel doesn't bring it up, all too aware of his own taint born from his dealings with Crowley. By the time that neither of them is working with demons, or dead or crazy, several years have passed, and Castiel doesn't think it would be worth bringing the kiss up again. He wonders sometimes, when Sam's gaze seems to linger on him, but he can never quite find the right words with which to talk about what happened.)

Christmas Dreams [Masterpost]

lies_unfurl — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 04:07:08 GMT

Author: lies_unfurl
Artist: pro_kira
Genre: Christmas!fic without Christmas actually being celebrated; hurt/comfort; whump
Characters, Pairing(s): Sam/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 17500
Warnings: Character peril; brief suicidal ideation; Castiel displays symptoms of depression

Summary: Ever since coming back human from Purgatory, Castiel has been in a depressive fugue. Sam takes it upon himself to cheer him up, but his plans get somewhat sidetracked when he, Dean, and Castiel are sent on a hunt for Bigfoot.
Part I | Part II | Art Masterpost | AO3

Notes: Written for the 2012 sassy_minibang. Please check out pro_kira's art; it's absolutely lovely! She was a joy to work with, extremely enthusiastic and always pleasant. The title of the story is from a Trans-Siberian Orchestra song of the same name -- I strongly reccommend you listen to it.

There will be at least one timestamp (and yes, it will show Christmas Day).

Christmas Dreams [Part I]

lies_unfurl — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 03:51:18 GMT

It's the thirteenth day of December when Sam finally turns to Dean and says, "I think something's wrong with Cas."

Dean just glances at him from where he's lounging on top of discolored beige sheets with Sam's laptop on his chest, rolls his eyes, and asks with no small amount of sarcasm, "What was your first clue?"

To be fair, the thought was a long time coming. Almost two months' time, since Dean and Castiel came back from Purgatory in the beginning of October. Since Castiel burned a hole in the fabric of reality to get himself and Dean through, using his Grace as fuel.

And it's not like Sam expected Cas to be super happy about that. He imagines that it probably sucks, having to essentially set a part of yourself on fire. Sam doesn't kid himself into thinking that he understands everything Castiel is going through, but he's pretty sure that had to hurt.

But the thing is, since coming back powerless, Cas has just drawn away from them. He sits sullenly in diners when they go out for meals, ordering either the blandest thing on the menu or nothing at all. He doesn't laugh at Dean's jokes even when Sam is pretty sure that he gets them; he hasn't shown any sign of caring about whether or not he makes it through a hunt; he doesn't seem happy at all to be back from Purgatory, and in his right mind. And if anything, he's declined since he got out.

Case in point, the quirk he's developed in the last week. Of sitting in the Impala while Sam and Dean waste time in their motel room. He doesn't listen to the radio or anything; he doesn't even turn on the heat (which, frankly, Sam is a bit concerned about, seeing as this is shaping up to be a hard winter). It's not healthy at all.

There's not really any point in saying all of that to Dean, though. He'll just roll his eyes and mumble about Cas being Cas, and pretend that he's really not all that worried about him. So instead Sam replies, "I think I'm going to go and talk to him."

"You do that." Dean nods with faked enthusiasm, his eyes glued to the screen of Sam's laptop, engrossed by whatever he's looking at. It's as close to having his blessing that Sam is going to get (not that he needs a blessing – it's just that he kind of figured that maybe Dean could shed some light on what's going on with him, considering that they spent almost five months trapped in a realm that neither of them are willing to describe beyond, "It was dark and there were trees."). So Sam shrugs on his coat and stuffs his hands into his pockets, and then opens the door to step outside to the chilly parking lot. They're in North Dakota on a hunt, and the sky is steel grey. Coupled with the cold that pierces through like a knife, Sam is fairly sure that there's snow in the forecast.

The Impala is parked right outside their room, thank goodness. Sam takes one long step and he's right there, leaning in at its window. Castiel is curled up on the back bench, staring moodily at the cars racing by on the highway parallel to the motel. He knocks on the window to get Castiel's attention.

The ex-angel glances up at him without any particular rush (never mind that Sam could have easily been a stranger or a monster or Meg, come from her new throne in Hell to take Castiel as her consort or something). He blinks.

Sam tries the door and find that it's unlocked. He sticks his head inside and asks, breath puffing out in a frosty cloud before him, "Can I come in?"

Castiel shrugs. That's another thing: it's not like he was exactly chatty before, but since he's come back, Castiel has been making full use of the wide range of body language. If it's a yes-or-no question, he almost never bothers to use his vocal cords.

In any case, a shrug is as close to permission as Sam is going to get. He slips inside and shuts the door behind him, and then starts rubbing his hands together in an attempt to keep himself from getting frostbite while sitting outside a motel with pretty decent heating.

Cas has gone back to watching the cars. At a lost for anything else to say, Sam says, "It's cold out here. You should come in."

Castiel shrugs, still more interested in rush hour than him. Sam waits a minute, but it becomes clear very quickly that he's not going to say anything else. So Sam tries again. "How've you been feeling lately?"

This does get him a glance, one that's very brief and more confused than anything, but a glance nevertheless. When Castiel opens his mouth and actually speaks, something inside Sam cheers like the home team after a crushing victory. "Decent."

The fact that it's only one word kind of quells Sam's enthusiasm. He frowns. Subtlety clearly isn't going to work with Cas (and it was kind of silly of him to expect it to; angel, human, or whatever, Castiel has never been one for picking up on the not-so-blatant things). So Sam sidles closer to Castiel and opens his mouth, intending to ask him all of the things that have been on his mind recently: how's your transition to humanity been going? Are you okay with hunting? Why are you isolating yourself like this? How can I help?

What comes out instead is, "Can I hug you?"

That does get Castiel's attention: he sits up and looks straight at Sam, his brows drawn tight together with a confused frown. To be fair, it gets Sam's attention too, mainly because he's not sure where the hell it came from.

He's about to tell Castiel that he didn't mean that, that just because seeing Castiel curled up like that awakened some sort of protective instinct that insists that the best form of protection is hugs, he doesn't actually want to do it, when Castiel looks away and says, "If you wish."

Sam blinks. He wasn't expecting that, and for a moment, he doesn't entirely know how to respond.

But then he reasons that Castiel just told him that he could hug him. Castiel, who's never once initiated physical contact with anyone, as far as Sam knows (well, except for when he's trying to kill them, and when he was crazy, and there was that one time with Meg — but other than that, he's an island of a man.). If he said that Sam could, then that means something. It could just be that he's become so apathetic to the world that he no longer cares is someone touches him or not. But it could also mean that he still wants the hug that Sam denied him that one time (and okay, Sam feels kind of bad about that. It was a dick move, and he knows it).

In any case, he decides to stop thinking and instead just do it. He leans forward and carefully wraps his arms around Castiel's form, which is curled up as best as it can be. Cas doesn't adjust himself to make things any easier, and so Sam ends up kind of draping himself over his body, his long arms wrapping all the way around Castiel's torso.

He rests his head on Castiel's shoulder, kind of — he doesn't want to actually put weight down on him. He hasn't really been eating much, and Sam is worried that his bulk will be too heavy for Cas to take.

If it is, though, Castiel doesn't mention it. He finally shifts a little bit so that Sam's hand isn't entirely squashed against the leather of the seat. Sam thinks he also leans in to the hug a bit, but that might be his imagination. That, or Castiel is cold and unconsciously seeking out the nearest source of warmth. Both possibilities are equally likely.

Sam holds on to Castiel for several heartbeats, and then releases him and sits upright. Castiel just kind of stays in the same, vaguely-fetal position on the bench. There's something in his face that adds a tinge of sadness to the previous layer of apathy, or so Sam thinks. With Castiel, it's hard to tell.

Keeping his eyes on him, Sam asks, "What's up with you, Cas? Ever since you came back from Purgatory, you haven't been yourself."

That's not the end of his speech at all (he's planning to mention how Cas has been drawing away from him and Dean, how little he's been eating, and how much support he has around him) but surprisingly enough, Castiel actually snorts a bit at that. "I burned my Grace, Sam. It went up like holy oil after having a match tossed on it, and by the time that Dean and I were out, there was nothing left of it. At all. Of course I'm not myself; I'm missing a fundamental part of my being!"

The answer, snide as it is, actually cheers Sam up greatly. There was a snatch of passion in Castiel's voice for a minute, of caring about what he was saying. That's far better than the endless apathy that's been his default since Purgatory. He's not really sure how to deal with Castiel's words, but at least he knows that he can try. "So. What can I do to make you feel more… yourself?"

Castiel glowers at him for a moment, and then he turns away, apparently having said all that he's going to on the matter. Great. Now Sam doesn't have a sullen fallen angel on his hands; he's got a pissed-off one.

But. He's kind of determined now. He got Castiel talking, and now that he's had a taste of victory, he can't just stop. It's not the Winchester way. Not that Sam usually buys into the pseudo-macho bullshit anyway, but in this case… he just does. So he gives Castiel a minute to stew in his misery and watch the first few snowflakes that are tumbling out of the sky, and then he asks, "Is there anything else? That's bothering you, I mean?"

Apparently his earlier questions opened up a floodgate or something, because Castiel replies almost instantaneously to this. "These motel rooms are miserable. They're cramped, smell strange, and while I never had an opinion on cockroaches before, I can say as a certainty that I don't appreciate waking up with one on my pillow. I—"

He cuts off suddenly, like he's realized that he's been talking, and that is just Not Okay. Sam makes a mental note to talk to Dean about how much he's rubbed off on Castiel, and how that's not really a good thing, and it would probably be healthy for everyone involved if they started communicating. During supper or something. Sam's heard that family dinners are supposed to do wonders for helping emotional repression.

"You what?" he asks, reaching out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder. "It's okay. I want to help you, Cas."

Castiel tucks his chin against his knees, looking for all the world like a moody child. "Nothing."

"No. I want to know what it is, Cas. Please, just talk to me. That's all I'm asking." Sam almost adds You owe that much to me, but he stops himself at the last minute. He doesn't want to dredge up the things that Castiel did in the past, because making him feel guiltier than he generally does (which, in all fairness? is pretty damn guilty) wouldn't be a nice thing to do. It's more or less water under the bridge now; they've all paid their debts for the things that they did in desperate times.

There's a long pause, and then Castiel finally, grudgingly answers in a mutter so low that at first Sam isn't certain that he heard right. "I'm homesick."

"You're… homesick?" He frowns, trying to keep his voice neutral. "For… home?"

"For Heaven," Castiel growls out. He's completely facing away from Sam right now, staring only at the parking lot. Not that Sam can blame him. It's the first snow that they've run across this season, and despite how Sam is currently kind of freezing and would really like to be back inside the motel room, he has to admit that it's kind of pretty. "I'll never see it again, and while I didn't have any particular attachments to it as a location before, I do now."

Sam nods, slowly processing it. Heaven. He supposes that it makes sense; it was where Castiel spent the first couple millennia of his life (or more; they don't really know how old he actually is, and it seems rude to ask). "What do you miss?"

"I miss the Axis Mundi, and I miss the Garden. I miss the flowers and the sky and the grass and everything else that was in my choice location. I miss feeling my brothers around me constantly, and knowing that I played a part in something greater than myself, and I miss having the staunch belief that my Father was out there, and that he cared about me."

He stops then, out of breath, and Sam starts to feel a little like he's in over his head. He's determined not to let it show, though. He can deal with this. He can. "Well. I know that we can't get you back the Axis Mundi, but there are a lot of nice gardens on Earth. I mean, there aren't any where we are right now because it's winter, but in the summer we can go to some parks and stuff. And I mean, I know Dean and I don't really count, but we both think of you like our brother, and we're always there for you."

Castiel snorts in response. Sam isn't entirely sure how to take that, but he's fairly certain that it's not a positive sign. Especially since it means that Cas has taken up snorting, which really isn't a good thing.

Sam hesitates, trying to decide if his last thing is appropriate or if it's just going to mess Cas up. Finally he decides to risk it, even though he knows that it could be seriously misinterpreted. "And, Cas, you're gonna see Heaven again. There's no way that you're going to be denied entrance if they could forgive me and Dean, you know? I'm sure that they'll let you visit the Garden, and your favorite Heaven, and everything. After you've lived an awesome human life, I mean."

Finally, Castiel sits straight up and turns his whole body towards Sam. In the dim light from the motel it's hard to read his expression, and Sam can't tell if he looks more sad or angry. "Dean didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"About Purgatory?" Sam shakes his head, and Castiel sighs. "That's where we go. Dead angels. We met them there, Anna and Balthazar and Rachel, Gabriel, Raphael, Hester, Uriel — they were all there. And they were monsters just like everything else that was after us. That's what I have to look forward to. Purgatory, not Paradise. Being made into a creature that snarls and laughs and tries to kill anyone who comes near me. A creature that's out of its mind, and just wants to hurt however it can."

He breaks off, slouching down on the seat. His sadness is palpable, and Sam wants to hug him again, but he doesn't think that would be appropriate. There's no good way to respond to what he was just told, but Sam tries his best. "Maybe you won't end up there. I mean, you're a human now, not an angel. And you don't act like I did when I was soulless, so you have to be a real person."

"If I'm a real person, I'll end up in Hell. I declared myself a God and killed hundreds. That's unforgiveable."

"Nothing is unforgiveable," Sam says stubbornly. "I forgave you for that, and Dean did too. If we could, then I'm sure God can."

"You two are flawed mortal beings. It's understandable that you could overlook such blasphemy and destruction. God, however, cannot. He would be a poor God if he let everyone who claimed to be him into his kingdom. But it's a moot point, anyhow. All of the angels that we met told me that I would join them when I died, and I don't think they were lying. I know that their aim was to hurt me," he adds quickly, before Sam can point that out. "But they weren't lying when they threw my past sins back in my face, or when they talked of Dean's regrets. I don't think that they would lie then."

"They didn't know you were going to become human, though."

That gives Castiel pause for a moment, and Sam things that he can see him frown as he considers that, but in the end he just shakes his head and says, "No, they didn't. But I don't think it matters. I was an angel at creation, and I expect to be judged as that, not as what I die as."

Sam bites his lip. He doesn't know how to convince Castiel that he'll get to Heaven again (partially because he… doesn't actually know if it's true or not; he wants to believe that it is, but God's ways have always been too mysterious for him to even try to comprehend). There's no way he's going to be able to do that tonight, definitely. So instead, he decides to focus Castiel on something else. "Well, I know you're homesick, but Earth is your home now, and it can be pretty awesome."

"I've yet to experience much of that."

And that really isn't too fair. Granted, they have been travelling ever since Dean and Cas came back from Purgatory, once they got the whole Kevin thing and Meg, Queen of Hell, and Crowley, Dead, thing sorted out. That took a few weeks that weren't really fun for anyone involved. But they haven't been troubled by demons since as part of the deal they cut with Meg, and Kevin texts Sam every week just to make sure that things are still fine (he's currently ranked seventh in his class, which is actually pretty good for someone who spent the end and the beginning of two school years being the prisoner of a group of Biblical monsters).

And okay, maybe they have just been focusing on the technical elements of Castiel's newfound humanity — on that he's sleeping, that he's eating enough to stay healthy, on that he has enough clothes to last him until they get their asses around to going to a Laundromat. Neither Sam nor Dean has really been making it a priority to see that Castiel was learning how cool humanity could be.

As he sits there in the dark car with Castiel and with snow swirling all around them, as he rubs his hands together in an attempt to get circulation going, Sam realizes that that right there is a problem. It's not enough for Castiel to just be alive if he's miserably homesick and awaiting an even grimmer afterlife. He needs to learn to enjoy food and music and family and celebrations and everything else that a mortal life has to offer.

And so right there, right then, Sam decides that he's going to teach Castiel about all those things, and make him realize how great being a human can be. He's going to make Castiel happy, no matter what it takes.

Castiel comes into the motel room shortly after Sam does, apparently giving in to the temptation of a climate-controlled environment. He goes straight to his bed and lies down flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It's a far cry from the more-or-less fetal position that he took on in the Impala.

Sam is lying back on his own bed, his legs curled in order to fit all of his self onto the small mattress. He's flipping through the television stations, trying to find a movie that might serve as a starting point to getting Castiel to realize how cool humanity can be. It's a futile quest; the snow isn't falling too hard outside, but it's windy and the quality of the image sucks, lines of static flickering constantly across the screen. He presses the 'power' button of the remote with a sigh, admitting defeat.

"So are we gonna go after this thing tomorrow?" Dean asks from where he's seated, which is at the one miserable table in the room. It's wobbly and scarred, and has an ugly mustard-colored plastic top. He apparently migrated there from his bed at some point while Sam was getting Castiel to open up about his feelings. "I think we've got all the stuff we need."

"Uh, sure. Yeah, sounds great. Cas, do you think you're ready?" Sam rubs his eyes. The hunt seems unimportant compared to getting Castiel into a better mindset, although the five victims so far would probably disagree. All of the deaths fit the patterns of ghouls left unsatisfied by the taste of dead people's blood, something they hadn't come across in a couple of years. Ghouls gone wild, that's what Dean had said when they figured it out, with that shit-eating grin of his on his face. Sam had rolled his eyes; Castiel hadn't reacted, but presumably, he hadn't understood.

"I'm up for whatever you have to offer," Castiel answers. It's more than he's said in front of the two of them for a considerable amount of time, and Dean glances over at Sam, raising his eyebrows. Sam nods, just enough to tell Dean that yeah, they made a bit of progress. Not much, but it's something.

"We'll do it tomorrow, then," Dean says. He grimaces, and then adds, "If the snow's cleared up."

"It doesn't look like it'll amount to much." It was too light and fluffy for that. Sam doubts it'll build up too much on the ground.

"Yeah, hopefully." Dean stands up and stretches, before he lets his arms fall down with a thump. "I'm hitting the sack, then. Night, Sam. Cas."

"G'night," Sam replies. Castiel, predictably, doesn't say anything. He just rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, apparently not in the mood to put on pajamas (he does that sometimes. Dean says that he's just lazy; Sam thinks that it's more like him not fully getting human customs. Castiel hasn't bothered to enlighten them).

Sam sighs and stands up, loping over to the bathroom to take a final piss before he goes to bed. He's made some advancement with Castiel, at least, and now that he knows for certain what's wrong, he can go about fixing it. It isn't like it'll be easy, getting Cas to view his humanity as anything other than a countdown to an even worse prison sentence, but Sam is always up for a challenge.

"Place is cold as death tonight," Dean grumbles right before he throws Sam a shit-eating grin. Or at least, Sam thinks that's what it is. The flashlight isn't exactly positioned to show off Dean's features, but it's hard to imagine anything else gracing Dean's visage after making such a stupid pun. One that Sam decides is best left ignored.

Of course, Dean does have a point. The cemetery is freezing, their breath puffing before them like gas out of exhaust pipes. The snow from the flurries last night didn't pile up, thank goodness, but the grass underfoot is hard and crunchy with frost. Sam's hands are chilled through the gloves that he's wearing, and he's actually a bit worried about being able to handle a gun.

Dean doesn't seem to be having any of those problems, although he's probably just hiding it. Hunting makes him happy, Sam thinks – on their last case, a basic salt-and-burn to teach Castiel the basics of grave digging and getting your lighter to light when there's an evil hair dresser trying to blow-dry you into the Pit, he was actually laughing, whooping like the adrenaline was getting to him.

He's been like that a lot lately. His sarcasm isn't gone, and it's not like he's been opening up about his feelings (case in point: how he just mutters about Castiel being 'fine' whenever the subject comes up), but some of the times he seems, well… happy? Sam is hesitant to call it that, but he knows that Dean isn't like he was before, not half so beaten down. Sam doesn't know what changed in Purgatory (besides being forced to go through withdrawal; Dean's hinted at that, and the way that he hasn't touched a drop since coming back pretty much confirms it) but he's kinda happy to have Dean here again.

And anyway, it's not like Dean's hunting was dependent on him being in a depressive fugue. He's the best he's been in a long time, his reflexes honed, his fingers quick without being trigger-happy. He's strong, too; none of the softening of the body that sometimes comes with people past the age of thirty. Sam's happy for all of that, he really is. He just kind of wishes that he knew what happened to make Dean come back to life like this.

The ghouls, to the best of their knowledge, are hiding in a mausoleum in the center of the Stone Ridge Cemetery. Dean shines his light on it as they approach; sure enough, the lock is broken. It's subtle, not something that a quick passerby would notice, but it's enough to lend credibility to their belief.

The door opens with a loud creak when Dean pushes on it, and the three of them automatically freeze. There's nothing but silence from the center of the tomb. Quiet as the dead, Sam thinks. His brother would appreciate that one.

Dean glances back at Sam, and Sam gives him a minute nod. Dean resumes opening the door at a far slower pace. It doesn't prevent the noise completely, but it's better than before.

Once it's open wide enough, Dean slips inside. Sam waits a minute and then follows at Dean's signal, Castiel close behind him. Cas has a flashlight too, and he sweeps it over the crypt. It's dusty and covered in cobwebs, an elaborate casket set in the center of it with a plaque made out of some shiny metal at its base. Cas glances at it for a moment, and then looks elsewhere, apparently uninterested.

Dean takes a tentative step deeper into the mausoleum. "I don't see-"

There's a small noise from the back, and that's all the warning that they have before they're under attack. Two ghouls in the shape of stolen bodies leap out from the back, lethal-looking knives in hand and mouths curled open in snarls. Another pair blocks the door, and one more slips out from the shadows of the tomb's center. In total, it's five against three.

Sam reacts instinctively, shoving Castiel down and against the back wall of the crypt as Dean shoots, taking out one of the ones from the back with his first shot. It's a small space, and it's incredibly dangerous to be firing inside of it, but he's a sure shot – they both are, or else they would have taken the more complicated route of taking the ghouls outside. The head of the first shot explodes in a mess of brains and blood, and Sam grimaces as he feels some of it splatter him. He doesn't take the time to wipe off his cheeks, though, because another is bearing down on him and Castiel. He just has time to raise his gun and fire into its chest. It falters for a moment as the bullet sinks through its ribs. Sam takes advantage of the distraction and lets loose a shot that goes straight through its cheekbone and puts it down for good.

While he's dealing with that, he assumes that Dean has the rest covered. He hears three, and then four shots fired from behind, and as he swings around, he's actually pretty impressed. Dean's a quick shot, sure, and he's in his best form since they were kids, but getting off four while Sam makes two? Either Sam's really losing it, or Dean's got some sort of super-strength that he's not telling Sam about.

And then Sam realizes that no, it wasn't Dean. There's another figure standing in the mausoleum's entrance, one that Dean has his gun leveled at. He automatically raises his too, as Castiel stands up looking vexed, and as Dean says all calm and slow, "How 'bout you put that gun down before someone gets hurt?"

"And why should I do that?" It's a woman's voice, accented and vaguely familiar. Sam frowns, but he keeps his gun steady. No telling if she's a threat. There's not enough light to see her face, in any case; the flashlights that he and Dean were holding were dropped when they drew their weapons. Castiel is holding his and Sam's, but there's no sign of the one that Dean was carrying. It probably broke when it hit the hard stone floor.

"Cause I told you too, sweetheart," Dean drawls, although the woman's shot has made it blatantly clear that she's nobody's damsel-in-distress.

She thinks so too, judging by the derisive snort that she gives. "I just took out three of those grave robbers and you think I'm the sweet one? Honey, you got a lot to learn about the game."

Sam glances behind him to Castiel, who's hovering in the shadows, a flashlight in each hand. "Cas, shine some light on her, would you?"

He obeys wordlessly, sweeping both beams onto their mysterious backup. As soon as her face is lit up, a bulb of recognition lights up in Sam's mind. It's been what, five, six years since he last saw her? And it was only that one time. She's definitely grown older, her hair longer, and the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced. But she was with them on that hunt, the first time that Sam met Ruby. So it would be impossible for him to forget her name: "Tamara?"

She glances at him, her dark eyes piercing as if she can somehow read everything that he's done since they last met. But then she nods, a very small smile twitching up on her lips. "Sam and Dean. I thought it might be you."

The three of them lower their guns almost in unison, with Dean just a little way's behind. No one breaks their gazes, though. "There aren't many of us left, after all. But I thought it was just the two of you?"

"Oh, yeah." Sam beckons Castiel to stop hiding in the shadows. He comes forward reluctantly until he's standing just a little behind Sam's shoulders. "Tamara, this is Castiel. He's… a friend. Cas, this is Tamara; she's another hunter. We worked with her awhile back."

Cas and Tamara nod at each other, Tamara's expression politeness with a distinct undertone of curiosity, Castiel's, his usual impassiveness,

"We should get out," Dean says. He steps forward, not waiting for an answer. "I don't think we're gonna be able to burn the ghouls. Let's just lock the door and hope that no one looks in until they've decayed."

It's not ideal, but they all agree that it's probably for the best. A fire on a night like this would be seen a mile away, and it would probably get the cops in pretty quickly. Besides, Sam imagines that ghouls decay quickly. They're essentially already dead.

They walk briskly back with Tamara, Dean not trusting her enough to bring her to the Impala (well, not that he says so, but Sam knows that he generally doesn't take people that he finds in cemeteries to his most precious object, even if said person is someone they've worked with in the past). Tamara, Dean, and he make small talk on the way; Castiel remains as silent as ever. Chatting is not something he quite grasps.

"I though you went back to England," Dean mentions. "After Isaac, and all."

"I did. For a little while, anyway. But I decided to come back. There's a much stronger network back home, all of the old hunting families connected in a great big web. There's none of that here. You needed me more."

"We can use all the help we can get," Sam agrees. They're not really sure how far the Leviathan problem spread, but it was definitely bad in the States (Castiel says he thinks that they also targeted Asia, primarily China and Japan, but he isn't entirely sure). In any case, it's nice to know that there are still familiar faces in the game. "Where are you headed to next?"

"Well… I'm not sure." They're at her car now, a small red number that looks to be a newer model. Sam can't tell; it's pretty dark, even with the flashlights, and he's never been as good at identifying cars as Dean. "I was actually planning to stop down in London over Christmas…"

"I thought we needed you more." There's no maliciousness in Dean's voice, just a mild curiosity. Tamara is offering them something, Sam thinks, and Dean is picking up on that, too.

"You do. But I think that you can hold on for a few months without my aid. I was going to go travelling across Europe. See what it's like in the winter, hunt a few of the local folktales, the like."

"Sounds like fun," Sam says honestly. Not necessarily the hunting part; he can take it or leave it these days – it doesn't really bring him pleasure, but he doesn't really know anything else, not at this point. He doesn't know if he's like to go back to school or not, to try to find some other job to spend the rest of his days doing. It's confusing and it probably wouldn't be possible, so Sam doesn't really think about it.

But travelling — that sounds nice. He's been to all of the Continental 48 multiple times (and Alaska, and Canada, although that wasn't entirely legal). It would be fun to see what the hunting scene is outside of the States.

"Oh, it will be fun," Tamara agrees. "Only problem is, I got word of a hunt when I'm supposed to be flying out in two days, and I don't think I can finish it… pity, because it's right near where the cabin is…"

It's obvious bait; she's not even trying to disguise it. Sam knows his brother must recognize that, but he takes it anyway. "Cabin?"

"A little place in Colorado, right up in the mountains. Used to be owned by a man named Dan Elkins?" At their recognition, she goes on, "He left it to me and Isaac. It's nice; big fireplace, full-sized, Bobby Singer–like panic room in the basement. The hunt I heard of is, supposedly, right in the woods behind it."

A glance at Dean's face tells Sam that his brother is listening very intently. Sam thinks that Castiel is too, although he's just staring up at the stars right now. Sam likes to think that Castiel is usually listening.

"I'll bite," Dean says. "What's the hunt?"

"Several people in the woods have disappeared, no trace but a few drops of blood and maybe a clump of hair or two. Big footprints have been found. They're keeping it quiet now, but it's not gonna be long until someone steps in." She smirks. "People love a good Bigfoot story, don't they?"

They get about five hours of sleep until it's light outside and they're on the road again. Dean's driving, naturally. Sam is in shotgun, after offering the seat to Castiel, who declined it in favor of curling up in his usual spot. He doesn't seem particularly excited that they're going off to kill an important part of American folklore.

After Dean had heard Tamara say what it was, the deal was made. His eyes had lit up like a four-year old on Christmas who just got that awesome fire truck that he'd been wanting. Tamara had passed over the keys to the cabin and had promised to email them all of her notes, and it was set. They were going to go and hunt Bigfoot.

Dean is considerably more energetic that day than he usually is at 7:00 in the morning. On the rare occasion that they just have to be awake then, Dean usually grouses at Sam or stares moodily down into his coffee – or at least he did before. They haven't had too many early mornings since he came back. But Sam just sticks that on his long list of other ways that Dean has changed; at the moment, he's happily drumming along to Bonzo's solo with his free hand.

"I can't believe it," he calls over the music. "Dude, we're actually going to hunt Bigfoot. Do you know how awesome that is?"

"I do. You've told me." Several times. Sam looks into the back seat, remembering his resolution of several days past, the one about helping Castiel to enjoy life again. "What about you, Cas? It's better than another salt and burn, right?"

Castiel blinks at him, actually making eye contact. He's been more or less completely silent since the cemetery last night, when Sam had automatically pushed him to the ground to protect him. Sam had apologized for that later, recognizing that at some point he's going to have to let Castiel fight for himself; it's not like he's incapable. It was just an instinctive reaction done to protect him. Castiel had said that it was fine, but Sam still felt kind of bad for it.

"It's just another hunt," he says at last. "And not for a monster. The creatures that have colloquially become known as 'Bigfoot' are of a natural origin. You're helping to drive a species to extinction, not saving the world from the supernatural."

There's no condemnation in his voice; Sam doesn't think that he cares enough to get all self-righteous. But it's quiet still in the Impala for a moment after he drops that bit of news, save for the Zeppelin blaring from the speakers. Then Dean says, "Well yeah, but it's still killing people. That means we need to kill it."

Castiel just shrugs and turns his face back to the window. Dean rolls his eyes and turns up the music, and Sam sits back in his seat and prepares for a very long ride.

It takes them a day and a half to get to the address that Tamara gave them. During that time, Sam and Dean take turns driving the Impala, and Castiel lies in the Impala's back bench. He's his usual withdrawn, vaguely moody self. Sam wishes that he could start on his plan to bring Castiel to a greater appreciation of humanity, but he's mostly too busy sleeping himself. That, or driving, and Dean doesn't allow any distractions when you're driving his baby. The one time that Sam turned around to talk to Cas, Dean's eyes snapped open (after he had been completely still for almost an hour, no less) and he had said, "Drive," in a guttural and vaguely terrifying voice. It wasn't something Sam wanted to bring on anytime soon.

In any case, they pull up at the cabin on the fifteenth day of December shortly before sunset. The driveway was steep and slippery, and covered with brambles that Dean kept having to brake for while he went outside and cleared them. There were a couple of moments when Sam generally doubted if they would make it all the way up, but the Impala didn't let them down.

Sam is grateful to be out of the car, even though it's obscenely cold outside (above freezing, though – the website that he glanced at in the last Wi-Fi-equipped diner they were in said that there was a brief warming trend before more storms were expected in). He rubs his hands briskly together and surveys the land while Dean digs out the key that Tamara gave them. It's a small cabin tucked in the middle of nowhere; that's all, really. There's a ski lounge some fifteen or twenty miles to the north, but it looks too heavily wooded in this area for it to be too appealing for skiers. Only one of the victims in the profile Tamara sent was a wayward wanderer from the mountains, though; the rest were hunters. Sam guesses that there must be a pretty good selection of non-monster prey in the woods.

He turns his back on the small cabin and the denser area of forest, looking down the way that they came. It's covered in pine needles and dead leaves, and snow that really hasn't mentioned. The last fall was two days ago, according to the site Sam looked at, and most of the ice melted due to it not being quite under the freezing level. He's pretty thankful for that. Had the weather been worse, they probably wouldn't have managed to get the Impala through the narrow, untrimmed path leading there. "It's gonna be tough getting out of here in a storm."

"You think I'd put my girl on the road in a blizzard?" Dean stabs the key in the lock. Tamara was last here over the summer, she said, and it should be in good condition. It still takes him a few tries to get the door open, although whether that's due to a faulty lock, ice, or shaking hands, Sam couldn't say.

Dean pushes the door open and enters hesitantly. Sam takes a few long steps across the yard until he's right behind him, and Castiel comes behind him, his duffel bag dangling from his hand. Dean's got his gun out, just in case. They didn't have any issues with Tamara the one time they worked with her, and Bobby had trusted her, but that was a number of years ago, and Bobby isn't here anymore. So it makes sense that they enter slowly, wary of any sort of booby traps or waiting leviathans or something.

It seems completely safe, though, if a little dark and dusty. Sam hears Dean sneeze as he makes his way to the nearest window and pulls up the curtain. Light filters in through the dusty pane that, alone with what's coming through the door, gives them a clear enough picture of the place that's going to be their new home for the next few days:

It's… small, Tamara hadn't made that part up. It can't be larger than most of the motel rooms they've been in, albeit a bit more rectangular than most of them. The leftmost wall is taken up almost entirely by a fireplace, with a great stone chimney leading up from it. A worn cranberry-colored couch is in the center of the room. An afghan is thrown over one arm, a quilt on the other. There's little else in the room, save for a card table in the back, two black chairs at either end of it, and a long woven rug with faded fringe in front of the couch. Oh, and a creepy deer head hanging on the wall, the sort of thing that can be found in every single movie cabin of all time. Sam grimaces. Even in the not-so-great lighting the thing's beady black eyes are unpleasant to look at.

There are five windows in total, two for each of the longer walls and one for the shorter one without a fireplace. All of them have curtains over them, for whatever privacy you might need in the middle of the woods.

It really, really isn't much to look at. Or to be in. But, Sam thinks, it looks solid enough. The walls are all standing, and none of the windows are smashed. And the roof doesn't look to be caving in either. That's always a plus.

Dean walks deeper into the cabin after they've all had a minute or two to look around. As he raises the shade on the other windows he says, "Well, we've seen worse."

"We have," Sam agrees. He drops his bags with a thump and goes over to the windows that Dean hasn't gotten to. The dust on the sill is thick, he notes, like no one's touched it in a couple of months. Good. "Remember that place Dad took us to when we were kids? I was… what, ten? That was the summer after I found out about monsters."

"I'd blocked most of that out." Dean shudders. "It was in South Carolina; some guy Dad knew in 'Nam owned it."

"The floor was rotting, there was no running water, and mosquitoes were everywhere." He wrinkles his nose at the memory, able to clearly recall the terror of making his way across the damp and creaking boards that separated the single room from a deep basement. And the perpetual buzzing sound from the mosquitoes and all of the other bugs in the area. It had been right on a swamp, and it had sucked. "I thought I was going to get malaria and die out there."

"You did not," Dean snorts. "You were ten, Sam. You didn't even know what malaria was."

"Yes I did." He can't remember if he did or didn't, in truth. But it doesn't really matter. Both of them (he thinks) recognize that this conversation is more for Castiel's benefit than anything. He's a part of their life now, and he should have some understanding of what it was like in the old old days. That time before Sam left for Stanford.

It doesn't seem to be working, though. Castiel is just standing in the middle of the room and glancing around the cabin, like he missed something during his first lookover. He doesn't move to help with the lifting of the shades, too deep in his own thoughts. Neither of them press the issue; they're done in a minute, anyway.

The late afternoon light, or what makes it through all the thick trees surrounding them, just serves to emphasize how unused the cabin is, and how… technologically deficient it is. No running water, no bathroom, no heating system except for the fireplace. There's a distinctively musty smell mingling with the crisp winter air coming through the open door.

"Home sweet home," Dean announces. "Now, what did Tamora say about a panic room?"

The panic room, as it turns out, isn't quite to Bobby Singer standards. The stairs leading down to it are hidden by means of a trapdoor under the fringed rug, which is about as predictable a hiding place as one could get. In the room itself, the walls are tightly-packed dirt instead of demon-repelling metals, and it doesn't seem quite as solid as his was (it survived the leviathans' burning in almost perfect condition. Sam's still not sure how the authorities managed to make sense of an iron room with esoteric symbols covering the walls).

Still, the symbols stand out against the dirt walls in bright paint, clearly reinforced by Tamora the last time she was there. It seems safe enough, for what essentially amounts to a root cellar in the middle of the Colorado woods. And it's well-stocked, too; rows of nonperishable food items and bottled water (conveniently divided into "Holy" and "Drinking") line one wall. There's salt, too, which Sam expects helps to make the driveway a bit more manageable in the winter, along with the whole 'repelling demons' thing.

Best of all, though, is the firewood. The cellar has kept it perfectly dry, and there are piles of it. Far more than they're going to need. There are a couple of insulation blankets too, and a few things of gasoline, though whether or not the cold temperature has affected that Sam really couldn't say.

Dean cheers when he sees it. "Guess we're not gonna have to play lumberjack," he says, bending down and scooping up a perfectly-split log. "Want to get one going now, warm the place up a little?"

"Sounds like a plan." Sam bends down and grabs a couple of pieces himself. Next to him Castiel does the same without being prompted. That makes Sam happy, though he's not entirely sure why. It's not like Castiel is lazy, or like he just sits around all day. There's just something about that gesture that makes him look like part of the Winchesters, and it… it's nice. Sam likes that.

Upstairs, Dean starts on the fire, calling over Castiel so that he can explain how to use the fireplace (though Castiel might already know, given the couple of millennia that he has on Dean). Sam heads back out to the Impala to bring in the rest of their stuff, which is mostly just research material that he printed out before they got here, anticipating the lack of Wi-Fi. There's one another bag there too, though, things Sam grabbed while Dean was making a pit stop in a grocery store bathroom and Castiel was waiting out in the car. He slips his wrists through the flimsy plastic handles and shuts and locks the doors to the Impala. He's determined to start getting through to Cas tonight, and there is absolutely nothing that's going to stop him.

The fire is roaring away by the time he gets back in and shuts the door behind him. It's already starting to heat up the cabin, which Sam thinks is a Very Good Thing. The nights here generally don't stay above freezing, and Sam doesn’t think that the coming one will be an exception.

"What’s the game plan?" he asks Dean as he drops the bags onto the cabin's floor. "Tracking tomorrow, hunting on Saturday?"

His brother glances up from where he's sprawled on the couch (Castiel is lurking in the corner, not that he can really stay out of view, with the cabin being the size of an unambitious bedroom). "I think so. There's not really anyone we can go after for an interview."

Dean is right on that, something that Sam had considered before. The victims were all alone in the woods; there's actually not a whole lot of info to go on, save for the area's persistent Sasquatch myths, and the mysterious clumps of white hair reported at the crime scenes. It's enough for them, though. "So we head out tomorrow morning and scout the woods, then, if we have something, come back for it the day after? Or do you want to hunt with the intention of killing it tomorrow?"

"Always hunt to kill," is Dean's immediate response. Sam doesn't argue. The quicker they're done with this, the faster the people of Colorado can go back to enjoying their mountains. And the quicker they can get somewhere with actual heating, nice as the fire feels.

So instead of pressing the point, Sam kneels and starts rifling through the bags. "I got some stuff at that last store."

"Is it all health food crap or is there something in it for me?"

Sam pulls out the bag of marshmallows and throws it at Dean, grinning when he yelps at it hitting his chest. "Something for you and Cas. When was the last time we made s'mores?"

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. Sam knows he's trying to remember, but he's certain that Dean won't come up with anything. He can't remember either, but he thinks it was when they were kids. Definitely not since Dean sold his soul, and their lives all went to Hell.

He doesn't mention any of this to Dean, though; instead he just says, "I thought so," and pulls out the chocolate bars and the graham crackers. "And Cas, I'm guessing you've never had them?"

Castiel glances up and then looks away just as quickly. "No."

"Then you haven't lived," Dean declares. He tosses down the newspaper he was flipping through and stands up from the couch, cracking his back as he stretches. "You have anything to roast those babies on?"

"I don't, actually. Do you want to go get them, or…"

"Sure." Dean picks his jacket up from where he had unceremoniously dumped it on the floor and shrugs it on. He heads for the cabin's door, calling out, "Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone!" as he walks out into the chilly sunset.

"Come here, Cas," Sam calls, and he does, though his movements are slow and his expression guarded. He kneels down next to Sam, taking in the small spread of junk foot on the floor.

"D'you know what a s'more is?"

Castiel shakes his head, and Sam nods. The ex-angel is smarter than him by a couple of millennia, but Heaven's curriculum probably focused more on the big picture, on languages and weapons and wars. Not on the gooey confections made by two brothers as they sat in the woods with shotguns at their feet, waiting for their dad to come back.

"They're pretty awesome. So first, you roast a marshmallow—" he looks around briefly for the bag, before remembering that he threw it at Dean. He crawls forward a few steps until he can reach out with one arm and snag it to show Castiel. "—in a fire. You can do it in the microwave too, but it's a traditional campfire food, so Dean and I always did it like that. Once the marshmallow is good, you take a graham cracker and break it into halves—" he opens the soft cardboard box and tears open the golden wrappers surrounding the crackers, pulling one out so that Cas can see, "—and put the marshmallow on one of them. Then you take a piece of chocolate and put that on top, and then you close it with the other cracker half, and you're done."

To top off his speech, he breaks the graham cracker he was holding in half and gives one side to Castiel, biting into the other himself. The sweet cracker tastes a bit like honey. It's sweeter than he remembered, but he doesn't really care. It still reminds him of those nights before he knew what Dad was doing in the woods, when Dean would tell him ghost stories over the fire without mentioning that he was just talking about a case their father had worked on.

Castiel nibbles on the corner of his at first, but he seems to like what he tastes, because he quickly finishes it. The sight of it makes Sam obscenely happy, though he does his best not to let that show on his face. That would probably be kind of creepy, he thinks. Probably it's creepy in the first place, how invested he is in having Castiel be happy.

Dean comes in a moment later, a gust of cold air with him even though he only leaves the door open for half a second. "It's cold as balls out there," he announces, stamping snow out of his boots. "Are we supposed to get snow anytime soon?"

Sam thinks back to the last forecast that he'd seen before they came up here. "I don't know. I think they said there was like a thirty percent chance of it in the next week?"

"Frigging weathermen." Dean walks over to where he and Castiel are sitting and plops down, scattering the sticks that he'd brought in on the floor. "Why do they even get paid if they don't tell us anything?"

"One of the great mysteries of life." Sam picks up a stick and runs his hand along it. It's long and thin, but not so fragile that the weight of a marshmallow will cause it to bend. It'll work well enough. "You guys ready to start?"

"Hells yeah." Dean snatches up the marshmallow bag and rips it open. He pulls out a handful and pops all but one of them into his mouth. The lone holdout is speared onto his stick.

Sam rolls his eyes, and Castiel looks vaguely, tentatively amused. It's hard to make out beneath the thick ice of apathy that's always over his vision these days, but it's definitely there. It makes Sam's heart leap up, but again, he does his best not to show it as he takes a marshmallow for himself before passing the bag to Cas.

The three of them end up in front of the fire with Sam in the middle, Cas to his right and Dean his right. The graham crackers and chocolate bars are spread before them, turned into shades of bronze and orange by the flames. They're the only source of light in the cabin, save for the last desperate rays of sunlight. Thankfully, there's not much need for anything else, given how tiny the cabin is.

They thrust their sticks into the fire in almost perfect synchronization. The marshmallows start to brown almost immediately, turning that familiar golden brown that Sam hasn't seen in so long. He's so caught up in nostalgia that he almost forgets to rotate his marshmallow.

Castiel is watching him carefully, following his lead. When Sam turns his stick, he turns it. Sam is kind of flattered that he's the one Castiel is imitating for once (although that might just be because Dean's marshmallow had been taken as a blood sacrifice by the fire, and he's currently swearing and attempting to get another on his stick).

"I think they're done," Sam tells Castiel, right around the moment that Dean sticks his second one above the flames. "Now for the good stuff…"

He shows Castiel how to assemble the s'more: how to have the graham cracker halves spread out on the floor beforehand, so that you can quickly pull off the marshmallow without burning your fingers on it too badly; how to press the square of chocolate down on top of the sticky mess before it congeals; how to press the second cracker half on top of it all so that you have yourself a little sandwich. Castiel watches him closely and follows his steps carefully so that his is a near-perfect replica of Sam's.

Then they're all done, and Castiel is just kind of looking at it, weighing it in his hand like he's not entirely sure what to do with it. So Sam demonstrates that too: he opens his mouth wide and takes a large bite out of his s'more, getting half of it, more or less, in one mouthful.

The noises that he makes are not entirely appropriate as he moans around the melted chocolate and impossibly sweet marshmallow. Next to him, Dean snorts and says, "Gettin' a little excited there, are we?"

Sam doesn't bother responding to that, because at the exact same moment Dean's marshmallow catches on fire, and he's back to swearing at the flames. Sam smirks and swallows.

Castiel, thankfully, doesn't pay attention to Dean's issues. Instead, he follows Sam's lead and bites down on his s'more, just as tentatively as he tried the graham cracker a couple of minutes before.

His eyes widen as the harmony of chocolate, marshmallow, and cracker hits his taste buds. He takes a much larger bite right away, apparently not caring about how hot it is.

Sam bites the remainder of his in half and savors the sweetness. Watching Castiel, who has his eyes closed and a look on his face that's as close to bliss as Sam has ever seen, he asks, "Good?"

Castiel opens his eyes quickly, and he reddens slightly. His face shuts down some as he nods and murmurs, "Yes. Very."

Sam smiles and says, "Good," even though he's inwardly cursing himself. One day he's going to have to let Castiel on to the whole "Showing emotions doesn't make you a tool of the devil" thing. He's not sure if he should blame Dean or Castiel's Heavenly upbringing – Dean, because he's never been big on showing his emotions when showing them would actually cause something (such as a meaningful conversation) to happen. Maybe Castiel observed that and is taking it to an extreme, not showing anything at all, not even happiness (although Dean isn't exactly hiding his ecstasy right now, now that he's finally managed to put a s'more together, and what was that about Sam making the pornographic noises?).

Or maybe it is just something left over from Heaven. It's no secret that angels weren't supposed to have emotions. That Castiel is clinging to that notion wouldn't come as a surprise to Sam.

In any case, repressing emotions = bad. It's just one more thing that Sam resolves to work on with Castiel, right up there with making him realize that life isn't the bleak pit of misery that he thinks it is. But for now, there are more s'mores to be had and more marshmallows to be lit ablaze, so Sam stabs another onto his stick and puts it into the fire, warm and fairly happy, and entirely glad to be alive.

Masterpost | Next

Christmas Dreams [Part II]

lies_unfurl — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 03:41:54 GMT

The next day they wake up bright and early. Or, more accurately, Dean wakes Sam and Castiel up at an obscene hour by lifting the shades and letting the sun shine in. By Sam's estimate, it's around 7:00 in the morning.

"Rise and shine," his brother says cheerfully. He's still wearing his sleep clothes as he stands next to the window, looking down at Sam and Castiel (Castiel's on the couch; he won the rock-paper-scissors match. It actually came down to him or Sam, but Sam let him win).

Sam squints as he gingerly rises to his feet. His mouth tastes of morning breath and marshmallows; there's no running water, naturally, and no one felt like wasting their bottled content on dental hygiene. "Time is it?"

"Seven o'clock." Score for Sam. "You two princesses have gotten your beauty sleep. C'mon, Cas, up and at 'em." Dean jabs Castiel in the shoulder blades; Cas groans and covers his head with his arm. One thing Sam has learned about Castiel is that he is extremely fond of sleeping. Sam isn't convinced that it's healthy.

"Cas!" He finally gets up at Dean's yell, still rubbing at his eyes. The clothes that he slept in are all rumpled, and part of Sam finds that highly endearing. He isn't sure why. Castiel's disregard for his appearance should be a warning sign, not a quirky and loveable trait.

"Get ready, you two." Dean strides to the door, not bothering to turn around as he calls out. "We’ve got a Bigfoot we need to be tracking."

The thing about Bigfoot is that he – it – they? – has large feet, which, according to logical thought process, should mean that they leave large footprints. Large footprints, combined with the slushy snow still coating the ground, means that any creature that walks shouldn't be that hard to find. This makes perfect sense in Sam's mind, which isn't too shabby, if he does say so himself.

In reality, though… well, things are different.

The noon sun is bright in the otherwise grey sky as the three of them make their way through the woods like the stealthy hunters that they are. Every bit of brush is examined by their eagle eyes for tufts of hair; every inch of ground is checked for scat or prints. Their ears are open to the slightest sound: birds taking off, twigs cracking underfoot, people or small animals screaming as they get mauled by a cryptid.

Or, well. Theoretically that's how it is. In truth, Castiel isn't very good at tracking. He's got good eyes, granted, and the permanent tilt of his head strongly suggests to Sam that he's listening. But he isn’t really used to his human body. His steps are far clumsier than they should be, and he is forever bumping up against tree branches or bushes. Sam thinks that maybe this would have been a bit more productive if Castiel had stayed back at the cabin, but he wouldn't dare suggest it.

Anyway, as they press deeper and deeper into the woods, he has to admit that it isn't that bad. Sam's been on some miserable tracks in his time, especially that one back alley search for a wererat when they were kids. This doesn't even crack the top twenty worst ones he's been on. It's miserably cold and probably pointless, but Dean is in a good mood, even for his post-Purgatory self. And the ground isn't as bad as it could be – muddy and slushy, snow melting in the recent "warming trend" (although if you ask Sam, it still feels like it's freezing), but it's not the sort of combination that pulls the boots off your feet, nor is it the slippery kind that makes you fall on your ass with your arms flailing out about you. It's unpleasantly mucky, yes, and Sam will probably have to clean his boots at some point, but it isn't terrible.

Dean is having the time of his life, enthusiastically leading them along trails that Sam misses at first glance. His feet fall silently on the ground, the mud apparently too awed by his presence to squelch. He keeps his gun low, but Sam knows he's ready to jump at a moment's notice.

It must be close to one in the afternoon when Dean calls out, "I think I've found something!"

Sam and Castiel trot to his side. He's standing next to a tree, hand resting on the bark as he stares at something just over his head.

They're right at Sam's eyelevel: claw marks. Four deep lines gouged into the tree, too in-unison to have been made by some natural accident. No, they were left on the tree by something that was alive. And considering that they're as tall as Sam's head? It had to have been something very, very big.

"I think you're right." Sam traces the marks. The exposed wood hasn't really started to weather, so he thinks that they're probably new. The cold climate might have something to do with that too, though. It's hard to tell.

Castiel is silent as he looks at them. If he's particularly awed at seeing the scratches of Bigfoot, he doesn't show it.

"It's the only set I can find around here, but I think it's worth taking a look." Dean glances at Sam, who nods his agreement. It's their best lead so far – their only lead.

But as they venture down the path, Sam begins to pick out other signs. The trail they're on is one that's fairly easy to miss. It's off of the wide, main path that ventures through the woods, the one that even in bad weather has firmly a surface packed firmly down for cyclists and hikers. But there's no sign of maintenance on this trail: the ground is the slushy mud of somewhere that hasn't been trod on by countless feet. It's narrower, too: Sam probably couldn't walk side-by-side with Dean even if he wanted to.

For all that, though, there are signs of disturbance. Branches that look recently fallen have been pushed to the side haphazardly, as if kicked over by some lumbering creature's heavy feet. The soil/snow up ahead of them has been disturbed recently. Which, granted, could be due to deer or wolves or something. There are no prints to obviously disprove that. But Sam thinks that maybe that just upholds the idea that Bigfoot has been by recently: the muddy mixture is smeared, sort of, as if it had been walked upon by something that was slipping about on two feet.

They're on the right track, Sam certain of that. He tightens his hold on his revolver and lets out a huff of breath. Maybe they can even finish this up today, and be back on the road to somewhere more pleasant by the time the sun is setting. Maybe they can find somewhere relatively peaceful to hunker down for Christmas, and Sam can start seriously working on getting Cas to improve his outlook on life.

Naturally, they don't find Bigfoot that afternoon. They find scratches on five more trees, and they all agree that there are probably more: "It's like he's marking out his territory," Dean had said. Sam had agreed, and Castiel… hasn't disagreed.

They finally started back around three. The temperature had been steadily declining since noon, and, as Dean put it, "We have no idea if this thing's nocturnal or not. And if it goes hunting at night, well, I don't wanna be caught out here unprepared."

So they make their way back to the cabin, guided by Dean's internal compass. They get there within two hours, since they're not looking for clues or doubling around to check out every tree in a thirty-yard width. It's still dark, though, and the three of them are all suppressing shivers.

"The things I'd do for running water," Dean sighs as he chucks off his muddy work boots in favor of a new pair of woolen socks. "Or a microwave. What do we got to eat, Sammy?"

Sam glances up. He's knelt down next to the fireplace, trying to coax a small flame into something large enough to warm the three of them. "Um, I dunno. We've got some jerky in the trunk, I think." Although not the kind with the Sasquatch commercials, which is kind of disappointing. "Weren't you supposed to pick something up at that rest stop?"

"Dude, I was in the can. You were the one who apparently only got stuff for s'mores."

Oh. Right. Sam winces, remembering how his intentions to grab a thing of hotdogs had been waylaid by his brilliant plan to introduce Castiel to s'mores. "There's stuff in the panic room, I think. Cas, want to come look with me?"

Castiel glances up from where he's leaning against the wall and absentmindedly rubbing his hands together, probably trying to jumpstart circulation. "Okay."

So down they go, their path illuminated by Sam's flashlight. Once they're actually in the panic room (which is really more like a panic basement) he shines the beam over the rows and rows of generic canned goods. "What do you feel like, Cas?"

Castiel shrugs. Sam frowns.

"There's chowder," he says helpfully, reaching out and picking one can up. He looks over it for an expiration date; finds one that isn't until another two years. Tamora must have kept the place up-to-date. "You ever had chowder, Cas?"

"No."

Sam sighs and decides to stop dancing around. Putting the chowder back on the shelf, he turns to face Castiel directly. "How are you, Castiel? And don't just give me 'fine,' or something like that. Are you still feeling like you told me before? Homesick?"

Castiel gives him what Dean would describe as an impressive bitchface. "Sam. It's been less than a week since we had that conversation. While I recognize that you've been making an effort to make me feel… more accepting of my pathetic state, nothing has changed."

For some reason, that response irritates Sam. "It's not pathetic. You're human. I am too. That's okay."

Castiel turns away from him, looking petulant. "It's okay for you. But—"

"'But' what, Castiel? But you used to be an angel? Man, you can't focus on that. I know it sucks, and I know it's hard, but you can't spend all of your time just thinking about how much you'd rather be in Heaven instead of Colorado. You can't keep worrying about what'll happen when you die, because it's just speeding that up for you. Every day you spend moping about what happened before and what's going to happen in the future is a day in the present that you've just completely wasted. There are good things around. Me and Dean, we can show them to you. Just… just try, okay? Please? Because what you're doing isn't living, and I want you to. Live, I mean."

Sam stops, out of breath. That was a pretty good monologue for something that was completely improvised, if he does say so himself.

A single look at Castiel is enough to tell Sam that he didn't think it was. He meets Sam's eyes, and the look on his face is so blank, so starkly dead that it's frightening. "That's what you want. Don't assume it's what I do."

He turns around and walks up the stairs, leaving Sam alone in the panic room.

"Fuck," Sam says quietly, leaning back against the shelves. He drops his head and closes his eyes. What the hell is he supposed to do? The only plausible option seems to be waiting until something happens, until Castiel sees the light (figuratively, of course) on his own, but… well, Sam's not sure that'll ever happen. He's not sure if he or Castiel can afford to wait that long.

He takes another minute to himself, just breathing in and out in the darkened basement. He'll think of something. He has to.

Eventually Sam stands up, grabbing a couple of cans of the chowder. He goes upstairs and he heats them up over the fire, doles it out to Dean and to Castiel. There's no banter tonight. Castiel is withdrawn, and Dean is somehow able to sense that something went down in the basement – hell, maybe he even heard; it's not like the cabin is very big.

In any case, they eat in silence and go to bed early. No one feels much like playing cards or reading.

"We'll go back out tomorrow, okay?" Dean says as he stretches out along the couch – Sam and Castiel have been pushed to the floor tonight. "Now that we know where the thing's territory is, we can start really scouting around, okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam replies, curling close to the fire. Castiel is silent.

It takes Sam a long time to fall asleep, and when he does, he dreams that he's back inside the Impala, snow swirling down about him. But this time, Castiel is motionless where he sits against the wall of the car. His skin is grey and cold, and piles and piles of black feathers surround him. Sam reaches out to touch him, a sick feeling rising in his gut. When his hand makes contact, Castiel's eyes snap open – they're pale, too pale. A giant gust of wind strikes the car as Sam and Castiel stare at each other, and it sounds like someone is praying.

"Help me," Castiel finally says, and Sam nods and reaches out to touch him—

He wakes up with a start. The fire is burning low, almost out. Sam stares at it for a long time, watching until the embers finally die low, and thinking about what the hell he can do.

It's the next day that things go to hell.

Of course, Sam doesn't know that when he gets up after a night punctuated with short bursts of sleep and longer stretches of worried wakefulness. He doesn't recognize it as he bundles up for the steel grey sky and the low, whistling wind that strikes the cabin every few minutes, eerily similar to the sound from his dream before. Sam doesn't even recognize the day's importance when Castiel joins him and Dean five minutes after they were ready to go, looking like he slept even worse than Sam.

Dean leads the way again, surefooted and steady as he brings them through the woods. They walk down narrow side trails and paths that weren't previously there, always on alert for Bigfoot.

The weather gradually worsens. Sam thinks it was around nine in the morning when they set out, everyone having decided to sleep in, or something. By ten-thirty, the sky has gone from being a cool steel grey to a dark and stormy omen. The wind has picked up, becoming a constant that freezes Sam's neck and stings his finger even through his thick gloves.

"We need to turn back," he finally shouts at Dean. It can't be later than eleven, but the lighting is more akin to nightfall. He can barely hear his own voice, so heavy is the wind.

A snowflake drifts down, and then another. Sam gets the distinct feeling that he's going to see more and more of them before the day is over.

Dean glances at him and nods. His nose and cheeks are bright red from exposure, and Sam expects that although his grip on the gun is steady, his hands must still be frozen. He turns them around without a word, probably not wanting to waste breath on things that won't be heard anyway.

The snow grows worse as they continue on; it doesn't take long at all before it's coming down in earnest. Less than five minutes after Sam observed the first flake a thin layer is already covering the ground. The wind blows it around in swirls. It's a sight that maybe would have given Sam festive Christmas feelings were circumstances different, but he's the one stuck outside in it, and he's not really feeling the holiday spirit.

They've been walking back to the cabin for ten, maybe fifteen minutes when the wind dies down enough to let them hear the first distinctive crack of snapping branches, immediately followed by a low, throaty grunt. The footsteps come a moment later, heavy pounding on the ground.

The three of them turn around in unison at the first sound, guns raising. Sam's heart is pounding, every frozen nerve in his body on alert – but neither he nor Dean is fast enough to stop what happens.

The creatures leaps out of the brush about ten feet away from them and immediately stands at its full height. Eight feet, at least, according to Sam's estimate. Long light brown fur covers it, though it clearly hasn't been taking care of itself, if the numerous matts are any indication. It's got an ugly face and unintelligent yellow eyes, and a mouthful of teeth that are impressively large, despite all the rot covering them.

It roars, and he and Dean cock their guns at precisely the same moment. Even Castiel gets his up, though he's a couple of seconds slower.

"Cas," Dean calls in a calm, steady voice. Castiel is the one closest to Bigfoot – he was walking a couple of feet behind Sam, a difference which didn't seem to matter before, but which seems absolutely vital at the moment. "Cas, I want you to move very slowly to the left. Stand right next to Sam, okay? I don't wanna shoot with you in front."

Castiel nods very slightly and begins inching over. The creature growls low in its throat, drool dripping from the corner of its mouth.

Cas is almost level with Sam when it leaps forward, letting out a piercing, deathly shriek as it goes.

He and Dean shoot at it seconds apart, but it moves quickly for a creature of its size, and neither of their bullets hit.

It knocks into Sam, punching him aside with a fierce swipe of its paw. Sam gasps as all of the breath rushes out of him and he goes flying, slamming into Dean and bringing him to the ground. By some miracle neither of their guns go off.

For a moment Sam more or less blacks out, completely unaware of the world around him as he lies on the ground with one arm wrapped around his stomach, wheezing. It feels like his entire abdomen has turned into one giant bruise. It's just about the worst reaction to an injury that a hunter could have, but for those precious few seconds all he can do is gasp, tears of pain pricking the corners of his eyes.

It's Dean who brings him back to his senses with a firm hand on his shoulder and a repetition of his name: "Sam? Sam!"

Sam blinks and groans. He doesn't taste blood in his mouth, he notes, though he definitely bit his tongue. With great effort (and a bit of help from his brother) he pushes himself up onto his knees. "Dean? What's goin' on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Got kinda banged up when you crashed into me, but I can deal with a couple of bruises. It's Cas. Bigfoot just dragged him off."

For a moment, Sam's world stops spinning. He stares at Dean, not understanding what he's saying. Cas? No. Cas is fine, he has to be, he can't be…

Sam blinks and gets to his feet. He almost falls down halfway through at the intense twinge of pain that stabs outwards from his gut. Dean catches him, though. "Hey, hey. Deep breath, Sam. Can you find your way back to the cabin on your own, or do you want me to bring you?"

Sam stares at him, not sure if he's hearing right. He hit the ground pretty hard, after all. It's possible that he banged his head. "Are you crazy? I'm not going back without Cas."

"Dude, you took a pretty heavy fall. You should really go back, make sure that there're no broken ribs or internal bleeding." Dean's eyes flicker off beyond Sam, off where Bigfoot must have dragged Cas. "I'll go after them. Don't worry, I'll bring Cas back."

"I'm not letting you go without backup, and that's final." Sam picks his gun off the ground and brushes it off. "Now, which way did they go?"

As they're tracking the cryptid's trail, Dean tells him the details – it had snagged Castiel's jacket in its giant claws and bounded off into the distance. No, of course it didn't look like Cas had been killed. It hadn't broken his back or anything; Castiel was still calling for help as it took him off.

"None of the vics had broken backs," Dean reminds him. "It looks like Bigfoot likes to keep his food alive for awhile. Kinda like a wendigo, maybe."

It's not a particularly consoling thought, but at least Dean tries.

Sam doesn't think that the creature could have gotten that far ahead of them. The forest is thick, after all, and paths for eight-foot-tall bipeds are severely lacking. And it didn't have too much of a head start, did it? Truthfully, Sam isn't entirely sure how much time he spent in agonizing wheezing.

In any case, they've been on the move in what Dean swears is the right direction for about ten minutes when Sam finds Castiel's hat. His heart leaps to his throat as he bends down and picks it up.

It isn't particularly striking, as hats go. It was one Dean had grabbed off the discount rack of some clothing store they were in back when it became clear that Castiel needed some semblance of a wardrobe. It's a plain wool cap, brown-gray in color. Nothing special.

But it's Castiel's, and now he isn't wearing it, and that's not okay. Sam is chilled to the bone even with his hat on, and the one that he's wearing is considerably thicker than Castiel's.

He stares at it, unable to move. All he can do is remember his terrible dream, and envision Castiel frozen, Bigfoot's claws still snagged in his jacket.

"Hey." Dean's hand is on his shoulder, and he's firmly shaking him. Sam looks up at him and blinks. The snow is thick now, and Dean's face wavers amidst the constant rush of flakes. "Sam. You with me?"

"I – yeah. Dean, we've gotta find him. What if—" but the words are too terrible, and Sam can't bring himself to voice his fears.

Dean understands, though. Dean always does. "Hey. He made it out of Purgatory alive, didn't he? And let me tell you, some of the shit we saw in there makes being dragged along by Bigfoot seem like a sleigh ride through Central Park. He's fine, Sam. We're gonna go get him, and he's gonna be fine."

Sam swallows and nods. He pockets the hat, and mentally curses himself for being so stupid, for wasting precious moments freaking out instead of moving. What the hell kind of a hunter is he? "Come on. Let's go."

So they go, through the woods and the snow. They crash through the brush and cut across the trails. Occasionally they see what looks like a giant footprint or an area of disturbed snow that makes it seem as though something was being dragged across it, but that becomes increasingly rare the deeper they go.

Sam is starting to despair after what feels like hours on the hunt, with no sounds but the howling wind and no signs of life but a few birds launching themselves up to better places. His fingers are freezing, and he doesn't think that he's capable of shooting. His legs are burning from effort; his abdomen is throbbing with his every move. He's definitely bruised up from Bigfoot's whap, even if nothing internal has been damaged. But worst of all, the image of Castiel in his dream, skin grey and eyes impossibly pale, just keeps coming back.

He thinks his despair is about to get the best of him when Dean abruptly stops and shoots out his arm, keeping Sam from going any further. Not looking at him, Dean raises a finger to his lips.

Sam listens. The wind sighs through the tree branches and swirls the snow around them. It's almost peaceful. Almost serene. Sam imagines he would find this beautiful, if only he weren't so busy worrying about whether or not Castiel lives.

And then he hears it – the unmistakable low grunts of a giant animal hard at work. Completely in character for something dragging a human body back to its lair.

Dean points very slowly, and Sam turns in the direction at an equal speed. He sees it then: less that fifteen yards away it stands, walking at a reasonably brisk pace. Its right hand/paw is obscured from Sam's vision, blocked by a combination of a giant tree and snow, but Sam is almost certain that it's dragging Castiel with that arm.

His brother glances at him and carefully raises his gun. Sam nods and mimics the action.

Dean mouths the countdown: three… two… one…

They leap forward without making a sound, save for the blasts from their guns. Bigfoot turns around and roars, dropping Castiel. For a moment Sam fears for Cas's safety – Bigfoot could trample him in his fear, or one of them could shoot low. But he doesn't have time to dwell on that, so he just focuses on getting as many bullets as he can into the monster's hairy body.

It dies bloody. Sam thinks it's one of Dean's shots that finally does it, going straight through the eyeball, but it's impossible to be sure. It doesn't really matter. The only important thing is that it falls, and when it does, it falls away from Castiel. Sam is thankful for small miracles, though he doesn't really spend a lot of time thinking about that. He's too busy rushing forward to get to Cas, to kneel down next to his body and take stock of the situation.

It's bad, he knows that as soon as he sees Castiel. His winter coat is torn from Bigfoot's claws, the back of it ripped open from the bottom to the hood. One glove is missing, somehow lost during the journey. The blue scarf that Castiel wears is loose, no protection at all against the winter weather.

Worse yet is Castiel's face. It's pale, almost as bad as Sam's dream. His eyes are closed, and for a moment Sam's heart stops, entirely too certain that this is it, this is the end, Castiel had died out here in the snow, terrified, no one with him in his final moments—

But then reason gets the best of him, and he peels off his glove and places two frigid fingers against Castiel's neck. For several agonizing seconds there is nothing but stillness, and Sam's fingers start to shake with the effort of holding steady in the snow.

Then there's a beat, and another one, and Sam closes his eyes and thanks God, even though He probably isn't around to here.

"Hey." Dean's squatting down next to him, apparently having confirmed that Bigfoot is really dead. "Is he—"

"He's okay. Well, he's alive, anyway."

"Good." Dean nods and licks his lips. His cheeks and nose are bright red, but the rest of him seems very, very pale. "Can we move him? Nothing's broken?"

Sam does a cursory inspection, carefully running his hands over Castiel's arms, spine, and legs. "No. I don't think so."

"Okay. How do we want to do this—"

Before Dean has even finished speaking, Sam is carefully lifting Castiel up. He's fairly light for a man of his size, or at least that's how it feels. Probably it's the adrenaline pounding through his veins that makes it seem like that, but. Regardless of the cause, he keeps Castiel carefully cradled in his arms, bridal-style.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You sure you can make it like that? I mean, he's not exactly tiny..."

"We'll find out." The snow is being blown about harder than ever now, flakes chapping against Sam's cheeks, and he can only imagine how cold Castiel must be right now. "Do you know the way back?"

"Of course I do." Dean turns around and starts shoving his way through the snow. "C'mon."

Naturally, Sam goes along with him, Castiel unconscious in his arms. They leave the Bigfoot carcass in the snow; it'll be a feast for all the scavengers, Sam thinks. At least it'll do some good.

The cabin appears like a mirage: one moment it's not there, the next it is, and the third, they're stumbling into it. Literally. They weren't able to see it until they were practically right on top of it, and both of them are terribly uncoordinated, limbs and joints completely numb.

It takes Dean far too long to get out the key and work the frozen lock open. He swears through the whole thing, thick gloves hindering more than they help, until Dean finally just tugs them off and drops them. It must freeze him, but it's effective: within half a minute, the three of them are all inside the cabin, and the door is slammed.

Sam inhales deeply; he didn't realize just how hard he was struggling to breathe on the journey here. Suddenly Castiel is very heavy in his arms, and it takes the last of Sam's self-control to drop to his knees and carefully lay Castiel out.

"Fire," Dean says from above him. "We need one. I'll get on that."

"Good call. We need to get him warm." They need to get warm too, but not nearly as much as Cas does. It's dark inside the cabin right now, but Sam fears that he would be able to see a bluish tint to Castiel's fingers if he could see at all.

Sam quickly strips out of his own soaked gear as Dean brings up the wood and starts setting up the fire. He figures that he can't help Castiel get warm if he's still covered in snow and slush himself.

"How are we going to do this?" Dean asks from where he's just begun to get a flame. "I'd say bath, but there's nowhere to have one. Or else hospital, but I don't think we can get out of here, not in this weather." He sits back from his knees and stares at Sam, face serious. "Blankets aren't gonna cut it, from the looks of it. I mean, you can probably tell better than I can, but…"

"You're right," Sam confirms. He's peeling Castiel's torn jacket off now, and he can tell that the situation is bad. Castiel's skin is clammy, wet to the touch. Ideally they would be in a motel somewhere, a place with plenty of scratchy towels that could be used to roughly dry him off, but… well, this isn't an ideal situation, not at all. "Only thing I can think of is…"

"Body heat," Dean finishes, not looking away from the fire for confirmation. It’s a big blaze now, crackling as it fills the cabin up with heat. Sam can feel it already, a thawing on the back of his neck. He's unbelievably grateful for it. "Would that work? I mean, we're both still pretty cold…"

"Believe me, we're warmer than him." Sam pulls off Castiel's slush-coated remaining glove. He automatically takes the limp hand between his and starts rubbing, doing everything he can to get some warmth into the fallen angel's body.

"True." Dean nods and turns away from the blaze, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wanna go one at a time? That way one of us can get warm while the other person stays with him."

"Uh, sure. Yeah. Sounds great. Should I, you know…" Sam gestures vaguely. Unfortunately, judging by the look on Dean's face, he does not, in fact, know. "…strip him down?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Probably. I mean, boxers on and everything, but heat's gonna do more for him than clothes. Should I go first, or…"

"No, get dry. I'll take first shift." Because even though Sam knows Dean wouldn't hesitate to spoon with Castiel if it meant saving his life, he's well aware that Dean's masculinity feels threatened by doing such a thing. Sam can take one for the team.

There's nothing weird about that, right? Cuddling for warmth? It's okay. Sam isn't really sure why he's thinking all of this as he automatically unclothes Castiel.

Dean, meanwhile, has managed to take off his own soaking garments and move on to other things in his boxers, because he's apparently not in the mood to get dressed right away. "I think you should lie in front of the fireplace. Unfortunately, we don't have a bearskin rug for the two of you to get cozy on, but…"

He takes the quilt from the couch and tosses it onto the ground, grinning. "That's a start. And I think there's a thermal blanket down cellar, if you need it."

Sam glares as he strips off Castiel's pants. He feels lewd doing this, even though he knows that he's probably saving Castiel's life. "Is there a towel? I want to dry him off."

Dean makes a "hmm" sound and putters around. Sam sits back on his knees and watches Castiel, who's now down to his underwear. "And bring me a new pair of boxers while you're at it, would you?" The thought of touching Castiel's junk makes him feel kind of dirty, but he knows he can't exactly leave the guy with soaked-through garments against his dick.

Castiel stirs just as Dean tosses over the underwear and a small shaving towel, which is apparently the only sort of towel that three bachelors bother to bring into a cabin without running water. Sam sets it to the side, hovering near Castiel's head. "Cas? Hey, Cas?"

Castiel's cheek twitches. He blinks. Sam reaches down and touches his face carefully, just to let him know he's not alone. "You're all right, man. You gave us kind of a scare, and you're freezing, but you're going to be okay."

Castiel says something too quiet for Sam to hear. He bends down, puts his ear close to his lips. "What was that?"

"It hurts," Castiel says in a paper-thin voice. His eyes are heavy and half-closed. Sam is fairly certain that he's not entirely conscious.

Still, he squeezes Castiel's shoulder as gently as he can. "Yeah, you must be pretty sore right now. But you'll feel better soon, okay? Just get some rest. Don't worry about things."

He thinks Castiel says something in response, but again, it's too quiet for him to hear. Before he can ask Cas to repeat it, Dean is by his side, gently shoving him out of the way. "Dude, get yourself dry too. I can towel down Cas. And while you're at it, toss him some pants? I'm thinkin' that he'd probably like to be covered from the waist down."

So Sam obeys his brother, changing into his second-warmest pair of sleep pants. The warmest he tosses to Dean to put on Cas. He's foolishly glad that his brother is taking care of the whole lower half thing.

Minutes later, he's lying in front of the fireplace. Dean has carried Cas over, and Sam carefully takes his once-again unconscious form. He melds himself into Castiel's chilly body as much he can, wrapping his arms tightly around Castiel's bare chest, laying his hands against Castiel's neck to try to get their warmth to spread quicker through his body.

Dean wraps the quilt around them. It's fluffy and soft, nothing like the scratchy motel blankets to which Sam is accustom. He snuggles closer to Castiel as they lie inside the veritable blanket burrito.

"Get warm," Dean says, a note of affection in his voice. Sam snorts, resting his chin on top of Castiel's head. He's trying to wrap him up in as much warmth as he can.

He watches the flickering fire as he feels Castiel slowly warm near him. The flames are beautiful after the squalls outside, and their jumps entrance him. He feels himself slipping off to sleep, and clutches Castiel all the tighter as he does.

Sam wakes up toasty warm, with morning wood as hard as anything he got as a teenager.

He blinks. There's another body in his arms, and…

Oh. Castiel. Of course. He pulls back a little to get a better look at him, a thousand other thoughts running beneath his immediate questions: where's Dean? What time is it? How long has he been out?

Then he meets Castiel's eyes, and all of those other thoughts go rushing out of his head.

Cas is staring at him with a piercing, unreadable expression. His eyes are wide and dark in the light of the still-dancing fire.

Castiel hesitantly raises his hand and touches his cheek. Sam holds his breath, keeping Castiel's gaze. Something big is happening, he thinks, but he doesn't know what it is. Only Castiel does, and so Sam waits until he's ready to do whatever it is he has to do.

Finally Castiel licks his lips, his hand resting on Sam's face. In a raspy voice he whispers, "Sam?"

"Yeah?" he replies in a voice just as low as Castiel's. This is a hushed, subdued moment that is also more important than maybe anything that's happened since Dean and Cas came back from Purgatory. "What is it, Cas?"

"Sam," Castiel repeats, his hand curling slightly on Sam's cheek. "I… I was marked to die out there; I was being dragged, and I didn't know what was happening, and I thought for certain that I would never see you or Dean again, but… I didn't want that. I didn't want to die, Sam, I wanted to live… I want to live, Sam, oh, God…"

And then he's pressing against Sam, his lips desperately meeting Sam's, and Sam isn't really sure what's happening or why Castiel is doing this, but his lips are rough and warm, and it feels right.

"Jesus, I swear my piss froze— oh." Dean's voice echoes through the cabin, and Sam and Castiel are breaking apart. Sam's cheeks are red, and so are Castiel's, but that felt so right that he doesn't have any regrets.

The snow has stopped, Sam finds out when he tumbles out of the blanket burrito. Dean had fallen asleep when he was supposed to be keeping watch, and hadn't been able to relieve him from cuddling duty. There's a total of maybe five inches on the ground, not a whole lot. A good thaw, and they should be able to go to town.

The day is hectic. Castiel is weak as a kitten, bruised absolutely everywhere, so he can't do very much. And Sam's got a giant bruise at the base of his sternum, which is pretty damn sore itself. They make the decision to wait to move out of the cabin for another day.

They all putter around the cabin (or at least, Sam and Dean do; Castiel stays curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped firmly around him), all trying not to meet each other's eyes. It's… not fun, especially considering that there's not a whole lot of cabin to be puttering around. Sam mostly reads, starting a book on ancient Babylonian religious practices. It's one of the ones that they were able to salvage from the ruins of Bobby's place.

Around sunset, Dean announces that he's going outside to check out the Impala. "You know, make sure she's in okay shape to be getting out tomorrow. You two can…"

He makes a vague gesture and winks at Sam. Sam blushes and glares, and subtly flips him off.

Dean snorts and struts to the door. He goes outside, and then Sam and Castiel are alone.

Sam clears his throat. Castiel stares at him.

"Can I…" Sam gestures at the couch. Castiel nods, scooching into the very corner. Which wasn't really necessary, considering how little space he takes up, but.

Sam settles in next to him. "So."

"Was the kiss unwarranted?" Castiel asks without preamble. "Because if so, I apologize. I had thought it was appropriate in the moment, but I am poor at reading body language—"

"Cas," Sam says. "Cas, it was… are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

Castiel blinks, clearly caught off-guard. "I – yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

So Sam goes down cellar and he finds two cans of what he thinks is appropriate. He takes them upstairs, and he heats them up, and he thinks about what he's supposed to say. He has time, he thinks – Dean won't come in if he doesn't know what's going on; he doesn't want to scar himself. But Sam doesn't want to leave his brother out in the freezing cold. He's not that cruel.

When the soup is done, Sam sits back down on the couch and hands Castiel his bowl and a spoon, with a word of caution as to the soup's temperature. Castiel thanks him and takes it, and they eat the comfort food in silence, Castiel's hands occasionally shaking, but never quite spilling the soup.

Sam puts his bowl down when it's about half empty. He faces Castiel, who mimics his gesture. They look at each other for a moment.

Sam knows that it's on him to break the silence, and so he does. "It wasn't unwarranted, Cas. Not at all. I…" he runs a hand through his hair, puzzling over the words. "I wanted it too. I mean, it's not really something I had sort of thought about before, kissing you, but it felt right. For me. What about you?"

Castiel nods, looking impossibly relieved. "I felt that way too. I… I'm glad. That you felt the same."

Sam nods, not knowing what to say. They both busy themselves with their soup for another minute before Sam gathers up the courage to stop drowning his worries in food and move onto the next topic. "So. About what you said this morning, about wanting to live…"

Cas visibly closes up, his face becoming blank and his arms curling around his chest. "What of it?"

"Did you mean it?" Sam asks, keeping his voice low and gentle. "Because, Cas, I… I really, really want you to live. Really. I know it won't be easy, because being a person isn't. But… man, I don't want you to die." His throat is tight all of a sudden, the weight of what he's saying almost too much to bear. "I. I want to teach you about being a human. I want to help make things easier and better for you; I know that's not going to be easy, I know it's always going to kind of hurt, but… I can ease that ache for you a bit. If you let me."

He stops and stares at Cas, who looks back. For a moment there's dead silence, just the two of them regarding each other.

Then Castiel lurches forward, and his arms are around Sam, clenching at him tightly. His mouth hovers near Sam's cheek, breath hot against his skin. "I think I want that," he murmurs.

Sam nods, wrapping his arms tightly around Castiel's back. The road ahead is long, but it's there, at least. As Sam rests his chin in Castiel's soft hair, he thinks that things are looking a little bit brighter.

The Stolen Man - Masterpost

lies_unfurl — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 02:48:33 GMT

Part I | Part II | AO3

Art Post

Art Prompt Title: Heart's Ease
Art link: Art Masterlist
Prompt Number: 1017
Artist: scarletscarlet

Fandom/Genre: SPN
Pairing(s): Sam/Castiel, implied Dean/Oberon
Rating: R
Word Count: 12000
Warnings: Graphic sex, violence, implied nonconsensual Dean/Oberon,

Castiel commits genocide at one point

Summary: When the fairies don't return Dean, the task falls to Castiel and a still-soulless Sam to get him back.

Author's notes: This is probably going to be long, but:

All the thanks in the world go to scarletscarlet, who was absolutely amazing. I could not have asked for a more wonderful person to work with throughout this collaboration. She was patient with my extremely rough drafts, a fantastic cheerleader, and an all-around nice person to work with. Her feedback on this fic made it a hundred times better. And she was entirely okay with me writing a Robo!Sam/Castiel fic for a prompt that only had Dean in it, so :D

Her art is fantastic. I beg you all to please check it out!

The Stolen Man - Part II

lies_unfurl — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 02:46:56 GMT

Castiel stares at Sam, wondering at the confusion in his voice.

Then illumination comes, and he wonders how he could have been so stupid as to not have realized how Sam was playing him. It hits him all at once, how unspecific Sam's threats were, how he didn't list any particular grievances. What strange behavior that would be for a man who has no qualm about listing his life's problems.

He steps back from Sam, who relaxes against the wall. His face is open, expression curious.

"You," he begins, and then he stops, not sure what to say. He can feel fury crackling through his veins, so potent that he thinks that if he were to go and find Raphael right now, he would be able to defeat him using nothing but sheer rage. "You knew nothing."

Sam cocks his head. He doesn't seem bothered at all by Castiel's epiphany. "Not really. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to see that there was something wrong with you, but… Crowley?" He shakes his head. "I never saw you as the type to work with a demon, but… And did you say that you brought me back?"

"I regret it more with every passing second," Castiel grits out. Sam seems mildly amused by that, and that infuriates him. Sam has no right to find any of this entertaining; does he not realize everything that's at stake? Can't he see that his brother is trapped, that Castiel is fighting a losing war, that whatever friendship Castiel built with the Winchesters is essentially gone now, and that that revelation is more painful than it has any right to be?

"You're pretty pissed," Sam notes, and that is amusement in his voice, there's no question about it. He steps forward, and Castiel refuses to move back, because he's already given this… this human too much leeway. He won't break now. "I kinda like it."

Before Castiel can contemplate the meaning of that, Sam is touching him – a hand on his cheek, then on his chest, and then, before he can react, Sam is pushing him back onto the bed not scattered with driftwood.

Castiel blinks. Sam is straddling him, his eyes dark and almost feral. "You want this, Cas? 'Cause I sure do." Sam leans in and bites down on his neck, sucks the skin so that Castiel can feel is bruising.

The fury, temporarily quelled by his shock, rages up once again. "This is abominable," he snarls, and he flips Sam over easily so that it's him on top, so that Sam is pressed beneath his body. "You have no understanding of what you're doing – no understanding of what you want—"

Beneath him, Sam is grinning, and Castiel knows desperately that he should be getting up and flying away; he should be working out some other way to get Dean from Oberon's grasp, but this feels like a contest of strengths against Sam, and it feels like something that he has to win. He knows that a better angel wouldn't even entertain thoughts of staying, but he is far from the angel that he should be, and he can feel rage deep in his core where he should be feeling nothing but devotion to his Father—

Sam grabs his tie and tugs him down, presses their lips together in a violent gnash of teeth and tongue, and Castiel knows that he won't leave now, because to leave would be to lose, and that isn't something he can do right now.

He can feel Sam's erection pressing into his leg, and he can also feel his form responding in a similar way. It's not the first time Castiel has felt that; he is very old, and he has been on Earth time and time before this, but it is the first time that he has done something other than ignoring the bodily response until it goes away.

"Do you like this?" Sam asks, grinding himself up against Castiel. His hands are on Castiel's hips, slipping under his belt, digging bruises into his skin. "Fuck, you gettin' off on this, Cas? D'you like it rough?"

Castiel snarls some wordless response back at that and presses down against Sam's body. The desperate friction is good, satisfying in some way that he has never experienced. He reaches back, balancing on his legs, and grabs Sam's arms. He pulls them away from where they are exploring Castiel's own skin, and instead pins them above his head. "You have no control over me – I am the one with power—"

"I know things now," Sam replies. He's still thrusting up, but Castiel arches his body up so that Sam can no longer reach. That gets him a growl from Sam, and his eyes darken even more. "'bout Crowley – 'bout you bringin' me back—"

"I'll take those from you," Castiel replies. He can no longer rub against Sam, a trade for taking away Sam's ability to thrust against him. It's frustrating and unsatisfying, and he doesn't like it, but he doesn't know how to proceed from here, how to get what he wants while denying Sam the pleasure that he seeks.

"What, you're gonna brainwash me?" Sam laughs, and suddenly he's rearing up and flipping Castiel over, suddenly he has Castiel's arms pinned above his head using the strength of a single hand to keep them there. Castiel knows that he could move, but Sam's other hand is deftly undoing his pants, and suddenly he doesn't want to get up, and it's in that precise moment that he knows he's lost the fight, that Sam has got him beat. "Not gonna work. I'll just…" his hand is tight around Castiel's cock, jerking him off roughly. "…remember again…"

Sam has resumed his thrusting again, not bothering to unclothe himself. Castiel feels the rough drag of Sam's jeans against his half-off suit pants, notes how the movements are almost in time with those of Sam's hand. He pushes his head back against the pillow, shoving his length into Sam's fist.

He comes a moment before Sam does, an overwhelming feeling enveloping him as his semen coats Sam's hand. Sam's thrusts against his leg become slow and stuttered. Castiel closes his eyes and lets the aftershocks of his orgasm wash over him while Sam grinds down against his thigh.

Sam collapses next to him a moment later, his breath coming out quickly. "That wasn't bad. For a virgin," Sam says.

Castiel closes his eyes, and as he lies there, cock out and limp against his skin, a soulless human in bed next to him, he realizes what he needs to do. It's as if the sex has cleared his mind, like losing control to a human has made it all explicitly clear, what he needs to do to ensure that he keeps power next time.

He rolls over onto his side, cleaning himself up with a thought. Sam catches his eye a moment before Castiel reaches out and presses a hand to his forehead, knocking him unconscious.

Castiel stands up and stretches his wings. He has far to go tonight.

"You had visitors earlier," Oberon says casually to him. His left hand rests on Dean's back, as it usually does, casually toying with the elaborate vines weaving over his chest, marking him as… servant to the fairy king.

The words don't really register at first. His mind is hazy these days, half because of the general effect of Fairyland, and half because of the wine that Oberon frequently tips down his throat. Dean swallows it obediently, because he knows that was part of the deal. He does what Oberon wants, and in… nine months? Ten? He's not really sure, but in less than a year, he'll be out and Sam will have his soul again. He thinks of that every time Oberon asks things of him that turn his stomach and make him want to be back in a squalid motel with no one for company but a body shaped like his brother.

In any case, what Oberon says eventually reaches him. He blinks and risks a glance up at Oberon, parting his lips just so to make himself look especially innocent. The king doesn't like it when he talks, but he likes looking at his eyes, so Dean thinks this will be okay.

Oberon catches the gaze and smirks. His fingers dance through Dean's hair as he lounges on his throne and sips at his wine. "Mmm. An angel, by the name of Castiel? And a soulless… thing. Your brother, if I'm not mistaken."

The words don't make sense to him. Sam is on Earth; Castiel is fighting a war in Heaven. Dean is in with the fairies to serve out his deal. That's the way things are, and Oberon must be mistaken. Or, more likely, he's deliberately messing with Dean's mind, trying to plant in these ideas that don't really make sense.

Dean looks back down at the green field. Less than a year, he reminds himself, although the concept of time seems hazy and unreal in this land.

"I told them off," Oberon says from above him. Dean hears and pretends to listen; in reality, the words go in one ear and slide out the other. He's got a high tolerance for alcohol on the other side of the veil, but here? A sip and he's shitfaced. And he's expected to take a hell of a lot more than just one gulp.

So Oberon natters on and Dean looks at the grass and at the trees, and at the other fairy men and women at the rave of the moment. He doesn't think much of anything, until something crashes in the distance and Oberon bolts up, and Dean realizes that maybe things are wrong.

"What—" the king begins, his pale face twisted in an expression of fury. He doesn't have time to finish, though, because there's a sharp breeze, and then another figure is standing at the end of the field. Even from the distance, even before he starts striding forward with all the fury of an avenging angel, Dean recognizes Castiel.

"What do you think you're doing, Son of Yahweh?" Oberon coolly asks as Cas draws nearer. He's sat back down in the throne by then, but his shoulders are tense.

Dean runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth and tastes the flavor of fermented juices. He wonders if he's imagining all of this.

"I have come for that which I asked for earlier," Castiel answers, manner just as frosty. "I want Dean." He looks at Dean only briefly, mind apparently more occupied with the fairy king.

Oberon laughs. "And why should I give him to you, pathetic little thing as you are?"

Castiel looks at Oberon, tilting his head. Dean's vision swims for a moment, but it clears, and he realizes something that maybe he should have picked up on before: this Castiel doesn't seem… right. He's smiling in a way that he shouldn't be, and his wings are out behind him, two giant shadows that dwarf Oberon's. And his coat is covered with dark splatters that can only be blood. "Because I am neither pathetic nor little, King of Fairies."

He lifts his hand. From behind Dean comes a great cracking sound, like that of a giant tree falling over. Forgetting himself, Dean turns around and glances up, and what he sees chills him to the bone.

The throne is splitting and crumbling, and the ground is shaking with the efforts of roots reforming themselves. Wood splinters off and falls to the soil. The elaborate carvings and incredibly-detailed engravings are just gone.

Oberon is screaming something in the fairy's tongue to Castiel, and there are smaller fairies rushing at him, but he doesn't care. He just stands there with his hand extended, a small smile on his face.

When he's done, the throne is nothing more than a pale stump in a barren patch of dirt. Oberon sits upon it, his face drawn with anger and shock. Dean still kneels, but now his heart is pounding with something very much like hope.

"I want Dean," Castiel repeats calmly. "But I believe there is something else I need to do before we take our leave."

Power is thrumming through Castiel's veins – no, not power. Souls. Monster souls, thousands upon thousands; a considerable portion of those ever sent to their grave by hunters or others.

It isn't everything that Purgatory could have offered him, but the alphas that he tortured (the sources of the blood that splatters his jacket in Rorschach patterns) told him that he needed the blood of a Purgatory creature to open it up all the way, and he didn't know where he could find one of those. A few more slices, and he had learned that Alpha blood was an acceptable, if less potent, substitute.

The rest had fallen in place quickly. It was December 10^th, and there was an eclipse going on above him as Castiel painted the sigil on a cliff in the northern reaches of Alaska. He said the words and he felt the power enter him; he swallowed it, and when he had taken everything that he got, he flew.

Now he stands in Tir na nOg, feeling every bit a god. Oberon stands among the splinters of his throne with Dean, kneeling naked by his side, is looking up with hopeful eyes. It reminds Castiel of how he pulled him from Hell; he had looked like that back then, too.

"You're mad!" Oberon snarls, his wings fluttering spasmodically around him. "You think that you can just walk in and threaten me? Destroy that which is mine? You've doomed your cause forever, Castiel."

Castiel smiles. He doesn't do that very often, but it feels somehow… right. "I don't think I am the doomed one, Oberon." He glances up at the fairies fluttering around Oberon. A twist of his thoughts, and they turn to colored dust that rains down around their king. "If I were you, I would be more concerned for my own welfare."

He doesn't pay attention to Oberon's response, though the fairy certainly gives one. Instead, Castiel turns his concentration to the first thing that he came here to do.

The grass is the first thing to go. Castiel strips the glamour off of it like a carpenter pulling up a rug. The magic dies beneath his strength. The green gives way to dry brown dirt, the only thing ever there.

The souls inside of him sing as Castiel works, unmaking the land around him. It's a place of glitter and glamour, where rocks look like jewels and rotting fruit seems fresh and succulent.

Castiel takes it all apart. He splits open trees that were dying from the inside, and he reveals the moss that hung from their trunks for thorny, choking vines. He cracks open the rolling surface of Tir na nOg as if it were a fragile eggshell, as if it were nothing.

The sidhe cluster around him, drawing in to their center and their king as the land they live in gets torn apart. Castiel deals with them last of all.

Their deaths are quick; it isn't as though it brings him pleasure to kill them. Castiel lacks sadism. It's just that the fairies, as weak as they are now, could one day band together and prove to be menaces. If he leaves a mess, it could come back to bother him one day.

And so Castiel kills all of them – the small, colored ones that make up Oberon's guard; the redcaps; the elves; the dwarves; and the ones who simply are – vaguely human, intensely beautiful. They cry out as their bones turn to ash, as their lives become unwoven.

He leaves Oberon for last.

By the time everything is done – the vines chaining Dean burned away, the fields and forests turned to wastelands, and Oberon's remains completely indistinguishable from those of every other fairy who ever lived – the sky above Castiel is completely black. Night has fallen on Tir na nOg.

Castiel bends down and takes Dean's hand, pulling him to his feet. He smiles softly at the astonished look on his face. "Hello, Dean."

Dean blinks, and a motel room, completely indistinguishable from any other he's been in over the years, swims into view.

He's naked, lying next to a bed. That's the first thing that hits him.

The memories are second, though, and they're pretty damn powerful. A sudden rush – Oberon, his deal, Castiel coming in, his hand thrumming with something decidedly not angelic as he pulled Dean up –

A noise from the other bed makes Dean start. He looks up, squinting. "Sam?"

His brother is just waking up, apparently. He's naked, lying in mussed sheets, though as far as Dean can tell, there's no prostitute in the room or anything.

"The fuck is going on?" Sam asks him, sitting up. "Castiel…?"

There's something… off about the whole thing, but Dean's mind is still hazy from the fairy wine, still muddled from switching dimensions. "I, uh. I don't know." He fell unconscious on his own, he recalls, almost as soon as Castiel had taken hold of him. And that's the last he remembers of the angel.

"I don't know," he tells Sam. He manages to stand up, pushing up against the bed, and then he promptly falls back down onto the mattress. Wood snaps beneath him, and okay, Dean is kind of curious about how that got there. "Last I know…"

He trails off as it hits him, how Castiel had ruined the land. He remembers how Castiel had seemed barely affected by all the death and destruction, by how he had been killing an entire population. Genocide, Dean thinks sickly.

"How did you get here?" Sam asks. He sounds more confused than concerned, and that kind of hurts Dean, even though he knows that it shouldn't.

"Castiel. He—"

Dean doesn't get a chance to finish. Castiel stumbles into the room. He's coated in blood and ashes and his wings are out large behind him, but that doesn't matter – what Dean cares about is the ball of light in his hands, shining impossibly bright. He automatically shields his eyes, but his heart is leaping, because some part of him automatically knows what – who – that is.

"What's going on?" Sam asks Castiel. Something like fear shines on his face. He knows, Dean thinks, what's coming. He knows that he's going to die now, be gone from this world forever.

Dean feels sorry for him for half a second, because he is a real, breathing creature with his own real memories. He lived, and now he's going. Dying. There's something kind of sad about that, even if Dean can't really bring himself to mourn.

Castiel pins Sam down easily, not even touching him. Sam is shouting and struggling, but it doesn't mean anything, because Cas is apparently superpowered or something.

"It's okay," Castiel says soothingly, looking into Sam's eyes. Dean catches a glimpse of the angel's face, and it's… frightening. It's holy, like he's about to give some sort of benediction. Except Castiel isn't that sort of angel, so why would he look like that?

It isn't Castiel, Dean thinks as he watches his fist thrust into Sam's chest cavity, resouling him. It's someone, something else, and he doesn't like it.

His head is pounding, and he feels dizzy and unsteady. He closes his eyes for a moment, listens as his brothers screams fade into whimpers and then stop entirely.

"Dean?"

He opens his eyes. The thing that looks like Castiel is standing over him, still smiling that same holy smile. "I brought Sam's soul back from Hell, and repaired it too. When he wakes up, he will be okay."

"Who are you?" Dean asks. His tongue feels heavy, and black spots dot his vision. He reaches a hand out blindly, grazes the edge of Castiel's trench coat. "You aren't… not Cas…"

"I am." Castiel frowns, touching Dean's hand as if that will reassure him. "Don't you see, Dean? I'm strong now. I can go; I can defeat Raphael..."

"No." Dean shakes his head vehemently, clutching on to the angel's grip. "Whatever you did; whatever you've done with him; change it. Bring him back."

"I can't." The thing that looks like Castiel withdraws, a stricken expression on its face. "There isn't enough time; if I went to Raphael, the eclipse would be gone…"

"You're not him." Dean falls back onto the bed, closing his eyes. "Go. Get out."

The words lack force, but they must work anyway, because there's a flapping of winds, and Dean assumes that means that it's gone, whatever it was. He doesn't really have time to think about any of it; the next thing he knows, his consciousness has slipped away and he's lying on the bed in a pile of wooden shards, dead to the world.

Soft sounds reach Sam's ears as he stirs, feeling sensation in his toes for… well, for the first time in a long time. His mind is hazy and clouded, the effects of a thousand different dreams still lingering in his brain.

"Sam?" Dean's voice, loud and clear. "Sammy! Cas, I think he's wakin' up."

He heard footsteps, and then Castiel's unmistakable tones. "Sam? Can you hear us?"

Sam tries to answer, but his tongue is dry weight behind his even drier lips, and he ends up just making a sort of "mrph" sound. With effort, he manages to open his eyes.

Dean stands next to him, the real Dean, Sam knows instantly. His expression is one of intense relief, and as Sam attempts to sit up, he's there in a minute, his hands on Sam's shoulders, gently helping him up into an upright position. "Hey. Hey. You've been out for almost four days, man. Take it easy. Cas, get him some water?"

Castiel nods and disappears. There's no sound of running water from the bathroom, Sam notes absentmindedly. Whatever water he's getting, it's not going to be discolored and filled with flakes of rust.

He licks his lips, trying to get some moisture into them, but it's ineffective. He glances up at Dean, trying to convey all of his questions with a look.

Dean, being his older brother, understands. "How much do you remember?"

Sam closes his eyes, and it all comes back to him, smooth images flickering across his mind like a 'Welcome Back' PowerPoint for his soul. He remembers seeing Dean with Lisa, and deciding not to interfere. He remembers hunting on his own, and killing people when they got in the way, and he remembers finding his cousins and his grandfather. He remembers rejoining Dean, and finding Castiel again. Then comes how he lost Dean, how he went to Fairyland to get him back, how—

A small whimper emerges from his throat at the memory of Castiel writhing beneath him, naked. Dean is at his side in an instant; Sam can feel his hands hovering near his shoulders. "Sam? Hey, you okay?"

Sam nods and tries to talk for a second time. Squinting up at Dean (the curtains are drawn, but the light filtering in through them is still bright on eyes that have been shut for half of a week) he rasps out, "Wha' happened? How'd you get back? My soul?"

Dean's face clouds over and he steps back. "Castiel. He—"

He's saved from having to repeat the details by Castiel's sudden reappearance. He's carrying a crystalline glass, which he almost presses up to Sam's lips. A glare from Dean stops that idea in its tracks, and he hands the cup over to Dean, who holds it steady for Sam.

Sam drinks the water as slowly as he can force himself to; it's still at a speed faster than it ought to be. The water is cool and clear, and it takes away a bit of the fuzzy feeling in his mind. "Start from the beginning," he says to Dean and Castiel when the glass is half-empty. "How long have I been out? Four day?"

"Almost," Dean replies. "You've been kinda in and out of it for the past twelve-or-so hours. Kept waking up, moaning, and going back to sleep. That sort of thing.

Sam nods. Before he can answer, though, Castiel speaks up. "How do you feel? You're not – no visions, no headaches, nothing?"

"Um." Sam feels himself redden as he looks at Castiel and remembers how undone he had become while they were in bed. "No. I mean, I just woke up, but I feel pretty good."

Castiel gives a short nod. "And what do you remember of Hell?"

Sam frowns and carefully sifts through layers of memories that feel like they happened to someone else. There are bits and pieces buried deep down, flashes of red, the feeling of flames slowly peeling away his skin… he shudders. "I remember a bit," he says slowly. "About Michael and Lucifer, and Adam. What it was like…"

He trails off, but only for a moment before he pulls himself together. "I don't think I remember everything, though. I mean, I couldn't really be sane if I did, right?"

"In all likelihood, no." Castiel looks relieved, and it's only then that Sam really notices how worn around the corners he is. His shirt and tie are more disheveled than normal, and there's a tired air to his face, one that shouldn't be there.

Sam leans back against the thin pillows. "So. What happened? Last I remember…" he makes a vague motion with his hand, and then says quickly, "And then, Cas, you were resouling me. What happened in between that?"

Dean and Castiel look at each other. Dean snorts. "You can take this one, Cas."

He turns away from Castiel, pacing the length of the room.

Castiel looks at Sam. His eyes look incredibly ancient, which shouldn't be surprising considering that he's a couple of millennia old, but… well, they aren't usually like that. "Sam. I… I am so, so sorry for what I did."

And then he begins talking, and Sam listens to the story of Purgatory, and Oberon, and genocide. Of going to Hell for Sam's soul, and not being able to reach Adam; how he repaired Sam's soul as best he could, using the power provided to him from thousands of other souls.

He finishes with how Dean had begged him to give back the souls, and how there hadn't been time for him to do both that and kill Raphael. The choice that he made is blatantly obvious.

Sam nods, taking it all in. Castiel's left out how they slept together, he notes distantly. He's happy about that; although Dean might know – he came back from Fairyland when Sam was still unconscious, he remembers; when Sam was still lying naked in a mess of sheets, which really doesn't leave much to the imagination about what had been going on moments before – it seems like it's something that's best left unacknowledged. One of those things that'll maybe just go away if it's ignored. "So you killed all of the fairies?"

Castiel looks away. "Yes."

Sam imagines that there will be cosmic repercussions for that. Surely a species can't be wiped out without something, or someone, noticing? But he files that away as something to talk about later. "And Raphael?"

"He's still out there," Castiel says reluctantly. "Crowley as well. I… I strongly doubt I'll be able to build up any other alliances to fight them."

"You have us," Sam says automatically. His head is starting to get fuzzy again; his eyelids are getting to be heavy, yet still the words come out automatically. There's a lot of crap for them to deal with, a lot between he and Castiel and Castiel and Dean, but… well, that can be dealt with. It can be. They've come this far, they can go on a little bit further.

He slips back against the pillows, eyes falling shut. The fairies are all dead, and that's maybe not good – that's horrible, maybe – and there's still an archangel with a vengeance out there, but Dean is here, safe, alive, and himself, and Castiel is more with them than he has been in months. As he falls asleep, Sam thinks that things could be far worse than they are right now. It shouldn't be much comfort, but he'll take what he can get.

The Stolen Man - Part I

lies_unfurl — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 02:46:17 GMT

Dean seems different.

This occurs to Sam shortly after his brother has come back from Fairyland, or whatever it's called. Dean seems jumpy, fretful. He's constantly glancing around, like there's something behind him. Quite frankly, it's starting to annoy Sam.

"Dude," he finally says, halfway through a drive on the way to their next hunt. Dean's driving, naturally, but he's doing a shit job of it: they're going incredibly slow, barely breaking thirty, and even though the highway is practically deserted and there's no one behind them to be pissed off, there's absolutely no reason for that. "What the hell's gotten into you?"

Dean glances at him, face pale and drawn, before he looks back at the road. "There is nothing wrong. I am as I always was."

And that's another thing – his speech is all formal now, like he's taken a page out of Castiel's dictionary, or something. It's weird.

"If you're the same as ever, why are you driving like our grandmother?" He almost said grandfather, but that would be inaccurate. Samuel Campbell drove just fine.

"I'm not." Dean presses down on the gas tentatively, and they speed up about ten miles. Sam rolls his eyes and leans back, closing his eyes. Once again, he wonders why the hell he's still with his brother. Probably because Dean would get himself killed on his own, and he feels some sort of stupid responsibility for him.

He waits until they get to the motel room. While Dean is in the shower, he sets up his supplies. When Dean comes out, Sam is ready.

Dean lets out an honest to god, incredibly high-pitched squeak when the silver slices into him. But it's a human sound, not a shifter's. The holy water gets another yelp, though not a demonic one.

Sam steps back, frowning. "You're not possessed, and you're not a shifter. I suppose you could be a goblin… but their imitations are usually good. You're not acting much like Dean at all."

His brother wipes at his face, frowning. "I told you, I am Dean. It's really me, Sam. What else would I be?"

Sam shrugs, picking up a cloth and wiping his brother's apparently untainted blood from the silver knife. "I don't know. I'd say a changeling, but those are kids. You're not."

"I'm not," Dean agrees complacently. He walks over to the bed nearest to the door and lies down. "I think I should get some rest, Sam. Before we start the hunt."

"Are you sure you didn't service Oberon?" Going through a traumatic experience might explain the personality shift in Dean.

"No. I didn't." Dean turns over, not facing Sam. "Good night."

Sam rolls his eyes, not bothering to answer. Instead, he grabs sweats from his bag and, not bothering to go inside the bathroom, strips off his jeans and puts them on. It's clear outside, a good night for a run. A good way to get away from his brother, and whatever's messed him up in the head this week.

(In the back of his mind, something whispers to Sam that that's not entirely fair, that Dean has literally been through Hell, and he's weak, isn't he, with his soul? It's understandable why he's so screwed up. But Sam doesn't particularly feel bad about thinking about Dean like that, because he knows it's true, and shying away from the truth doesn't get you anywhere. Dean is pretty fucked-up, and this latest personality change just goes to prove that. It would be stupid to pretend that it was any other way.)

Sam lets it go because there really isn't any other alternative. Dean says he's fine. He's passed all of their traditional monster tests. What the hell else is Sam supposed to do, pack them up and drive all the way over to Bobby's to sit his brother down and get him to talk about his feelings? Call down Castiel and ask him to play therapist? Dean has gotten through every other thing life has thrown at him. No reason why whatever's happening now should be any different.

And he's gotten better at driving, so. Really, there's nothing for Sam to complain about, were he inclined to complaining.

They hunt a woman in white, and then a rogue vampire after that. It's on the third hunt, which is for what looks to be some sort of cult dedicated to an ancient rain god, that Dean gets sick.

It begins with Dean sniffling into a tissue at the diner that morning. Sam notices it absentmindedly, doesn't bother to be concerned. He's been healthy himself ever since he came back, like lacking a soul supercharged his immune system or something. He doesn't think that he'll catch whatever it is that Dean has. And as for Dean himself, well, he's survived this much, he can survive a bug. It's no big deal.

Things began to go downhill in earnest when they're interviewing Francine Warner, a middle-aged woman with poorly-dyed red hair who claimed to have witnessed robed people chanting in the field right next to her, shortly before the storms began.

It starts out normally: Dean interviews (albeit in a more hesitant, awkwardly-phrased way than ever before) and Sam sits next to him, keeping his face appropriately neutral and interjecting comments only when it seems necessary. Francine is a fluttery woman who seems quite charmed by Dean's questions. She giggles after almost every single one of her answers, and Sam doesn't take any pains to hide his rolling eyes.

Dean isn't flirting back, which is generally out-of-character for him, but Sam can excuse it, because he doesn't find Francine very attractive at all, and if even he wouldn't bother, then it's unlikely that Dean would. And anyway, maybe he's still missing Oberon.

He smirks a bit at the thought. Maybe that's what's behind Dean's personality shift: heartbreak over being worlds apart from his lover. He's so lost in thought over figuring out the logistics of that that he almost doesn't notice Dean's face going all pale.

As it is, Sam does see the exact moment that all the color drains from his brother's cheeks, which weren't looking so rosy that morning in the first place. Before Sam can comment (not that he knows what he's going to say) Dean stands up, bumping into the table they're at and causing the coffee Francine pushed on them to splash out over the sides of their mugs. "Do you have a restroom, ma'am?"

"Why, yes, I do. Right down the hall, first room on your left. Would you like me to show you where…" she trails off as Dean bolts in the direction that she's pointing in. A moment later the sound of loud retching can be heard from the bathroom.

"Poor man," she says sympathetically. All Sam can summon up is a bit of disgust and a hope that whatever this is, it passes quickly. "Is there something going around?"

Sam shrugs. "Hard to say."

Francine launches into some other area of speech, something to do with how when she was a girl she got the flu almost every winter and wasn't it an awful thing? Sam sips at his mediocre coffee and tunes her out to the best of his ability, waiting for Dean to reappear.

Which he does almost five minutes later, face still drained of color. He's broken out in a sweat, and his hair, usually vaguely spiky, is limp along his brow. Sam sighs as he stands up, letting Dean utter his apologies to Francine. It looks like this is one case that he's going to have to solve on his own. Which is probably a good thing, to be completely honest. Dean's been more and more of a burden lately, particularly since the fairy hunt. Sam is having trouble remembering why he hasn't just gone off on his own.

By the time that they get back to their motel room (which isn't long at all, since Sam took the keys and Dean didn't protest, just highlighting how sick he was) Dean's condition has gotten significantly worse. Sam isn't sure, but he doesn't think that the flu is supposed to go down this rapidly. Dean's gone from being stuffed up at around nine in the morning to being so shaky with chills that he can barely walk to his bed at two in the afternoon.

Sitting at the end of his bed, Sam frowns. Dean is huddled into a ball, shaking his head 'No' whenever Sam asks if he needs Advil or a blanket or a bowl of soup. His white shirt (he didn't bother taking his suit off completely, just threw the jacket onto the floor and kicked off the shiny black shoes) is completely soaked through, clinging to his back like a second skin.

"Do you need a doctor?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head again. His teeth are visibly chattering when he tries to answer. "I d-don't n-need anyth-thing… jus' got-ta get t' sleep…"

"I don't know if that's what you need right now." Despite what Dean might think about him, Sam's not cruel. He doesn't want his brother to die, really. It's illogical, because he's killed plenty of other people who were also brothers or sisters, or maybe mothers or fathers. All of them were someone's child. But Dean is… different, though he can't say why.

"Castiel," Sam decides, staring down at his brother's huddled form. "I'll call Cas."

"I don't n-need C-Cas…" Dean is shaking so strongly that he can barely get out the angel's nickname. That cements Sam's will.

He goes outside, although he could probably have prayed just as easily inside the salmon-colored walls of the motel room. Looking up at the cloudless sky he calls out, "Castiel? Got a situation down here."

Sam waits. A cold wind ripples through the air, and a lone crow caws in the distance. Late November on the outskirts of Illinois is a bleak time.

"Cas, Dean is sick. Dean needs you."

A quiet breeze, and then Castiel is standing in front of him, looking harried. At one time, Sam probably would have been offended by his refusal to come at his prayers, but now he doesn't care. He's a soulless abomination in Castiel's eyes. He can accept that.

"Where is Dean?" the angel asks without preamble. His eyes automatically go to their room, though, like he already knows the answer.

"Come on." Sam turns the knob and steps inside, wrinkling his nose at the stench. It smells like sick in here, like Dean's thrown up again or something. Maybe he has, though Sam isn't sure what else he has left inside him.

Castiel goes very still next to him, frowning at where Dean is lying on his bed, an immobile lump. If it wasn't for the shivers still wracking his body, Sam would think that he was dead.

All of a sudden, Castiel strides over to where Dean lies, seizes him by the collar, and pins him against the headboard. Dean blinks, his mouth gaping like that of a fish as Castiel stares intently at him, eyes narrowed.

Sam reacts automatically to the assault on his brother, pulling out his knife. "The fuck do you think you're doing, Cas?"

"Sam," Castiel says quietly, abruptly letting go of Dean and allowing him to crumple limply to the bed, "Sam, this isn't your brother."

"If I had been around more… if the war hadn't…" Castiel trails off. The look that Sam is giving him signals that he doesn't particularly care about Castiel's reasons for not having noticed Dean's disappearance sooner. Naturally, this soulless version of him wouldn't; Castiel doubts that even Sam with a soul would have been interested in hearing about how he's spent the last two weeks either leading raids against Raphael's soldiers or torturing Alphas for Crowley.

Sam doesn't drop the knife he's holding, although he must know that it would be entirely ineffective against Castiel. "If this isn't Dean, where the hell is he?"

Castiel doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks at the cowering, shivering, human-shaped thing on the mattress. It's pathetic, he thinks, and he has the oddly human thought that he should put it out of its misery – although that doesn't really make much sense, because it's not alive. It can't feel at all.

Still, the image of something whose outside is identical to Dean in so much distress is… well, it affects Castiel more than it ought to, considering that he can tell from a glimpse at it that it's completely lacking a soul, and a small twist of his mind lets him see through the glamour. If it weren't for his awareness of how poorly Sam would react to him killing something with his brother's face, Castiel thinks that he would probably destroy it now. He's getting sentimental, allowing such a thing to bother him.

He tears his eyes away from the stock's huddling form. "Were you and Dean working on any cases recently that involved the sidhe?"

Sam frowns at him, irritation clear in his eyes. "What?"

"The sidhe. The fair folk, the mound builders. The fairies."

Sam's chin lifts in recognition, and he nods. "Yes. Yeah, we hunted them a couple of weeks ago."

Castiel closes his eyes. He can imagine all of the details already, but he needs to know for sure, needs to hear what Sam has to say. "Tell me everything."

So he listens while Sam impatiently relates the story to him: a town besieged by oddities, the two of them hunting, Dean getting kidnapped. "He seemed different when he came back," Sam says bluntly, "but I didn't think anything of it."

Anger flares inside of Castiel, mixed with an odd amount of guilt – a reminder that the Sam standing before him is his creation, that it's entirely his fault that Sam was brought back incomplete. He pushes both emotions down, though. What's done is done; there's a far more serious situation at hand than Castiel's own culpability. "You said this was a matter of weeks ago?"

"Four, I think. That doesn't really matter, does it? I just want to know where Dean is, and what that… thing is." He gestures vaguely at the dying thing lying on the bed. "So I can get him back."

"You won't be doing anything," Castiel says automatically, realizing as soon as the words are out of his mouth that that probably wasn't the best thing to say. Sam's eyes darken, and he takes a step forward. Castiel holds steady, keeping his eyes on Sam's as he continues to speak. "The thing that you see before you is a stock – a piece of wood from a certain tree that grows in Tir na nOg. Fairyland. It's not important," he says quickly, seeing how the lines in Sam's brow are deepening with almost every word he says. "The sidhe have your brother. They sent this… thing back in his place as a substitute. You would have noticed if you were you; it wouldn't have worked, but…"

"I'm not," Sam replies sharply. If he had an angel-killing knife, Castiel thinks it would be out right now. As it is, he's less than a foot away from Castiel, using his height to his full advantage to make him seem intimidating. Castiel refuses to let himself fall for it. "But that doesn't mean that I don't want Dean back, and it doesn't mean that you're not going to tell me where he is and how I can get him."

"He's with the fairies," Castiel replies impatiently. "In Fairyland, as your kind is wont to call it. Its true name is Tir na nOg, but I doubt that concerns you."

"You'd be right," Sam snaps, stepping forward so that their faces are practically touching. His expression is one of fury, righteous and dark, and if Castiel weren't absolutely certain that he could defeat Sam with a flicker of his Grace, he would probably be afraid. "I don't care about the details or the technicalities. I care about getting Dean back. If you're not going to help me with that, you can get out. Now."

"Do you really think that threatening me will help your cause?" Castiel glares up at Sam. His wings itch to unfold at his back, but he forces himself to control them, to not give in to a petty display of power. "Dean is in danger. We don't have time for this – rather, I don't have time for this. I need to get him back."

"Just in case you've forgotten—" Sam's next statement is cut off by a plaintive keen from the thing in the bed. They both turn automatically to look at it.

It's stretched out on the bed, face and body covered with sweat. Green eyes, eyes that look like Dean's, are wide open. Its lips have turned a painful shade of purple, and its hands are clawing at its throat.

Sam is the first to turn away from it. His face is twisted, and he looks disgusted. Castiel follows suit, although with more reluctance than Sam displays. "He'll die soon."

"No shit." Sam shrugs it off, displaying a casual indifference to human life that the real Sam Winchester – the one that Castiel left behind to burn in a pit with his half-brother and two mad archangels – would never show. "And I'm not leaving this place without something that looks like my brother by my side, so we might as well go."

"You are nothing but a human. Your presence will mean nothing to the sidhe; if anything, they'll take you as well, and force you to undergo whatever torments Dean is enduring." Castiel tries not to consider the details. The specifics are irrelevant.

"You think I'm scared of that? Because I'm not. I don't think I can be. You, on the other hand… well." Sam smirks and looks Castiel directly in the eyes. His gaze is sharp and calculating with a deadly edge to it. "You can feel fear, can't you? Because, assuming you can, you'd better start now. Because Dean's getting out of there one way or another, and if you don't bring me along for whatever it is that you plan to do, then when he gets back I'll tell him everything. Every single thing you've done and everything that you're going to do." He grins a feral grin, and Castiel is frozen in place, more cowed by this threat from a human, of all things, than he has been for a very long time. "I'll tell him all of it, and I swear, Cas, we will hunt you like the monster that you are."

Sam keeps his expression steady, as fierce as he can make it without turning it farcical. In front of him, Castiel is motionless. He's scared, Sam can see it in his eyes. The sight makes him feel powerful, larger than life – how many humans have ever been able to instill fear in an angel?

Castiel turns away from him. There's a brief flash of wings against the wall, but the sight is more a defensive one, like a dog curling in on itself. "You wouldn't."

"Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

There's a short, heavy pause. Sam refuses to let his resolve waver.

Finally, Castiel lets out a short sigh. His voice is strained as he asks, "How did you find out?"

"You have your ears. I have mine." Sam finally turns away, deliberately examining the stock instead of the angel. Its breathing has gotten worse, a wheezy rattling coming out of its lips with every rise and fall of its chest. Its eyes meet Sam's, and it stares at him pleadingly. It doesn't affect him at all.

"You realize I could wipe your mind now? Make it so that you remember absolutely nothing?" Now Castiel's desperation is obvious, his pleading tones impossible to mistake for anything else. Sam knows then that he has, without a doubt, won.

"I'd find out again, and that time, I'd know you brainwashed me." Sam shrugs. "I mean, if you want to piss off Dean even more… I really don't think that snatching him from Fairyland will make him any more forgiving of you once he finds out."

It's probably true. Sam doesn't know for sure. After all, he isn't even really clear on what Castiel's done.

"Why," asks Castiel, "why do you even want to come? Why do you care so deeply for your brother's welfare that you would risk your own to rescue him?"

It's a fair question, and not one that Sam had really considered, beyond that it's the necessary thing to do. "I saved him before, when the djinn attacked him. It only seems… consistent that I do it again. And he's mine to rescue. I'm not letting us be in debt to you. Given what else you've done," he throws out, taking the calculated risk that it's the appropriate thing to say, "you'd just take this and hold it over our heads to make you look like our friend. You can't do that if I'm with you."

There's another break in the conversation as Castiel registers what he said. Sam wonders what exactly it was that he did, what was so bad that he thinks Dean would turn against him if he knew.

Finally Castiel says, sounding somewhat sad, "I am your friend. Not this version of you, but… the real you. It won't mean anything right now, but I promise you that everything I did, I did out of my loyalty to you and your brother. I would never have brought you back like this on purpose, Sam."

That comes as a surprise. Sam refuses to let it show. His gamble has paid off so far; it would be foolish to screw it up now. "Do you think Dean'll see it that way?"

"I—" Castiel breaks off, staring down at the stock. Sam reads his face, and guesses what's going on in his mind. He calculates the odds, and decides that it's worth pursuing.

"You want to think that, don't you? That Dean's just going to stick by you no matter what? But deep, deep down, you know that he won't. He's going to be pissed when he finds out, even if you've deluded yourself into thinking otherwise."

Castiel doesn't deny that. Sam can see the struggle that goes through his mind, the weighing of the pros and cons, the acknowledgement of truth. He sees the precise moment that Castiel reluctantly gives way to his desire, and he can see that it angers the angel far more than he's letting on, but Sam doesn't care. He's got what he wanted, and that's all that really matters.

He doesn't know how long he's been here.

He remembers, sometimes, the moment that he came to – how he found himself unclothed, lying on dew-stained grass with flowers all around him, looking like precious gems sprinkled over the lawn. There were toadstools, too, as they are everywhere. And his hands were bound. He remembers the terror that flitted across his mind when he found he couldn't move his hands, how it reminded him of waking up in Hell, even though there were no meadows in Hell, and the sky had never been that hazy purple color that it was now.

They were all around him, tiny, ethereal figures with flitting butterfly wings. Their bodies were bright, their eyes dark and inhumanly shaped. He blinked as he stared at them, and tried to make his lips form the first word that came to mind: "Fairies?"

They flew off when they saw he was awake, and when they came back it was with the king (although, of course, he didn't know it at the time). He was tall, pale-skinned and gaunt-faced with translucent wings that arced above his head. There was something about him that shimmered, something not quite solid, not quite right – but that described most of the place, really. Beautiful, but off.

He was offered wine, and he refused, because his father had taught him never to drink what you were offered.

"You are very beautiful," said the king, touching his cheek with a soft, freezing hand. "We are lucky to have you."

He wanted to spit or snarl or shove the man's hand away, but his hands felt very heavy, and his thoughts were too slow. But the king got the idea, and so he drew away. "We'll talk later," he said, smiling with a mouth that seemed… not right. "When your mind has cleared."

They left then, left him naked and bound up in the fairy ring while his mind slowly cleared and he realized how much trouble he was in.

He thinks back to that on some days, but he doesn't know when it was, or how much longer he has to go. He knows very little about this place, least of all how to escape.

"There are some things that you have to understand before we go there." Castiel paces around the hotel room, mentally running through all of his knowledge of the sidhe. "Stay by my side at all times. Never wander off on your own, especially if you hear music. Refuse all refreshments that they offer you. Don't trust anything you see."

Sam nods. He's sitting perched on the side of his bed, seemingly calmer now that Castiel has given in to his blackmail. "What are we going to do, exactly?"

"Attempt to reason with the king. Oberon, I believe that's what he's been going by for the past several centuries."

"Reason?" Sam quirks an eyebrow up. "We're gonna walk into Fairyland, to where my brother's been held for the last month-odd, and try to reason with his kidnappers? Seems like a foolproof plan." He looks at Castiel with an intensely patronizing expression on his face. Castiel tries not to let it get to him; he's an angel, he shouldn't be affected, but… well, he's already let Sam manipulate him, hasn't he?

"If you have an alternative in mind…"

"We go in there, you smite your way to Dean, and we leave?"

Castiel forces himself to stay calm. Don't hurt Sam; Sam is still essentially human, and humans are fragile. The consequences, Dean's consequences, would be many if he somehow broke Sam. "That isn't possible."

"Why not?" Sam raises an eyebrow, looking exasperated, like Castiel is the problem somehow. "Aren't you the head honcho in Heaven now? If Dean and I were able to beat one, I'd think that you definitely could."

"I'm not the 'head honcho,'" he snaps, making sarcastic finger motions around the words, "because there's a war going on, and I'm not exactly winning. And the sidhe have considerably more power in their own realm than they do here. Whatever trick you used to beat them won't work. They have the advantage."

"But we'll beat them."

Castiel grinds his teeth together at the casual arrogance in Sam's tone. He should be reassured by Sam's confidence, that Sam believes so strongly in their success. As it is, it just irritates him. "Pray that we do."

"There's no one to hear those anymore." Sam stands up. He rolls his shoulders and fixes Castiel with a bored stare. "Is there anything else I need to know? Or can we just go now?"

He spares one last look at the stock – unconscious now, breath just barely whistling through pale blue lips – and then meets Sam's eyes head-on. "We can go."

Castiel doesn't explain the ritual to Sam, and Sam doesn't ask. Instead, Cas grips his arm, and then they're in a green field somewhere. It's nighttime, and the sky is bright and full of stars.

Sam blinks and looks around. Endless green as far as the eye can see. "This is Fairyland?"

"This is Ireland. You're standing in a fairy ring. Don't move." Castiel closes his eyes and begins to speak in a low, lilting chant. Sam thinks that it's Gaelic, but it's not one of the languages he's overly familiar with, so translation is impossible.

Castiel's words grow stronger and more urgent. A perfect circle is glowing on the ground, pale gold that illuminates how mushrooms surround the area they're standing in.

The thing Sam notices first is the light. It's a dim, hazy sort of twilight, bruised lilac in shade. The sky is free of stars and clouds as far as he can see, a blank purple slate that is entirely unlike the sky he was underneath a moment ago.

The next thing that he does is take stock of his surroundings. They're in the midst of a forest, he thinks, standing in a ring of mushrooms similar to the one that they were in in Ireland. The trees around him are thick-trunked, with rough and twisted bark. For a moment Sam thinks that he can see rot creeping out from a knot in one of them, but he blinks and it's gone.

There's music playing in the distance. It sounds like it's being plucked off of some sort of string instrument, but it's light and… twinkly? Although he supposes that it's supposed to be enchanting, Sam doesn't like it very much. Maybe it only works if the person hearing it has a soul.

Next to him, Castiel has been standing completely still, head cocked, presumably listening to the same music. But then all at once he snaps to attention, brushing down his coat and stepping out of the toadstool ring. "We need to move. Oberon will be where that music is coming from, and I expect that Dean will be with him."

Sam shrugs and follows him as he starts striding through the forest. He feels uncomfortable without any weapons, but Castiel ordered him to leave them in the motel, saying that the faeries would take them as a threat, and their chances of retrieving Dean would be severely lowered.

They've been walking for five or ten minutes when the faeries surround them.

They come on without warning. One moment he and Cas are speedwalking their way between wizened trunks and over roots as thick as Sam's wrist; the next, a dozen brightly-colored creatures half a foot tall and with iridescent butterfly wings are in a cloud around their heads. Sam's first instinct is to swat them away. He raises his arm with every intention of doing so, but Castiel grabs him and gives him a warning frown. "Don't."

He turns to the faeries (or at least, Sam assumes that's what they are) and… talks to them? Sam assumes that's what he's doing, anyway. The language is a series of chirps and hums, nothing decipherable to him.

The faeries whir nervously around them until one, bright green with silver-tinted wings, flits forward and hovers in front of Castiel's face. It responds with the same speech, and Castiel answers it, his face firmly set. It looks like they're arguing.

Sam is just beginning to get impatient with the faerie abruptly turns away from Castiel and flies off. Castiel nods to himself, and then turns to Sam before Sam can ask what that was all about. "She's going to tell Oberon of our coming. The others will escort us there – an honor guard of sorts."

If Castiel thinks for a moment that he's buying that shit… "You mean they're going to make sure we don't do anything wrong. He's taking us as prisoners."

Castiel grimaces and looks ahead. "Essentially. But I can still get us out if need be."

"Why are you letting them do it now?" Unless the faeries have some sort of freaky abilities that they're not showing, Cas should be able to defeat them easily. They're tiny, and their wings look fragile. Sam imagines that tearing them apart would be no more difficult than pulling the wings off of butterflies.

"Because we are in their realm, and we are asking a favor of their lord. You don't simply walk into someone's house, assault them, and demand that they give up a prisoner that they fairly won."

"You were never this cowardly before," Sam says coolly. The music is louder, and he can see flicking colors and lights up ahead; he knows that they're almost to Oberon. He disregards this for the moment and focuses on Castiel. "What happened?"

"Things beyond your understanding," Castiel growls. "Things that you, for all that you may know, have not yet bothered to consider. This might all be a game to you, one where the only objective is to get Dean back, but I cannot afford to make an enemy out of the sidhe."

"Coward," Sam says quietly, more out of curiosity to see what Cas will do than anything. There's a visible effect – Castiel's eyebrows draw in and his jaw tightens, and he looks like he's a moment away from striking Sam, but before Sam can figure out if that's true or not, the faeries flutter ahead over a thick row of hedges and vines just taller than Sam's head. He and Castiel have to push their way through the thorns, and by the time they get out, Sam's arms are scratched and bleeding.

He doesn't pay much attention to that, though. All of his focus is on the scene before him.

There are faeries everywhere. Some are like the ones that led them there, tiny, human-shaped, creatures who are colored with shades from the brightest points in the spectrum. Others are more ethereal, fuzzy shapes that seem to be pure light more than anything else.

Mostly, though, it seems to be filled with solid creatures, none of which come up beyond Sam's chest. Some are stout with long beards and aged faces; they look like garden gnomes come to life, and Sam figures that they probably more-or-less are. Others are small with pointed, elven features – elves, Sam concludes, are probably what they are. Still others are inhumanly beautiful, with purple eyes and large wings that flutter gently as he and Castiel walks by.

Almost all of them have long hair with flowers and vines woven in. Their clothes – the ones that wear anything at all – are rough and homespun. Some have bright gems, though, or elaborately-forged gold chains. Sam isn't one to sigh and bat his eyelashes at beauty anymore, but he has to admit that it's all impressive in its own sort of way.

He passes a particularly attractive faerie girl, whose head barely comes up to his chest. Her eyes are a vivid shade of green and her hair, which falls below her breasts and is woven with multicolored roses, is light golden-brown. A skirt made of woven grasses falls from her hips to her knees. She wears nothing but a necklace with a golden flower above it. Her wings are barely visible in the twilight, but he thinks they're indigo around the edges.

She catches his eye and smiles, turns her chest his way. It's a tempting prospect – Dean needs to be rescued, sure, but he's already been here for a number of weeks already; what difference will a few more minutes make?

"Sam!" Castiel snaps. He turns to the angel, glaring, and then glances back to the girl.

For a moment her hair seems to be matted and dirty, with grass and thorns in it instead of roses. Her eyes seem hollow, and her lithe body worn down. But Sam blinks, and that all goes away. She stands there as attractive as before, lips turned up in a coy smile.

He mouths Later at her, and she winks. Sam turns his attention back to the task at hand, ignoring the waves of fury he can feel rolling off of Castiel.

Their destination is clear to him now. At the end of the field where this gathering is being held is what Sam can only assume to be a throne. It's wooden, carved elaborately out of a tree that still grows from the ground, reach up high into the twilight of the evening. A figure sits upon it, and even from the distance Sam can tell that he's a king.

It becomes more obvious as they draw closer. The figure is a man; a faerie, obviously. His skin is pale and silver, almost, and his hair is long and dark. There are no flowers woven into it, though. Instead he wears a golden crown on his head, a ringlet that, as Sam draws closer, is apparently carved with symbols that he vaguely recognizes from a time in middle school when he read a book on Celtic mythology. Unlike most of the faeries, the man wears robes, dark green and lined with fur. There must be openings for his wings, though, because they rise up behind him, paler than any pair that Sam has seen.

The faerie that flew off before is hovering by his shoulder. As Sam and Castiel draw up to him, the rest of their guard whir up and hover in a bright cloud behind him.

"Go," he orders them, and they disperse to elsewhere in the glade.

Castiel stops when they are about a foot away from the throne. He inclines his head slightly. "Oberon."

"Castiel." His voice is accented, though Sam can't think of how to place it. "You should be bowing to me."

"I respect your position as ruler of this realm, but I stand before you as an equal. I will not bow." Castiel's voice is icy, his eyes steel as he addresses Oberon.

Oberon gives a soft snort at that. "Presumptive of you. The last time I heard, you children of Yahweh had yet to stop fighting amongst yourselves over who ought to sit in Heaven's throne. I don't see why I should treat you as an equal when you're really just an… insurgent."

"I am as much in charge of Heaven's forces as Raphael is. Treat me as you would anyone with an army a thousand angels strong behind him."

Oberon laughs and leans back in his throne. "Bold of you to say that, Castiel. I can admire that. But your companion…"

He leans forward to study Sam, and Sam meets his probing gaze dead-on. His eyes are a very dark shade of green with small silver flecks. There's something decidedly inhuman about him, although Sam can't exactly place his finger on what, since – save for the wings – he looks like a miniature version of the people Sam is accustom to seeing every day.

"I believe I recognize you," Oberon says after a moment. He regards Sam with a more open curiosity now. "The would-be Boy King of Hell. Stopped the Apocalypse by going to Hell, but came back… different."

"And no more likely to bow to you than him." Sam tilts his chin at Castiel. This gets a chuckle out of Oberon. He seems mildly entertained by the whole situation. Sam gets the idea that's pissing off Castiel.

This is only upheld with the brusque way that Castiel says, "I believe you understand our reasons for being here."

Oberon stretches. His arms, Sam notes, are long. Unnaturally long. Maybe that's part of why he seems so… otherworldly. "I'd rather hear them from your own mouths."

"We want Dean Winchester. You took him, and we have come to ask for him back."

"Hmm? Dean? Oh no, I'm afraid I can't do that." Oberon shakes his head, dark lips curving up in a smile similar to the one that the fairy girl was giving Sam before. "He agreed to stay."

"Voluntarily?"

"Do I look like the sort who would coerce him? All I said was that we could give him back his brother's soul, if he would only stay with us until a year had passed." Oberon shrugs. "He agreed knowing our terms, and he sealed it in the… traditional way. You can't complain about that, Castiel. Not anymore than you can break the deal."

Castiel has gone very still, and Sam can tell that he's thinking. He notes the exact moment when revelation strikes. Castiel's eyes go wide, and he takes a step back from Oberon. A low undercurrent of fury runs electric under his skin. "No. He didn't know all of the terms; that's… unjust."

Oberon laughs. "He knows what he agreed to."

"But you didn't tell him…" Castiel finally catches on to the way that Sam is looking at him, how he's silently asking Castiel if he has something that he'd like to share with the rest of the class. "In Tir na nOg, there is no time. It's… there isn't. The twilight here lasts forever. Dean agreed to an impossible thing; he's bound here eternally."

That's bad. Even without a soul, Sam knows that's very, very bad. He turns to Oberon. "Let him go, or I swear, I will rip your wings from your back with my bare hands." He grins. "And I'll like it."

The fairy king laughs again, but now there's a definite undertone of cruelty to it. He lifts his hand. "I think that you should leave now, Castiel, Leader of the Rebel Angels, and Sam, Failed Boy King. Your beloved is mine now, by his own making. And I don't believe you'll be getting him back in the near future. Especially considering that there is no future here."

He twists his too-skinny wrist, and Sam is thrown back as if a giant hand had pushed him across realms, and when he opens his eyes again, he's back in the motel room, with Castiel lying on the floor next to him.

Sam blinks, and glances over to where Dean's bed is. There's nothing on it but a pile of broken wood. The stock is dead, he assumes. He's glad that it just lost its glamour instead of leaving behind a corpse. That would have been difficult to deal with.

Castiel is glaring at him, and as soon as Sam glances up, he launches in. "You utter fool. What did you think you would accomplish by insulting the fairy king? Did you think that would help our cause?" His fury rolls off of him in waves, and Sam can practically feel the air shift as his wings bristle.

It annoys him. He does his best not to show it, calmly shrugging his shoulders as he asks, "What do we do now?"

"Get him back," Castiel growls. "Through force or persuasion, just get him back."

"No shit, Sherlock." There's a fire in Castiel's eyes, some force electrifying the blue of them. Sam has to say, he kind of… likes it. A lot. "How are we gonna do that?"

"'We?' There's no we, Sam." Castiel's voice is low and gravelly, something Sam doesn't usually notice, but… well. He wants to rescue Dean, but if there's a bit of a delay, it's not like it's going to make much of a difference. "I will do it alone."

"I'll tell Dean."

"I don't care!" Castiel's wings flash out, and suddenly the angel is slamming him against the wall, wings flared out wide around him. "Tell him everything that you know, about the souls, and about Crowley, and about my failure to bring you back. What happens afterwards will happen; the important thing is that Dean is back."

Before he can control himself, the word is out of his mouth: "Crowley?"

A Polite Inquiry

lies_unfurl — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 22:20:22 GMT

Would any of you lovelies be willing to beta read a story for me? It's Robo!Sam/Castiel, and it's for my RBB posting with scarletscarlet. It involves Dean being kidnapped by fairies! Lots of fun!

As a caveat, there is nongraphic Dean/Oberon that's rife with consent issues. Also, it's over 10K, and I need it back by Sunday (I have been searching for an editor for some time now, but alas, things have not worked out).

I would be forever grateful to anyone willing to do this for me. If you are at all vaguely interested, let me know and I can send you a PM with more details!

All This Derision [Masterpost]

lies_unfurl — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 02:14:10 GMT

Part I | Part II | Part III

Art Masterpost | AO3

Title: All This Derision
Author: lies_unfurl
Artist: drsxc
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural; AU, suspense, angst
Pairing(s): Dean/Cas, Sam/Jessica
Rating: R
Word Count: ~23,000
Warnings: Spoilers for most aired content, graphic sex

Summary: Working as a museum curator in Kansas and living with his boyfriend of several years, Castiel's life is fairly unremarkable. Or at least, it was until the dreams started: a dark forest, things lurking behind the trees, the constant sense of being hunted… they invade his mind, wearing on him until he's certain that they aren't normal dreams. But the truth of the matter is something that he's entirely unprepared for, and what he finds out will completely and permanently alter the world he thought he knew.

Notes: First off, I'd like to thank the amazing drsxc for all of her hard work on her illustrations. Please check them out at some point! I had a great time working with her.

Secondly, thanks to jonjokeat for beta reading! It was very helpful.

All This Derision [1/3]

lies_unfurl — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 02:12:53 GMT

When they next wake, all this derision
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision...

William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

*

The air around him smelled of dead, rotting things. It was humid and cloying, clinging to every inch of his exposed skin— which, really, was most of it. He had been running for a long time, and the clothes that had at first provided the thinnest shield from the outside air were ripped to the point where they wouldn't even be useful as rags. Sweat had long since soaked through them, anyway, and parts of them were stained with blood that might or might not have been his own.

Trees stretched as far as he could see. Some were too wide for him to wrap his arms around; others were like skeletal limbs reaching up from the ground that wavered dangerously in the occasional breezes. But all of them were tall, all looming above his head. If there was a moon in the black sky, they were blocking it.

There was no one by his side, and that wasn't right. There had been someone before; he was sure of it. But they had left? Was that right; had they found a way out? But if that was so, why was he still here?

And where was here? And who was he?

"Little angel's all by himself now, isn't he?"

Castiel's eyes opened to a dimly lit room. His room, with the beige walls that Dean had painted last spring, and the hardwood floors that had taken them a number of long, sweaty hours to put in. His bedroom, in his house that he had fixed up with his longtime boyfriend. They were in Lawrence, Kansas, and they had been for over a month; Castiel had been travelling for work, but he was home for the foreseeable future. They certainly hadn't been in any forests recently.

He lifted his hand and rubbed at his eyes. When he closed them, an inverted image of the nightmare flashed back up, like a photographic negative: endless gray trees against a milky white sky. It recalled the scent of decaying leaves and overflowing sewers, and even though this room didn't smell like anything (except maybe the Old Spice that he and Dean shared) it made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. The sheer terror that he had felt in the nightmare was slipping away, though, and at least he hadn't had any delusions about it being real. As things went, this was a milder nightmare than most.

So why, Castiel wondered, was there still a low, sick feeling of dread deep in his gut?

Next to him, Dean made a low garbling sound that could have been anything from his name to a declaration of love to the diner across town. Castiel rolled over and pressed his head against Dean's bare shoulder, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of his skin. Later in the day he would be sweaty and greasy, even though it was unseasonably cool for early September in Kansas and the temperatures weren't supposed to exceed 50 degrees. But Dean hadn't just come home from his garage; he had been sleeping for several hours, and had taken a shower shortly before that. Right now, he was entirely free of dirt. About as far removed from some camping trip gone wrong as you could get.

Castiel felt Dean twitch slightly beneath him, and glanced up in time to see his eyes blinking bleary open. Dean yawned and started to sit up, then paused halfway through when he realized that Castiel was lying on him. "Cas? Wha' time is it?"

He forced himself off Dean's shoulder (which, really, wasn't the best pillow anyway) and, propping himself up on one elbow, glanced over at the glowing blue digits displayed on his alarm clock. "3:27. You've got a couple of hours left."

"Hmm." Dean flopped back down and closed his eyes. Castiel followed his lead, lowering himself back onto the mattress and wriggling deeper under the sheets. "What're you doing awake? You usually sleep like the dead."

"I had a nightmare. I think." Castiel frowned, staring up at the shadows on their ceiling. "A dream, anyway."

"Bad dreams? You?" Dean opened his eyes and rolled over. He lay his hand down in the center of Castiel's chest, the closest he'd ever really get to a comforting gesture. Dean wasn't the touchy-feely type with anyone, except maybe his brother (and even that Castiel was just theorizing about; he'd never seen Sam need that much comfort from his brother). "What, did a big, bad manuscript from the fifteenth century trick you into thinking it was from the twelfth?"

Castiel allowed himself a small smile. "Nothing so terrifying. Just a standard nightmare. Trees. Dark places. The works."

"You sure?" Dean leaned in and pressed a quick kiss against his jaw. "Cause if those old papyrus scripts are giving you any trouble, me and my dirty hands will be all over them, messing them up—"

"You wouldn't dare." Castiel reached up and gently squeezed Dean's wrist, the one that was splayed in a comforting weight across his chest. "Go back to sleep, Dean. You've got work to do tomorrow."

"I've got work to do every day." He kissed Castiel again, this time on the lips. "And I own the place; it's not like anyone's going to notice if I come in late…"

"You're the one with the master set of keys. They would notice. And I have to be at work too, Dean." He gently dislodged Dean's arm and rolled over so that his face was pressed against the back of Dean's neck. "I apologize for waking you up. Now go back to sleep."

"You're no fun," Dean grumbled, but Castiel knew that he was smiling. "Good night, Cas. See you in the morning."

He kissed the base of Dean's neck. "Good night, Dean."

It didn't take long for Castiel to fall back to sleep, not with Dean in his arms, softly snoring away. This time, his dreams were quiet and peaceful, and by the time that his alarm clock beeped at 5:30 AM, memories of his waking earlier in the morning were as distant and fuzzy as the nightmare itself.

Dean stumbled downstairs twenty minutes after Castiel had gotten dressed. He blinked as he stood at the entrance to the kitchen, wearing nothing but the boxers that he'd gone to bed in. "Coffee?"

"Almost done." Its scent was filling the kitchen now as Castiel stood over the frying pan, intently watching as his bubbling egg whites come together into an omelet. He sprinkled in a handful of green peppers and asked, "Do you want anything to eat?"

"Is that made with that liquid crap you like, or genuine, cholesterol-filled chicken poop?"

"Mine is made with egg whites, but I'll make you one with proper eggs, if you'd like." He glanced at the clock on the stove. "I don't need to be out right away."

"Cas, you're fantastic." Dean walked into the kitchen, still with the vaguely dazed steps of someone who's just emerged from a long stretch of sleeping, and paused near the stove. "I mean, I haven't brushed my teeth yet or anything—"

Castiel leaned over and kissed him, hushing any comments that he might have made with regards to his morning breath. He had been with Dean for the past five years, since they had met at the museum where Castiel still worked. He'd been forced to take over the tours for the day when Inias had suddenly fallen ill. Dean had been twenty-five, with a brother who'd just come down from California from college, and who wanted to do something other than hanging around a house that was absolutely soaked with memories of a dead father who hadn't given his kids the happiest childhood.

Dean had caught his eye halfway through the opening spiel about how the Topeka Museum of Human History was opened in 1985. He had smirked and lifted his eyebrow up, a very, very bold move considering that they were both men, and they were in the home city of the Westboro Baptist Church. Castiel had stumbled in his speech, and then staunchly avoided looking at Dean for the rest of the tour.

Which, of course, hadn't stopped Dean from shaking his hand afterwards and telling him how much he'd enjoyed the tour. It hadn't stopped him from telling Castiel that he'd love to learn more about the museum, and about Castiel's particular area of study, if he had the time?

Later, Dean had admitted that his actions had been bold even for him, that he usually wouldn't have been so forthcoming. But he had been, and Castiel had been curious enough to go along, and now they were living in a house that they had renovated together. Castiel was far past being disgusted by the taste of Dean's breath in the morning.

They broke apart. Dean grinned and Castiel returned the gesture, unable not to. Dean was one of those people who, when they smiled at you, forced you to smile back. "You gonna be home early tonight?"

"I hope so." It was a Friday, and he was usually able to get out early on Fridays. "But you promised Sam that you'd Skype with him, remember?"

"Right." Dean lit up for a moment at the idea of seeing his brother again, and then his expression waned. "I have no idea what the fuck a 'Skype' is."

Castiel smiled and patted Dean's shoulder. For someone who spent his life working with cars, something that Castiel considered to be infinitely more complicated than operating the internet, Dean was hopeless with technology. "We'll figure it out."

"I hope so. Sammy'll be pissed if we miss out on this. Hey, is that your omelet burning?"

He jumped away from Dean and swore, automatically turning down the gas. "It's not burnt. Just well done."

Dean laughed and kissed his cheek. "On second thought, maybe I'll just make my own breakfast."

Naturally, that didn't pan out. Castiel made Dean his bacon-and-cheese omelet, and then sat with him discussing the sort of mundane things that couples talked about. He left the house fifteen minutes later than he'd wanted to, quietly cursing how being around Dean made him lose all track of time.

It turned out to be a godsend. There had been an accident earlier, and traffic was just clearing up as Castiel hit the main roads. He ended up at the museum at the same time as he would have if he'd left at the usual time.

The Topeka Museum of Human History was a medium-sized campus devoted to the achievements of mankind. It lacked the finesse or prestige of a place that one might find in Boston or New York, but Castiel was rather fond of it. It was a warm sort of place, the type that a person could return to again and again from their youth to their retirement, and always find something new and welcoming. It wasn't what one could exactly call "modern," with its old-fashion heating system that was liable to break down in the dead of winter, and its flickering lights that kept the maintenance crew on their toes, but it had heart. It was put-together and run by an efficient staff that was (for the most part; there certainly were exceptions) very good at cooperating. Altogether, Castiel was rather fond of working there.

Castiel nodded at Virgil, the current security guard standing at attention near the admission desk, and briskly walked to the staircase to get to his office. It was located on the ground floor, tucked neatly out of the way of the steady streams of visitors. That suited Castiel just fine: he wasn't particularly interested in having lost museumgoers pop into his office every hour of the day to ask him where the restrooms were. And it was quiet. He liked that.

Once he was among the familiar stacks of papers, books, and artifacts, he hung up his suit jacket and sat down at his desk, firing up his computer. He was working on a new exhibit, one set to open in two weeks, and there was an article that he needed to write for the Capital to get the public excited about Demons of America: Americana's Fact and Folklore.

He spent his morning meticulously typing it out. It was a good exhibit, and, quite frankly, he was proud of it. He had majored in Theology, and he was most comfortable when he was building displays relating to his own area of study. But Zachariah, the museum director, had wanted something special for Halloween, and Castiel and the rest of the behind-the-scenes crew had obliged him.

It was noon before he was satisfied with the write-up for the newspaper. He knew that it was probably pointless to labor so long over something so small, especially when the paper's editors would alter it as much as they saw fit, but it was good. Castiel could say that it was, and it wouldn't be lying.

"Castiel?"

He hit 'send' and then sat up and stretched, wincing as his back cracked. "Inias! Hello. Come in."

Inias looked mildly amused as Castiel stood up, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out. Inias' job rarely involved sitting around isolated in an office for long periods of time: he was an educator, and spent his time making the museum more accessible to the public. He was good at it, too, far better than Castiel was. The one time he'd covered for Inias, he had ended up meeting his partner of the past several years, hardly the most professional of actions. "Are we still on for lunch?"

"That's what I came down here to ask you about. You didn't emerge when you usually do. Are you too busy?" Castiel and Inias had known each other for some time. They had started working together at the museum at approximately the same time, and had actually been roommates before Castiel and Dean had moved in together. Inias was a native to Kansas, had gone to school in Lawrence before going on to work in Topeka. He had been a comforting presence when Castiel had left the rich, left-wing East Coast town in which he'd grown up for Kansas, a state of good people whose political ideals typically didn't align with his. He had never judged Castiel for his relationships, and for that, Castiel was infinitely grateful.

It had been tradition for the two of them to go out to lunch on Fridays for as long as Castiel could remember. They rarely broke from it. "I'm not too busy to go out. Come on." He stood up, automatically stretching again, and walked the two steps that it took to get from his desk to where Inias was hovering in the doorway. "Should we try for a table at Al's?"

"Of course." Inias waited patiently for Castiel to pull on his jacket, and then they left the museum for the streets of Topeka.

They could have easily driven to the diner, but it was only about ten minutes away if they were walking briskly, and with the weather as pleasant as it was, it seemed a waste to get one of their cars. And, truth be told, Castiel preferred walking — the sun on his face was a nice contrast to the fluorescent light that buzzed above his desk, and the air had an edge of crispness not found in his basement office. He spent far too much of his time indoors.

He and Inias walked along in a companionable silence. There was a mutual understanding between them that neither of them had any talent for small talk, and so they never forced it. It was, Castiel thought, one of the main reasons that their friendship had lasted so long.

Al's was an easy-to-miss place tucked between a dry cleaner's and a store selling sporting equipment. The windows looked onto a poorly-lit setup of dark walls with historical photos of the city and booths that seemed tucked against the walls with no particular spacing. Inside, the air was heavy and smoky, and smelled like fryer grease and slightly-charred meat. It was one of Castiel's favorite places.

The lunchtime rush hadn't quite hit yet, and so they were able to take a booth in the corner of the diner. A waitress with tired eyes brought them their menus, but they didn't need them. They came here too often for that.

Once their orders were in and two ice-filled cups were set before them, Inias leaned back and regarded Castiel curiously. "How is that new exhibit going?"

"Very well, thank you for asking." It had been in progress for a number of months, and it had gotten almost tedious, writing to private collectors and asking them to allow their items relating to the unique folklore of America to be put on display. Occult items attracted followers of the… eccentric sort, and Castiel had spent more hours than he could count over the summer flying out to meet with collectors and examine their acquisitions. And then due to budget cuts, the museum hadn't been able to afford a permanent designer, and Castiel had been forced to figure out the arrangements of the displays almost entirely by himself. It hadn't been the most enjoyable experience of his life.

But the result — the result was good; he was very willing to say that. Even though his focus was usually on religion in the States, and displays relating to that, he thought that he had pulled it together quite well. It was an interesting topic, and he thought that it would draw quite a crowd to the museum.

Inias nodded as Castiel related this to him, looking genuinely excited. That was another thing that Castiel valued about their friendship — there was no insincerity about it, no faking for the sake of conversation. Inias was dedicated to the museum; he had been going there since he was a child, and working as a tour guide and educator was essentially his dream. Castiel could see him replacing Zachariah as director in the future.

"And when is it set to open?"

"Two weeks to the day," Castiel replied. "The twentieth of September."

"And you're ready for it?"

"I think so." He pulled a face. It was always nerve-wracking, opening up an entirely new exhibit, especially one that he'd put as much effort into as this. "There are a few final details to go over, but the bulk of the work is done. It's mostly just promotion."

"I'm sure that it's going to turn out wonderfully, Castiel."

Before he could thank Inias for that show of loyalty, the waitress returned to their table. "Bacon cheeseburger and fries?"

Castiel reached out and took the checkered red basket from her hands. His stomach growled, and he was reminded how hungry he was: his burnt omelet hadn't been particularly appetizing, and he had ended up throwing most of it out. "Thank you."

The waitress turned to Inias, ignoring Castiel completely. "All-American Classic basket?"

"That's mine. Thank you." She left, and they began eating. The place gradually filled, mostly with workers from the small shops around them. There weren't many tourists about.

It was pleasant, just sitting there with a friend and eating a burger that, quite frankly, was one of the best that Castiel had ever had — tender, juicy meat with grease that ran down his chin every time he sank his teeth into it; fluffy bread; perfectly melted cheese that pulled away from the burger in long strings with every bite. It was good, it really was, and not just the food. Castiel's life, for all that he was settled in his career and for all that he was in a very, very steady relationship —hadn't grown stale. He greatly enjoyed what he did. He loved Dean, would do anything in the world for him. And he appreciated small moments like these, being able to converse with a friend in a place that they both liked.

He was happy, and it was good. It really, really was.

Castiel was staring out the window onto the moderately busy Kansas street as he contemplated this. It had been cloudy most of the day; brisk and cool, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. He had been out of the state for much of the summer, accumulating items for the new exhibit, but every day that he had spent Lawrence had been stiflingly, miserably hot. The coolness wasn't entirely seasonable, but he hadn't heard anyone complaining about it.

The sun came out as he was looking outside. It hit some glass surface at exactly the right angle, and for a moment the world outside of Al's turned into a flare of sunlight. Castiel automatically lifted his hand up to shield his eyes from the brightness of the street, and—

The doorway made a crackling sound not unlike dry wood being eaten away by flames. This wasn't fire, though: this was pure energy, a gateway of impossibly bright light that led to a different, better world. It turned the everlasting nighttime of the place they were in into noontime on a sunny summer's day. It hurt his eyes if he looked at it too long.

It could only sustain two passing-throughs. One had already been used up, taken by the monster who had been their ally. That meant that only one of them could go through — himself, or the man who stood at his side.

"You take it." His words were almost lost in the snapping sound emanating from the passageway. "I can survive for longer here."

The man next to him shifted uncomfortably. He seemed to think for a moment before he said, in a voice that didn't quite cover up his hesitation, "No, that's not fair. You're the only reason that I made it this long. You go through, Cas."

Frustration coursed through him at the human's damning self-sacrificing nature. "You're forgetting that I'm the only reason that you're here in the first place. Go."

The other man opened his mouth, then shut it, looking away. It was hard to argue with such undeniable facts, and he didn't give him the chance. "I have nothing left on the other side of that doorway. The majority of my brothers are dead; Heaven is a shell of its former self — and were it as great as it once was, it would certainly reject one who has acted in as many terrible ways as I. I would be forced to wander the Earth without purpose or meaning. My existence would be pointless.

"But you — you have family waiting there. Sam is there for you, and you need him far more than you need me. You will always have a purpose on Earth, so long as you have him to protect. I… I could hunt, clean up my mistakes, but even that means little compared to seeing that you get back to Sam. And you have to understand, that's without considering what this place would do to you. It would change you into something that I don't want you to become; you'd try to avoid it all you can, but in the end, you would change into a monster no different from any of the others here. You would. I'm angel enough to keep my being intact."

His companion closed his eyes. His shoulder shook minutely, and it occurred to him that he was suppressing tears. That surprised him — he should be happy. He would be back with his brother, and knew that was all that the other man really wanted. "Don't make me do this."

"I won't push you." Even as the words came out of his mouth, though, he knew that he would if he had to. His duty was to protect this man as best he could, and he'd never be safe as long as he was stuck in this forest of the dead. "But it's what you need to do. I think you know that."

He kept staring down into the bright doorway, even as his friend turned away, like he couldn't bear to face his future. "What are you going to do here? Eternity's a fucking long time, Cas."

"You forget that I'm not like you. My kind was built to handle eternity."

"How can you say that? It's not like you've lived through it." He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. It was a twisted version of what laughter was supposed to be like, and so it fit right in with this place. "I won't leave you here, you know that? I'll find a way when I'm back on Earth."

That meant that he was going to go. Relief washed through him at his companion's reluctant acceptance. "I don't expect you to."

"You should." Now he's facing the doorway again, staring down into its pure white light. "No goodbyes, 'cause this isn't the end."

"Of course not." But, as he watched the only real friend that he had in this place step into the light, he knew that was a lie. This was where one story ended, and another one — one far less pleasant — began.

The light from the doorway winked out, and darkness settled in once more. It was okay. He was used to it.

"Castiel? Castiel, are you all right?"

Castiel blinked. There were no trees surrounding him, no scent of rotting flesh. There wasn't a portal leading to another world, either — just a window that looked onto a mildly busy Kansas street. "Inias. I'm sorry; I seem to have… blacked out for a moment."

"Do you need a doctor?" Inias was frowning, looking at him with a concern that was touching, really. "I could call one…"

"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, though. I just haven't been sleeping as well as I should be." Which he supposed was technically true — there was that nightmare that had woken him before, the one that also took place in a forest at nighttime. But at the same time, he didn’t think that what had happened was related to sleep deprivation. He didn't know where it came from, and it was… disconcerting. "What happened, exactly? On your end?"

"I was talking, you were looking out the window, and you just froze. You didn't blink, you didn't shake or twitch or anything like that. I don't know what it could have been. Are you certain that you're all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine, really." He looked down at the still-steaming burger that he had yet to eat, and realized that whatever hunger he'd had before was gone. "I'll just rest this weekend; I should be fine."

"You should relax," Inias agreed. "You've been working very hard on that exhibit, Castiel — really, most of us didn't know how exactly you'd manage when Zachariah first assigned it to you, but you've gone well beyond everyone's expectations. Give yourself a break."

"I will." He rubbed his eyes, suddenly very tired. "In fact, I think I might leave early today."

He wasn't actually thinking that until he said it. Castiel didn't ever leave work before 5:30, and often he stayed later. His work ethic forbade him from acting otherwise.

But today — today, it seemed fitting, for reasons that he couldn't quite figure out. He would do his absolute best to get things done at the museum, but maybe he would go home before the usual hour. It had been a strange day.

"Before the usual hour" ended up being at precisely 3:48. Castiel sat at his desk. He read the response to his email, sent out by an incredibly quick editor, and agreed to the changes that she had suggested. He set up several interviews with local papers to promote the Demons of America exhibit. He spoke briefly with Balthazar, the registrar and the second of Castiel's two close friends (the first being Inias) at the museum.

It was 3:46 when he realized that he had been sitting in front of his computer trying to write the speech that he would give at the opening of the exhibition for over ten minutes. He didn't have anything written at all.

Castiel sighed and looked away from the glare of his screen. He rubbed his eyes and breathed deeply, aware that the frustration rising in him would result in nothing productive.

He tried to put himself in the presentation. He tried to picture all of the area's elite standing around and laughing as they sipped their cocktails and appreciated the leftmost corner's display of New England-based memorabilia. He thought about greeting all of them with a smile, and launching into a fascinating discussion about the work that had gone into making the museum.

And then Castiel reached over and powered down his computer and his monitor. He stood up, got his coat, and walked out of his office. The frustration that he had tried to quell had risen instead, flooded and soaked his body to its core. He'd get nothing done like this, and would only succeed in going home and spreading his mood to Dean if he stayed put any longer.

Instead, Castiel slipped out of the museum, not bothering to visit Inias or Balthazar before he left. The roads were practically empty on his way home, and that did improve his mood fractionally; God knew that it was rare enough.

At home, he changed from the suit that he always wore to work (even though he rarely interacted with anyone who cared about his dress) into a pair of sweats. He left a note for Dean on their kitchen table, even though he knew that Dean probably wouldn't be back until after him:

Dean—

Out for a run. My turn to make dinner.

—Castiel

Castiel's job kept him indoors for most of the day, and seated as well, and even his lunch breaks weren't long enough to fit in a substantial workout which gave him time to both clean up and eat. So he was forced to exercise either early in the morning (meaning, he would have to pry himself away from Dean) or later in the evening (meaning that he would have to put off having dinner with Dean, which was usually the most enjoyable part of his day). Because of that, he usually ended up keeping his runs under the five mile mark, a far cry from what he used to do when he was in school.

Today was the perfect day for a run, and as he settled into that familiar rhythm, his frustration began to dissipate. It was hard to stay so irritated when the cool air was rushing against his face, and his muscles were straining in the way that signified a good workout. Running like this gave him a feeling that was as close as ever to the flying that he sometimes did in his dreams. It blanked his mind, the wind whipping away whatever concerns weighed him down.

As the sun beat down on him and the smooth landscape, about as far from woodland as you could get, rolled past him, Castiel calmed down. The frustration that had been like thick smog hanging over his mind gradually cleared. It had just been a dream and a hallucination, that was all. He was stressed from all of the work that he had been doing; work that he'd enjoyed, but which had been rather all-consuming through the summer and beyond. Dean had even cancelled their planned trip to California to see his brother, and Castiel knew how much he had been looking forward to that.

Perhaps they needed a vacation themselves, he thought. The museum would need him around to do PR and make sure that everything went smoothly at the exhibit's opening; it was large enough so that they'd want him to be present for at least the following moth. But afterwards, maybe for Thanksgiving, he and Dean could get away.

Castiel made a mental note to bring it up at dinnertime. Dean wanted to meet his brother's girlfriend, he knew, and Sam was always very hospitable. He imagined that Sam would be very open to them going over for Thanksgiving.

After he had been out there for half an hour, though, even thoughts as mundane as those faded from his mind. Castiel faded into nothing but the pound of his footsteps against the pavement, the slap of gravel against his feet. Anything troubling him was left in the dust.

He got home right around 5:00, sweaty and dirty, but feeling better than he had in a long while. He hadn't even realized that he had been feeling out-of-sorts, but he could very clearly feel the difference now. His mind felt ordered; his body, refreshed. If something had been wrong before, it was all right now.

Castiel showered and then promptly set about making supper. Dean came home just as he was finishing boiling the spaghetti.

"Jesus, Cas, that smells awesome." Dean leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled vaguely of sweat and motor oil, as he usually did. "You're fucking great, you know that?"

"I've been told." He checked the sauce, doing his best not to smile. "Go clean up. This is going to be ready soon."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting at their kitchen table and eating supper together. Today was Castiel's turn to cook (they rotated; Dean, for all that he seemed the embodiment of the disdainful husband who left all the work to his spouse, was actually a very good amateur chef; he said that it came from cooking for himself and Sam most nights when they were growing up). Castiel had made spaghetti in a white sauce and garlic bread, and had set out a plate of fruit for good measure. He knew that he would be the only one who'd touch it, but it was the thought that counted.

"How'd work go?" Dean asked, licking a streak of sauce from the corner of his lips. "Anything new going on with the Demons thing?"

"No, thank goodness. I spent most of my time writing something for the Capital." He grimaced. "I actually left early today. Went for a run when I got home."

Dean paused with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his lips, looking concerned. "You feeling okay?"

"I am now." He briefly told Dean about what had happened when he had been out with Inias. "I couldn't concentrate after that."

"That's… kinda disturbing." Dean was frowning in earnest now, leaning forward as though Castiel were displaying physical signs that something was wrong. "It was you in a forest? And someone else?"

"Yes. I'm not sure who it was… it might have been you." It had been too dark in the woods to tell, even with the bright light of the doorway, or whatever it was. And truth be told, Castiel hadn't been looking too closely at his companion, as though he had already known who it was. It hadn't been a lucid dream, or vision, or what-have-you. "The details of it are already getting hazy. It was probably just a one-time thing."

"I hope so." Dean chewed on a slice of garlic bread, looking thoughtful. "Tell me if anything else happens, okay, Cas? I know that you've been under a lot of shit from Zachariah about getting everything done, but that doesn't sound okay."

"Of course I'd tell you." He stabbed at his spaghetti, his hunger gone, for whatever reason. The subject hadn't sat well with his appetite, apparently, and so he did his best to change it. "Sam is still on for Skyping tonight, correct?"

"Yeah, whatever the hell a Skype is." Dean frowned and then added, "Okay, I know it's like a webcam thing, but I thought that only strippers and bored teenagers used those."

Castiel rolled his eyes. It was a wonder that he and Dean were together, he thought, not for the first time. "It's easy enough, I think. We'll set up an account when we're done, and you can email Sam to tell him our username. The reason that I asked, though, was because I wanted to know if you'd thought at all about Thanksgiving?"

"Um, we're probably gonna get a turkey and gorge ourselves and then pass out on the couch together?" Dean raised his eyebrows and took a long sip from the cold beer that he favored with supper. "Sounds about right. I mean, the Halloween candy's just hitting shelves now; I haven't really thought about Thanksgiving."

"I was just thinking that maybe we could take that trip to California that we'd talked about? If you think that Sam would want us. It would be nice to see him again, and truth be told, I could use a vacation." He grimaced. "A change of scenery for something other than work."

"You sure you're feeling okay?" Dean raised an eyebrow, and Castiel knew that as much as he might look like he was joking, there was a deadly seriousness underneath it all. "Never thought I'd see the day when Castiel would say he needed a vacation."

"I'm full of surprises." He stood up, his plate mostly full in front of him, and squeezed Dean's shoulder, pressing a light kiss to his brow. It was the most affectionate that he would be outside of the bedroom (unless Dean suggested something kinky to do outside the boundaries of their bed, in which case Castiel was quick to acquiesce). Castiel was not one for romantic gestures. "I'm going to go get the laptop set up. This could take a while."

It did. Castiel's experience with computers was pathetically limited. His main experience was with the ancient model that the museum's budget afforded him; through college, he'd used the machines for word processing only, preferring libraries for research. Most technology more advanced than a microwave eluded him, including the Smartphone that he'd gotten to keep in touch with work while he was on the job. This was, of course, much to Dean's amusement (which really didn't make much sense, considering how Dean scoffed at anything made after 1967).

But Castiel was persistent, if nothing else, and by the time that Dean had loaded up the dishwasher, he had the webcam set up and an account properly in place. Dean sat down next to him on the fat leather couch that they had picked up at a yard sale and frowned. "The hell is that?"

"It's a webcam, Dean. That's what they look like."

"I don't like it." He sat back against the couch, pulling the laptop over so that it was half on Castiel's lap and half on his. "It's unnatural."

"You say that about everything that isn't a car. And a good deal of today's cars, too."

A sudden chime from the laptop interrupted them. Dean jumped and glanced at it. "That Sam?"

"That's Sam," Castiel confirmed, although he wasn't entirely certain himself. He pressed the button to allow them to receive the call.

A moment later, Sam's face swam into view and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. Technology was not his strong point; it was always a bit of a treat when something he tried worked out. "Sam? Sam, can you see us?"

"Clear as day," Sam confirmed, grinning. "How are you, Cas?"

"What, nothing for your own brother?" Dean stuck his head right in front of their webcam. "You not seeing me, Sammy?"

"I was getting to you. How are things down in Kansas? How's work, both of you?"

"Pretty good," Dean replied. "Can't complain about business. And Cas's museum hasn't fallen under or anything. His new exhibit's almost done." There was a hint of pride in Dean's voice, and it made Castiel feel warm inside.

"The one about monsters? Awesome. I wish that I could see it." Sam made a face. They both knew that he loved California, and that he would probably stay there even after he was done with law school, but they also both knew that he loathed the distance between them just as much as Dean and Castiel did. Or, well, Dean. Castiel hated being apart from his boyfriend's younger brother; he was quite fond of Sam's company, but he didn't think that he could quite reach Dean's levels of disdain for the miles between himself and the boy he had helped raise.

"Speaking of that, Cas brought something up at suppertime. What are your Thanksgiving plans?" Dean leaned back on the couch, tossing one arm casually around Cas. The laptop was easily balanced between their knees, and Castiel automatically leaned back.

"Uh, I'm not sure. Do you want me to call Jess and ask?"

"Well, you don't need to phone her…"

"That's not what I meant." Sam's cheeks turned pink and he stood up. "I'll be right back."

He turned around and hurried off. Castiel could tell now that he wasn't in a living room like he and Dean were. Instead, he was in a bedroom, one that looked considerably nicer than any college dorm Castiel had been in. And from the look of it, Sam had been lounging on his bed – a double bed…

Dean frowned. "Is this goin' where I think it is?"

Castiel didn't have time to reply. A moment later, Sam showed up with his hand curled in that of a tall blonde woman. She had an intelligent look about her, with sharp blue eyes and a curious, slightly nervous, expression on her face. Sam sat her down on the bed and cleared his throat. Before Dean could make any comments he would regret (and Castiel knew that he was probably thinking of a few – while he didn't doubt Dean's commitment to Sam, Dean was the king of casual innuendo), he said, "Dean, Cas, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Jessica Moore. We moved in together last week."

"And you didn't tell me?" Dean's eyebrows had shot up, and he took his arm off of Castiel so that he could lean forward, looking incredulous. "Sammy!"

"I didn't want you to be worried," Sam said quickly. "Seriously, Dean. I know that Cas has been working so hard on the exhibit, and you've been working too, and you had to cancel your trip here, so I thought you'd probably be stressed. And I didn't want to add to that. Anyway, it wasn't that big a change. I was sick of the dorms, and I've been working a paid internship with this firm—"

"What?" Dean crossed his arms, glaring. It would have been comical if Castiel didn't know how genuinely hurt he was at being kept out of the loop.

"Yeah. It's not a big deal. But with our combined paychecks, we could finally afford it." Sam smiled tentatively, stroking Jessica's fingers with his thumb.

"Sam's told me a lot about you," Jess said quickly, like she could sense the tension between the two brothers. "About both of you, I mean. I'd love to meet you."

"The feeling is mutual," Castiel replied, giving Dean another moment to stew in his anger. "Actually, that's what Dean was talking about a moment ago. We've only just discussed it today, and I don't want to impose on you at all, but…"

"You want to come to Thanksgiving?" Sam finished. He gave Cas a wide smile, looking relieved. "I would love that. I mean, seriously, that sounds awesome. Jess can bake up a pretty mean plate of rolls, and I'm sure that we could figure out how to make a turkey together. And there's definitely enough room. We've got a guest room that's kind small; it wasn't originally supposed to be a bedroom, but we managed to fit a mattress in so that our friends could crash when they needed to. We can fix it up all nice for you."

He was rambling a bit, but Castiel let him go on, chiming in only when his input about Sam's plans was needed. It was a bit endearing, honestly. He reached out and took Dean's hand, thumb brushing over it in an imitation of the gesture between Sam and Jessica.

Dean finally got to talking somewhere around when Sam was bringing up the cost of plane tickets, and how maybe he and Jess could return the favor and come see them at Christmas, if her parents were okay with that? The conversation lasted for almost an hour, and while it couldn't be described as relaxed, the tension did bleed out of it some.

By the time that Sam and Jess had to go (dinner reservations), they had solid Thanksgiving plans made, and Cas had seen enough of Jessica to know that he liked her. She was getting her master's in childhood psychology, and had a bachelor's in psychology with a minor in education. Eventually she wanted to work as a counselor for children that had gone through traumatic events, but at the moment she was a classroom aid in a kindergarten class. Castiel, never one for children himself, was suitably impressed.

Dean shut the laptop after they had left, and took a deep breath. Castiel waited patiently by his side.

"I can't believe the little bitch didn't tell me that he had moved in with his girlfriend!" Dean slammed the computer down on the coffee table with more force than was strictly safe. "What the hell!"

Castiel reached up and gently started rubbing Dean's shoulder. "It doesn't mean he doesn't care about you, Dean, or that you're no longer his family."

"I know that," he growled. "But – how could he just not—" he made a gesture with his hand that did little to stand in for the words he couldn't find. "How?"

"He was worried about your wellbeing, and he didn't want to distract you from anything in your life. It's a sign that he cares for you."

Dean flopped back against the couch cushions and let out a noise of frustration that was halfway between a growl and a moan. Castiel kept his hand on Dean's shoulder for a moment longer and then stood up. "How about you put on that football game you were looking forward to, and I get some wine, and we can see where things go? You can't do anything about Sam right now, not until we're over there for Thanksgiving – and besides, you can't deny that he seems happy."

"He's only been with her for, like, five months. What if he's going too quickly?"

"He's an adult, Dean, even if he is and always will be your younger brother." Castiel kissed him again. "Wine?"

"I guess so." Dean sighed.

The weekend was, thankfully, uneventful. They slept in both days, and Castiel's dreams were as far from forests as they could get. One was even about flying, and it was the sort of dream that was so pleasant that upon waking, the world seemed considerably duller than it had the night before. (Dean was there, though, and he had woken up only moments after Castiel, and what they had done afterwards had been decidedly not dull. That was very good, considerably better than flying.)

Monday it was back to work, and unlike Friday, he found himself with plenty to do. Two local newspapers were asking for interviews, there was a problem with the design layout (the area on southern mythology was said to focus too much on New Orleans; he had to speak very firmly to Zachariah about how important it was to properly shed light on the oft-misunderstood nature of voodoo), and he had to write his godforsaken opening speech. There were less than two weeks before the public was to be invited to see the exhibit, and Castiel was very aware of how crucial it was that he not mess this up.

He was once again struggling to properly express himself in his opening remarks (there was a reason that he hadn't been an English major; a very, very good reason) when Inias knocked on the door and poked his head into the office. "Castiel?"

"Inias! Hello." He took his fingers away from the worn-out keyboard and stretched, relishing the break. "How are you?"

"Myself? I'm well." Inias stepped into Castiel's room, understanding the unsaid invitation. He was dressed in his usual dark suit, but it looked a bit more rumpled than usual. "I had a presentation at one of the elementary schools this morning. 'How museums make learning fun.'" His lips quirked up. "A bit exhausting, that one."

"I imagine." Castiel didn't work with children. He tried to avoid them as best he could. Which was a bit unfortunate, because Dean was absolutely wonderful with them. "How can I help you? Is there something you need?"

"Oh no, not at all." Inias shook his head. "I just wanted to make sure that you were feeling better. I came to see you on Friday, after we went out to lunch, but you'd already left. I was a bit concerned."

"I'm fine, thank you for asking. I got some sleep; I think that's all that I needed." In truth, he was more awake than he'd been for quite some time, and he'd only had one cup of coffee. He was doing absolutely fantastically, considering that it was a Monday. "I haven't had any more of those… episodes since the first one, so I don't think that it's something to worry about."

Inias nodded. He would have looked relieved, were it not for the worry that creased his brow. "I'm glad to hear that. I still… I think you should go to a doctor, Castiel. At least, if anything else happens."

"I will if I have to." And not a moment before then; he loathed doctors. It was the career path chosen by his eldest brother, an arrogant know-it-all with the empathy of a brick wall. Castiel knew that not all doctors were like that, he really did. But that didn't lessen the negative associations he had with them. "If they repeat. But I think it was just stress, more than anything. With the new exhibit and all."

"I hope so." Inias didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't press the issue. It wouldn't have done any good, and Castiel suspected that he knew that. Inias was intelligent, far better at reading people than he was. Castiel thought that he would have been a good doctor, far better than Michael was. "Well, if everything is all right, I'll let you get back to your work. Have a good afternoon, Castiel."

"Same to you." And then Inias was gone, out the door and back to whatever it was that he had planned for the rest of the day. Castiel sighed and turned back to his computer. He had work to do.

The rest of the week, and the week that followed, were busy enough to make Castiel start to loathe the Demons exhibit, and wonder why it was that he had proposed the idea in the first place. It wasn't the first time he'd opened one, of course, but somewhere along the line, he had forgotten how terrible it was immediately before the opening. How absolutely stressed he and his colleagues were — himself more than anyone; it was mainly his project, after all, but also Inias and the other tour guides and educators who had to know enough about the exhibition to lead a group through, and the security guards who needed to prepare themselves for an influx of enthusiastic people, some of whom would doubtlessly want to touch the allegedly cursed objects that collectors had given to Castiel to be displayed.

And then there were the reporters. Castiel hated the reporters. He could write an article about the exhibit just fine; that was mostly giving factual information about the display and explaining why the public should come. He'd already done a lot of that with the advertising team, and he could handle a formal article. But interviews, having to field questions from reporters who knew absolutely nothing about what they were talking about? Who expected him to joke around, fulfill that image of the museum curator who was inept at dealing with the present, and spent all day in the bowels of the museum, digging up ancient treasures that had long since been forgotten? It was terrible. Having to guide reviewers through the exhibit in advance was almost as bad, although the reviewers were mostly professional critics, who asked intelligent questions that he could answer. He didn't mind them as much as the others.

Dean, naturally, was mildly amused by all of this. The night before the opening, after all of the dishes had been washed and Castiel had spent the entire time loading up the dishwasher venting about the terrible reporters who had the nerve to be taken aback by his reserved, decidedly sane nature Dean looked at him and laughed. "Cas, you are a, how did you put it? A kooky museum curator. Your office is in the basement. You do spend all of your time focusing on the past; you're completely out-of-touch with today's pop culture. They're probably not taken aback by your 'reserved nature' so much as they are surprised by how you're exactly what they expect."

Castiel sank into the couch and glared at him. "They're terrible. They expect me to be all… all jovial, all joking with them. I just want them to stop asking me stupid questions." Like whether he was scared to walk around the museum at night; if he thought it was haunted; whether he'd met any vampires during his time building up the exhibit's catalogue. "I wish this was over."

Dean sat down next to him and began to rub his shoulders with his strong, rough hands. Castiel closed his eyes and took several deep breathes. Had Dean not taken over his father's garage, he would have made a fantastic masseuse.

They stayed like that for several minutes, with Castiel letting his breath even out and his body slowly loosen up, releasing the tension that the day had built up. Dean didn't say anything; he just moved his hands around in slow circles, rubbing away some of Castiel's frustration.

When Castiel was all but boneless beneath him, he leaned forward and kissed the base of Castiel's neck for a long moment. Castiel shuddered as he pulled away only enough to speak, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there. "I know, Cas. Man, I wish that it was over too, and we could just go back to you hiding in your office all day, instead of you having to deal with all of this shit. But it's not long now, right? We got that party tomorrow, and then it's open, and you can stop worrying."

"I still have to work on maintaining it," he mumbled, his cheek pressed up against the soft leather of the couch. "And Zachariah wants me aboveground for a few days. Being a face for the public, answering their questions, things like that." He sighed. Obedience to his old, balding boss was important, he knew, but he loathed the man sometimes. He was supposed to be putting things together and dealing with other displays, not standing around talking to tourists and residents alike with a fake smile plastered on his face. "I'll have to work this weekend."

"Yeah, but when you come home…" Dean chuckled. One of his hands traced the line of Castiel's collarbone, trailed up along the center of his neck. Castiel automatically lifted his head up, letting out an embarrassingly high noise. "Trust me, when you get home all of your troubles are gonna go away."

Castiel let himself go lax against Dean. In response, Dean lay back on the couch, pulling Castiel down with him. He wriggled over so that he was lying face to face with Dean, Dean's arms wrapped securely around his waist. "You shouldn't make promises that you can't keep."

Dean reached up and kissed him, slow and unrushed. When he pulled away Castiel saw how flushed his face was, and felt his cock twitch in response. "Trust me on this. By the time I'm done with you, the last thing you're gonna be thinking about is work."

"I believe you." He sat up reluctantly and sighed. "It probably wouldn't benefit me to stay up late."

"Mmm. Probably not." Dean sat up too and stretched his arms high above his head. Castiel noted the sharp outline of his Adam's apple against his throat and resisted the urge to lean over and start necking him. That would hardly be fitting behavior; he was a grown man, not some horny teenager. "But there are some things that we can probably do before you go to bed…"

Castiel glanced at Dean, who was also sitting up now, perched against the arm of the couch. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, all of the impossibly cocky man that Castiel had first fallen for. "C'mon, Cas. What do you say?"

Castiel sighed and stood up. Then he leaned over and pulled Dean up and on to his feet. "I say that I have to get to bed by 10:30, at the very latest… but all the time until then is yours."

Dean grinned and tugged on his hand, leading him in the direction of their bedroom. "Good choice."

Part II | Masterpost

All This Derision [2/3]

lies_unfurl — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 02:11:41 GMT

Castiel came home early the next day, leaving the museum almost immediately after a rushed lunch with Inias, during which Inias had done his absolute best to convince Castiel that everything was going very well with the exhibit, that there wasn't an imbalance between Native legends and the mythology brought over, and that of course the lighting was bright enough.

Unlike the Friday of two weeks ago, Castiel hadn't left early because of some blackout he had in the middle of a busy restaurant. Although he was a bit surprised that he hadn't had another one of those, considering that he felt like he was going mad.

No, he went home early to neaten himself up, and to make himself presentable. That night was the opening of the Demons exhibit, the big kickoff party. It was a notable exhibition, Castiel knew. Something to attract the dark side in people, and given that Hallowe'en was coming up, people were certain to flock to it.

And because it wasn't a design based on something foolish that no one cared about (Castiel was still a bit bitter at the response, or lack thereof, to the display of 15^th-century Greek Orthodox idols that he had managed to accumulate), there were going to be bigwig figures at the party. Men with more money on any given day than Dean and Castiel were likely to earn together in a whole year. Men who could donate to the museum, help put supports under its rapidly sinking financial base.

Zachariah had cornered him before he left work and ordered him to be pleasant, presentable, and polite at the opening. In his own words, to suck up to every single person there. And Castiel had politely said that he would try his best, because even though he would probably be among the last to be fired (they could hardly have a museum without a curator, after all) he knew that Zachariah could make his workload far more unpleasant than it already was. And doubtless he'd be willing to do just that.

So Castiel showered, shaved, and brushed his hair until it lay neatly down. He put on his best suit and tied his tie neatly and professionally.

Dean came home when he was standing in their bedroom, critically examining himself in their mirror. He came up behind Castiel and stretched his lips wide, sticking out his tongue and making his eyes bulge.

Castiel smiled wanly. Seeing that he'd managed that, Dean straightened up and kissed him on the cheek. He laid a hand on Castiel's shoulder and grinned at their reflections. "You smell good."

"I'm drenched in conspicuous amounts of aftershave. I feel disgusting."

"You look like sex on legs, Castiel," Dean drawled. "And it's probably a good thing that I'm not going to your rich-ass bastards gathering, because I'd just shove you up against a wall and start ravishing you right there. Okay?"

"I'm going more for 'professional' than I am 'arousing,' but thank you. I do wish you were going." He covered Dean's hand and sighed. It was a 'plus one' event, but they'd mutually agreed that Dean had best stayed home. Castiel made no secret of their relationship at work; if asked, he would certainly say that they had been living together in their present home for over a year, and that they had been seriously involved for several before that. But it was… well, it wasn't something that he brought up casually, save for with his closest friends. Inias knew; he knew most things about Castiel. And Balthazar, the flippant European registrar, had known Castiel's sexuality from the moment he'd met him.

Zachariah, though, was another story. Castiel had no way of guessing how he would react if he knew, and so he had never talked about Dean in front of him (which wasn't very hard, seeing as Zachariah only cared that Castiel could go and collect some artifact at a moment's notice; whether he was leaving someone behind to sleep in an empty bed was entirely irrelevant to him). And even if Zachariah did know? The rich donors that were going to be there, Castiel was well aware that the majority of them were… not of liberal leanings. He knew of most of them, and how strongly they supported the church. Bringing his boyfriend to that crowd would, at best, cause them to take him far less seriously than they otherwise would. At worst, they would refuse to support an establishment that hired one of his leaning.

And so Dean was left alone to watch the Friday night game and order takeout. Castiel felt impossibly guilty about it, even though he knew that Dean was okay with it, that they had made the most reasonable decision that they could.

"Hey." Dean tugged at his tie. "Earth to Castiel? You spacing out on me?"

"What? No." He shook his head, hands automatically going to straighten the tie, although Dean really hadn't messed it up. "I was just… thinking."

"'bout how I'm not going? Don't sweat it." Dean reached in and pecked him on the lips. He preferred kissing to talking. To tell the truth, so did Castiel. "You know I don't want to, anyway. I mean, if I could I'd go and offer you moral support… let you picture me in my underwear when you're giving that speech of yours… but it's gonna be crowded with a bunch of rich farts. I wouldn't fit in."

That was true. Dean was rather disdainful of the wealthy. Not that Castiel could blame him, given the decidedly working-class background that he had come from. "I appreciate the support that you've given me over the past months, Dean. I've been travelling, I know, and I've been busy, I've been stressed… you're more than I deserve."

"Hey." Dean took his hand off of Castiel's shoulder and stepped back, looking serious. "Don't you go all sentimental on me, Cas."

"I wasn't going sentimental, I was just—"

Dean cut him off by leaning in and kissing him—not a light brush of lips against cheek, nor a two-second instant of lip-touching, but a full-on, hand-cupping-head, lips open kiss. He sucked at Castiel's bottom lip, his tongue tracing over Castiel's teeth. Castiel grabbed his shoulder to steady himself, moaning into Dean's mouth. Dean responded by pushing him against the mirror, and then straightening up. His eyes were completely blown. "How soon do you have to leave?"

"I was going to go in about ten minutes — Dean, I'm already dressed—"

Dean was already on his knees, fingers fumbling around at Castiel's crotch. "Come on, Cas. Don't you trust me not to mess you up?"

"Yes, but—"

"Shh." Dean looked up at him, fingers stilling for a moment, and Castiel couldn't help the low growl that escaped him at the loss of friction. "You're stressed to fucking hell, man. Let me take some of the edge off of you, okay?"

Castiel licked his lips, reminding himself that he was a human being, and he had the ability to speak. "I don't think I'll have time to return the favor."

Dean snorted. "Trust me, I'm not going to need much. Pretty sure my hand'll do." He looked at Cas, his lips already parted. "Please."

Castiel groaned and leaned against the mirror. The glass felt cool against his neck. "Yes. Please."

Dean didn't respond, just went back to what he had been doing before. He worked open the fly of Castiel's suit pants and somehow managed to control himself enough to pull down the zipper, and then lower Castiel's pants until they were halfway down his thighs, reducing the chance of any… unfortunate substances splashing out onto them.

A moan slipped past Castiel's lips as Dean mouthed the bulge in his boxers. The friction of the cloth against his dick was driving him mad, making him desperate for more. It seemed to take far too long for Dean to finally shift the underwear down, just far enough so that he could get to Castiel.

Dean's tongue swirled once around the head of Castiel's dick before he widened his lips and swallowed him down without hesitation. The tight heat made him cry out, run his fingers through Dean's hair even though it was far too short for him to take hold of. No matter how many times they had done this before (and it was a substantial amount, no questioning that) Dean's tongue never failed to reduce Castiel to a gasping, incoherent mess. He cried out as Dean worked on him, rough strokes running up and down the length of his cock. He resisted the urge to thrust his hips forward, even though he knew that Dean could take it — that Dean liked it, even. It still made him feel guilty, somehow; like that would be fucking, not having sex.

His eyes met Dean's, dark green and blown with lust. Holding his gaze, and still sucking at his dick, Dean reached up and ran his fingers lightly over Castiel's testicles.

That did it. Castiel gasped and thrust into Dean's mouth, no longer entirely in control of his body's actions. With Dean's eyes still locked with his he managed to get out, "Dean — Dean, I'm going to—"

He came with a moan, finally closing his eyes as his orgasm rolled over him. His fingers tightened, not quite becoming a fist over the short bristles of Dean's hair.

When logic finally took over from the overload of pleasure, Castiel found himself sagging against the mirror, the glass now sticky with his sweat. He thought, absurdly considering the moment, that it would be smudged when he stood up, and that he would have to wash it off over the weekend.

Dean was still on his knees, face level with Castiel's crotch. He looked rather pleased with himself, only a few drops of Castiel's come splattering his face. Castiel glanced down at the dark pants he was wearing and noted that nothing had spilled on them. "Dean. Are you… are you sure that you don't want any help with… that?"

Dean rose in a swift motion, ignoring the obvious tent in his jeans. He leaned forward and kissed Castiel, and the taste of himself inside Dean's mouth was almost enough to ready Castiel for another round.

When they broke apart, Dean licked his swollen lips and said, "Cas, you gotta get going. Don't worry about me… I've got plenty to think about."

He grinned, and Castiel looked away, almost blushing in spite of himself. He bent down to straighten up his pants. "Thank you."

"Don't worry about it." Dean reached in and kissed him again, but this time it was on his cheek, and it wasn't nearly as arousing. "At least you're relaxed and ready to go, right?"

Two hours later, Castiel was standing in front of a podium, and he was decidedly not relaxed. Sweat stuck his shirt collar to his neck, and he thought that his tie was askew. And his pants were most definitely not the neatly-pressed garments adorning the legs of the wealthy men who were staring at him expectantly. They would have been, once upon a time, would still be, if it hadn't been for Dean, and his ability to turn any time into a great time for a blow job.

The opening party was going wonderfully, so far. The museum's cafeteria had somehow become a classy place since Castiel had left; white tablecloths covering tables that were perpetually sticky, and thick napkins that definitely weren't the cafeteria's usual, fall-apart-at-first-touch brand, folded at every place. Golden lights were strung around the place, replacing the normal, irritatingly-buzzing lighting into something that could only be described as 'ambient.' It was a similar, if slightly less classy, version of the dinner parties that Castiel had grown up attending. His parents had been extremely wealthy acquiring money through the stock market with what some called 'luck,' and his father called 'God's will.'

But of course, he wasn't back there now. Now, he was standing in front of Kansas' finest, several pages of paper laying before him. Every eye in the godforsaken room was trained on him, and Castiel loathed it. He was supposed to be dealing with artifacts and oddities stored in the museum, in its extensive archives. He wasn't supposed to be in a jazzed-up cafeteria, being forced to speak to a bunch of men who'd inherited their wealth from families who hadn't disowned them.

Castiel took a deep breath and did his best to clear his mind. None of that mattered now. What mattered were the words in front of him, and the exhibit several halls down from there, which had been Castiel's life for the past months. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome you to the opening of Demons of America: Americana's Fact and Folklore, the latest of many fine offerings here in the Topeka Museum of Human History. Like all of the displays that you'll find housed within these walls, it was only made possible by the generous donations of our loyal sponsors who make it a priority to maintain our heritage."

He rattled on like that, hoping that he was being far more engaging than he thought he was. Which wouldn't be hard, considering that he thought that he was speaking in a perfect monotone, droning on and on about nothing at all, save for praises of America's wealthy.

It felt like an obscenely long time, but finally he got to the interesting part, about the exhibit itself. "American folklore is like no other in the world. Countless cultures have lent their myths and beliefs to be woven into the very fabric upon which we reside. From the initial Puritans and the fear of witches, to the all-American belief in Big Foot, our stories and legends are an amalgamation of the tales of natives from every country — our own included."

Once he began talking about a subject that he actually cared about, everything else became considerably easier. The Demons exhibit was a good exhibit, an interesting one — it focused mostly on beliefs that had sprung up inside America, made entirely by the minds of the people who had emigrated there — things like the Jersey Devil and Roswell. But he had also thrown in bits and pieces about cultures that had come before the melting pot of the country, that were still influencing people today: the beliefs of the Native tribes, the fairy tales that were ever-present in movies and in novels, the vampire legends that had been twisted and warped far beyond their origins in the Balkans.

It was a far more unfocused exhibit than Castiel normally would have come up with, art and photographs alongside copies of eyewitness accounts of Mothman, next to Jersey Devil action figures. There was a display about thunderbirds next to a small section that scratched the surface of how Disney had twisted and perverted dark fairy tales beyond recognition (he could have easily done an exhibition entirely on that; it was hard to just keep it to illuminated pages of The Little Mermaid that showed the story's real ending, and informative paragraphs about Snow White's dark origin).

In a way, though he thought that the patchwork nature of the exhibit worked quite well. After all, America's folklore was hardly a blanket woven all of one thread — rather, it was a quilt. Bits and pieces brought together to make something that wasn't entirely different, but which was beautiful in its own right.

He liked that metaphor, although comparing things to quilts was probably tired and overused. Which didn't bother Castiel much; he'd never been much for creative writing.

And then, finally, blessedly, it was done. He was smiling and thanking the wealthy for coming out tonight, telling them that the exhibit was officially open for their perusal, and they were applauding him. It was polite applause more than genuine enthusiasm for American folklore; he had no illusions about that, but it didn't matter. Now, he just needed to perform the arduous task of standing around in the exhibit, smiling, shaking hands, and answering whatever questions were asked with a brightly faked enthusiasm. Doubtless it wouldn't be fun or exciting; doubtless, he would be absolutely miserable the entire time he was forced to feign interest in socializing like this. But it would only be for two or three hours, and then he could get home, back to Dean, and Castiel liked the thought of that very, very much.

It was a quarter to one by the time Castiel came home, the street he lived on dark and deserted. His cheeks hurt from forcibly smiling for over two hours, and he was fairly certain that his knuckles would be bruised in the morning from the tight handshakes that all of Kansas' elite had given him. He had two days' worth of shifts identical to this, save that he would mostly be fraternizing with museumgoers, not the moneybags who were responsible for his paycheck.

Dean was already in bed by the time he came in, though he wasn't asleep. As Castiel padded into the darkened room as quietly as he could, he sat up and switched on their bedside lamp. "How'd it go?"

Castiel glanced at him and had to smile. Dean's hair was already sticking up in uneven tufts, bedhead that had somehow crept upon him in a very short time—Dean wasn't one for going to bed before midnight on a Friday, regardless of where Castiel was. Dean's sheets pooled around him, revealing that he was topless, at the very least. "Comfortable?"

"Very." Dean yawned. "How'd the soirée go?" He drew out soirée as long as he could, as if Castiel couldn't otherwise figure out that he was using it sarcastically.

"I survived." He took off his tie and hung it in the closet, and then ungracefully stripped himself of the rest of his suit. He folded it up and laid it in a corner; he could hang it up tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Dean welcomed him with open arms, pulling him up against his chest as soon as he was beneath their covers. He buried his head in Castiel's hair while Castiel pressed his face into Dean's neck, breathing in his slightly salty, entirely Dean scent. They didn't do this very often, except for after sex, or if one of them had had a particularly bad day, or it was too cold for just their blankets. Dean had too much of a masculinity complex to confess to how much he enjoyed it. But when they did do this… cuddling, for lack of a better (or more accurate) term, it was comfortable and unfailingly enjoyable.

"I missed you," Dean murmured above him. His arms were wrapped securely around Castiel, as Castiel's were around him. "Felt pretty bad for you, too. I mean, at least when you're travelling, I can pretend that you're out doing something fun, you know? Although for you, that's probably sitting around in your motel room and thinking about work. But when you're at one of Zachariah's goddamn begging sessions, I know that all you're doing is sucking rich dick. And that sucks."

"Not literally," Castiel replied, his voice muffled against Dean's chest. "Believe me, there was no one there who could tempt me from your side."

"I hope not." Dean kissed his head. "You need to be up early tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately. I won't wake you."

"You can, if you want to." Dean shifted deeper into the bed. "Rather wake up early with you than later and alone."

Castiel wasn't so tired that he didn't smile at that. Dean Winchester could not be described as a romantic, not by any means of the word. But he had his moments. "I might."

"Good." Dean yawned. "G'night, Castiel."

"Good night, Dean." He tightened his arms around Dean's back almost imperceptibly. He was an electric blanket, Castiel thought, except warmer and far more fun to hold. The nights weren't quite so bad yet as to need the extra heat, but neither were they as warm as Kansas in September should have been.

In any case, Dean was comfortable against him. Castiel buried himself against his chest and just breathed. It was good, he thought, to be home.

First there was the woman — probably she had a name; probably she had called herself many things during her long centuries of existence, but he never cared to learn them. She was dark-haired and had wild eyes, and Castiel thought that she was very, very important, but he could not remember why.

She stroked his cheek and smiled, and for a moment he felt fear. She sensed that and shook her head. Her eyes were deadly, but there was an edge of amusement to them. "I'm not so far gone, angel, that I would go back on my word."

He wondered if she was lying — didn't think she was — but then the world went black, and he was in a different place—

"There is a way out," said a sneering, hulking man that he knew wasn't human. "A door that opens once, with the pricking of a living human's thumb. But it's only for two, and I warn you, little bird, I will be one of them."

Castiel nodded, calm although he couldn't say why. "Dean can be taken out? Unharmed?"

"Yes."

"I'll do whatever needs to be done, then."

And then the scene changed, and he was running (floating?) through the forest, something behind him that was large and snarling, and oh, he needed to get away

"Castiel! Wake up!"

Castiel opened his eyes, shivering and feeling like he was entirely boneless. He was curled away from Dean, staring at an empty wall, and he could feel his heart beating frantically in his chest. He blinked, and for a moment he was back in the woods, alone except for the huge thing that had been chasing him.

Once he was awake, Dean had switched from shaking him to gently rubbing his back in small, light circles. "Hey, Castiel. You okay?"

He rolled over, somewhat reluctant to give up the comforting touch. Dean was lying on his side, perched up on his elbow. His concern was evident on his face, even in the dimness of the room. "I. Yes, I think I am. I'm sorry for waking you up."

Dean shook his head. "Don't be. Man, you really scared me. You were… you were shaking, and making these noises… I thought you were possessed or something." He laughed, although it was very clearly forced. "What was it?"

"The same thing as last time. Or at least, the same place. There was a woman…" he described what he could to Dean, although the details of it had already begun to escape him. The forest stayed, though, as clear and unforgettable as his childhood home.

When he'd finished, Dean looked even more worried. "You sure that you're doing okay? I mean, I know nightmares and stuff are normal, and I know you've been stressed, but you don't get them that often. And recurring ones suck."

"This is only the third time that it's happened." Castiel lay down, facing away from Dean. He was mildly annoyed with himself. He disliked showing weakness, which was probably what came from having a series of older brothers who were perfectly willing to exploit any flaw you showed. "Don't worry."

"If you say so." He was worrying, that much was evident from his voice. Castiel hadn't really expected otherwise. "Wake me up if you have another, okay? If I'm not already up."

"I will." He reached behind himself and squeezed Dean's hand. "Go back to sleep, Dean."

He could hear Dean settling back down among the pillows and blankets. "I mean it, Cas."

"I know." He closed his eyes, trying to drive away the image of the unknown woman, but sleep didn't come easily, and he stayed awake for a long time after.

The next day at work was… not Castiel's most pleasant day on the job. He hadn't expected it to be, not with the way that he had slept through his alarm and had needed an apologetic Dean to shake him awake. Not with the traffic, which almost made him late, and definitely not with Zachariah greeting him as soon as he hung his jacket up in his office, and demanding that he get upstairs to the exhibit.

There was a large number of people milling around Castiel as he sat at the table that had generously been provided, with a descriptor card set up in front of him. That was good for the museum, he knew. Even for a Saturday it was busy, and it wouldn't be arrogance to say that it was primarily because of his display. And it was a good mixture of people, too—senior citizens and under-fives alike, with the majority of the guests being somewhere in-between. Again, he knew that was good for the museum. There was something for everyone here.

But for himself? It was terrible. He had to sit in the hard plastic chair smiling at everyone who gave him a curious look. He had to tolerate young children coming up to him and just staring in that entirely disconcerting manner that children had.

Some people had actual questions, about the places he had been and what had gone into the making of the exhibit. Those he answered as best he could—and, indeed, he answered them quite well. When asked about the display in the middle on how fairy stories and cultural mythology had been warped by companies like Disney, his answer drew in a crowd of listeners. Apparently, it was quite astonishing for some of them to learn about how the jinn weren't, in many countries, blue smoke that came pouring out of bottles to grant wishes. Or that the little mermaid's original ending hadn't been quite so idyllic.

Inias met him in his office when he managed to slip away to pick at the lunch he'd thrown together that morning. "It's going very well, Castiel. You should feel proud of yourself."

"Thank you." He tossed the core of his apple into the trash can beneath his desk, and it made a dull clang that echoed through the office. "It's a bit overwhelming. I'm not sure how you manage to deal with that, day in and day out."

"The crowds are larger than usual," Inias replied diplomatically, graciously not touching upon Castiel's inability to handle the museum's patrons for a long stretch of time. "It's because of your exhibit, we all know that. You've managed to draw in more people than usual, even for a Saturday."

"I suppose that I need to get back to them." He stood up, cracking his back. He had another five hours of sitting in front of him; by the end of the day, he'd be too stiff even for Dean to take care of. There was a headache, too, pounding a low, steady beat behind his brows. It had been there since the morning. "Thank you, Inias."

Inias just nodded, trailing after him as he began the climb back upstairs to where his office was. "Are you well, Castiel? You look a bit… pale."

"Do I?" He frowned. The headache was still there, certainly not getting any better, and he had slept poorly, but… "I don't feel that bad."

"In any case, take care." Inias paused at the top of the staircase; Castiel knew that he had his own obligations to deal with, and that he had probably shunted them aside just to talk to him. It was flattering, really. "It wouldn't do for you to take sick in the middle of the exhibit."

"It wouldn't." He sighed. It suddenly seemed like a very long time until he could escape the rush of the museum and get back to where Dean waited at home. "Goodbye, Inias."

"Goodbye, Castiel." They parted ways, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before Castiel was back at his table, smiling again, and ready to handle whatever mundane questions the tourists proposed to him.

Castiel didn't dream that night, too exhausted from all of Dean's ministrations (and the hands on him — they were incredible, amazing; Castiel was not a romantic man, but he was fairly certain that he could write odes to Dean and his fantastic fingers). He woke up on Sunday morning refreshed and ready to deal with the museum on a day when it wasn't usually open. His head was clear, whatever ache he'd come home with gone.

At 2:00, he passed out.

It was entirely unexpected and a bit humiliating as well. He had just been sitting at the table, waiting for someone to come over and ask him where he had picked up that genuine cast of a Bigfoot print, when his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped over.

The blue eyes shone out at him from the darkness, the only light inside the cave. From somewhere else, Castiel recognized the tangled brown hair of the woman from his previous vision. She was kneeling in front of him, very close, and her small but calloused hands were rough against his cheek. They slid down onto his neck, pressing hard against his jugular, and he felt something inside of him stir—

And then he was running, faster and faster through the woods, with a giant dog behind him (but hadn't that happened before; this wasn't in order; this wasn't right)

"You sure about this, Castiel?" Doubtful green eyes watched him over the firelight. "If it can only be opened once, and it's for two people, and the vamp's demanding right-of-way…"

"I'll stay here." He stretched out, staring up at the horned moon in the sky. It hadn't changed since he had gotten there, as if all of the time was just a single night that would eventually be unfrozen and move on to day. "It's my penance, not yours."

"Hey! Hey, mister, wake up!" A hand on his shoulder was roughing him, and he blinked groggily automatically shaking off the foreign touch. "Mister, you okay?"

Castiel squinted, trying to make things clear. A woman was standing in front of him, a child with wide, frightened eyes at her feet. "I—yes. I apologize, I'm not sure what happened there." He stood up, but the world spun around him, and he had to grip the edge of the table to keep himself from collapsing into a heap. He tried for a rueful smile. "Perhaps I should go to the infirmary."

The woman nodded, stepping back. "Do you want me to walk you there? I mean, no offense, but you look kind of like you might collapse again."

He shook his head, even though that just made him dizzy and really didn't help the situation much. He loathed showing weakness in front of strangers. "Thank you very much for your offer, though. I think I'll be able to make it."

Castiel did. By the time that he was in the small medical area, his head had even stopped spinning, and he felt considerably better.

Raphael was on duty as the nurse that day, a stern-faced man who knew of most of the museum's going-ons, and who Castiel suspected had some influence over Zachariah. He examined Castiel quickly and efficiently, bordering on brusqueness. Castiel rather liked that; it had none of his brothers' condescending nature to it, but it also wasn't too touchy-feely.

"Have you been under stress recently?"

Castiel nodded.

"I expected so. You seem fine in all other regards, so I'm going to conclude that that was what caused you to collapse. I recommend going home now, to rest. In the future, consider taking a vacation. It wouldn't do to have you collapsing in public again."

Which was true enough. He thanked Raphael politely, and then slipped back to the table in the exhibit, ready to take on the next three hours. He knew that Zachariah wouldn't let him off easily unless he was dead (and probably not even then).

By the time that he got home, he was exhausted. Dean looked at him with concerned eyes, but he brushed him off as gently as he could. "I'm fine. Just tired. I wish I'd gotten a weekend."

Dean rubbed his shoulders as he leaned against their kitchen counter, watching the sun set over their tiny backyard. "Call in sick, Cas. You don't look up for going in tomorrow."

"I don't feel up to it." He sighed and slid away from Dean. "Zachariah expects it, though."

"Screw him. Cas, he's your boss, not Darth Vader. He's not going to start strangling you if you say something he doesn't want to hear."

Castiel shook his head. "I'll go in, Dean. It's fine. I think I'll go to bed now, though. I'm tired."

He walked away from Dean, feeling the weight of his partner's concerned eyes on his back. It made him feel guilty, to walk away like that when Dean was just trying to do the right thing, but Castiel knew that he didn't have much choice. Zachariah demanded obedience, or else there would be consequences. He knew that well.

The next night, Castiel was in a swamp, and there were things in the muddy water that were trying to pull him down. Dean was there, though, and he pulled him out. When Castiel woke up, heart not pounding quite as quickly as before (he'd had Dean's firm hand grasping his and holding him steady; it was hard to be entirely afraid with that to sustain him) but he was overcome with a decisive sense of self-loathing. He felt weak, as if he should have prevent what had happened in the dream. It was completely foolish, because Castiel was hardly a lucid dreamer, and it wasn't his fault that he hadn't been able to free himself from the dark creatures that had wrapped themselves around his ankles and tried to tug him down. But he still felt as if it was something that he ought to have been able to avoid.

On Tuesday night, after a day of work that was spent mostly catching up with communications in his office, blissfully far away from the crowded exhibits above, he dreamed that he was flying. It was a good dream, at first: the wind was in his hair, the air against his face was cool, and overall there was that sense of freedom, of not being tied down by gravity, let alone the regular obligations of everyday life.

But then he looked down, and he saw that he was just barely coasting above the spindly, leafless trees of the dark forest, and Castiel fell and hit the ground hard.

The scream that ripped from Castiel's throat was probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"Castiel! Christ, Cas, just breathe!" He was conscious of arms — Dean's arms, he knew — on him; of how his throat felt, like it did after he'd been running on a cold day — like he'd swallowed a knife along the way, like there was a blade slicing and splitting his windpipe. He was sweating like he'd run a marathon too, and he was afraid.

He loathed that. He wasn't supposed to be afraid; he'd grown up in a house with so many older brothers that were constantly competing with each other; to show fear among them was to mark yourself as a weakling. Logically, he knew that fear was a perfectly human response to a nightmare. Emotionally, he was furious with himself for the way that he was trembling, for how his stomach was churning, and for how he still felt a little like he was falling.

"Cas," Dean said again, and it was easier to pay attention to this time, because Dean didn't sound scared. "This isn't okay. At all."

Castiel rolled over reluctantly, propping himself up on one elbow to better see Dean. His throat felt thick, and it was an effort to force himself to admit to Dean, "I know."

Dean reached up and gently took Castiel's chin in his hand, and made it so that Castiel had no choice but to look straight at him. "Cas, you gotta go see someone about this. Please. I'll go with you if you want, but man, you can't keep doing this. I'd wake up every night for you, you know that, but I can't stand to see you hurting like this, man. I can't."

Castiel let himself fall back onto his sweat-soaked pillows, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The world around him felt unreal, like he was living in a painting and everything about his life was just a bunch of pigments splashed on a sadistic artist's canvas. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from it all. He felt like everything was faked, including Dean's love for him. "I'll think about it."

Dean sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "Please."

"I said I'll think about it, Dean, and I will." He curled his fingers into a fist and dug the nails into his palms, hard and deep enough that he was certain they would leave a mark. He could feel Dean hovering behind him, but then he just sighed again and lay back down on the bed. A moment later his hand was gently rubbing Castiel's back, and Castiel closed his eye and leaned into it. Of course it was real. How could it not be?

In the end, Castiel made the appointment mostly just to appease Dean. He cared for him too much to see his worried eyes every day, but he was well aware that they wouldn't go away until he did something specifically to stop them.

The psychiatrist was a woman with kind eyes who let Castiel call her by her first name of Rachel. She listened to him patiently while he described the dreams, and the few vivid hallucinations that he'd had while awake. She asked questions: had he been under stress lately? In his professional life or his home life? As a child, was he a particularly vivid dreamer?

Castiel answered them all as best he could. Yes, there had been some work-related stress recently. He was doing well as far as his personal life was concerned. No, he couldn't recall any particular incidents from his childhood.

"Did it help?" Dean asked as soon as he got in the door. It was shortly past their regular dinnertime; Castiel had left work early for the appointment. It smelled heavenly inside the house, like garlic and some sort of sauce. "I made pork chops," Dean added quickly. "Just fried something up. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Why would I mind?" He leaned in and kissed Dean. When they pulled back, he shrugged off his coat and sat down in the chair, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know if it helped. She asked me basic questions, nothing out of the ordinary – about stress, if I'd experienced anything traumatic, what my life with you was like. There were no Earth-shattering revelations, and I didn't suddenly realize that all of my issues stem from my father not loving me enough as a child."

"So it didn't do anything?" Lines of worry creased Dean's face. "Cas, this is serious—"

"I know it is. I wouldn't say it was a wonderful experience, but it wasn't entirely useless. She gave me a prescription, which should be in tomorrow, and I made a follow-up appointment for next month." He loathed the idea of having to take medicine – his mother had been an addict, and her father before. It ran in his family, and it was something that he wasn't particularly keen on experiencing. But it was what Rachel had suggested, and he was reluctantly taking her advice.

"That's good, then." Neither Dean's tone nor his expression matched his words. "Do you think it'll help with the dreams?"

"I don't know. I hope so." He sighed, staring out the kitchen window at the cloudy evening. For a moment he thought that he could see a horned moon. A shiver ran up his back. But then the skies were plain grey again, and he was in his house with Dean, and that was all.

The pills didn't help, and Castiel stopped taking them after a week. Dean watched him pour them down the toilet with a frown, but knew about Castiel's family, and so he held his protests.

"You could try seeing another one," he said quietly as Castiel walked out past him. "She's not the only doctor out there."

Castiel shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with his hands. A small but steady headache had mobilized behind his brow; it had begun when he had first taken the medicine. He didn't think it was going to go away. "I don't want to, Dean. I – I don't think it would help, and you know that my insurance is terrible. I don't want to be drugged again."

Dean nodded and didn't push the point, but when Castiel woke up in the middle of the night sweaty and panting, and Dean's arm snaked silently over his chest, Castiel knew what he was thinking.

When November came, Dean asked Castiel if he wanted to stay home. Castiel asked Dean if he'd lost his senses.

"You have to see Sam," he said firmly. "You have to meet Jess. You can't put that off, Dean."

They were sitting on the couch together, Castiel doing his nightly crossword puzzle and Dean watching a football game, one hand holding a beer and the other resting on Castiel's hip. It was a Monday night, and Thanksgiving was just over three weeks away.

"I don't want to put it off. But man, if you don't feel like it…" he paused, fingers tracing small circles on Castiel's hip. Castiel waited patiently, his pen hovering above the newspaper. "I don't want to make things worse," he said finally. "Look, I want to see Sam more than you can know. I want to meet this girl and make sure that Sammy's not making a mistake, you know that. But if it's gonna hurt you to travel, I don't want to do that. Capice?"

He would choose Castiel's wellbeing over seeing Sam, that was what he was saying. That meant more to Castiel than any gift Dean could have given him, and on a whim Castiel dropped the newspaper and put his hands over Dean's. For a moment the world flickered a bit around the edges, like a frame of smoke surrounded his frame of view. But Castiel curled his fingers over Dean's, and then everything came back into clarity. "I understand. But I want to go, Dean. I'm going to dream no matter where we are. A change of scenery is more like to do me good than harm."

"Are you sure?"

Castiel craned his neck up and kissed Dean lightly. "I'm sure."

Dean nodded. There was relief on his face, and Castiel didn't begrudge him that. "I'll email Sam tonight, then. Let him lay the sheets down in the guest bed."

"Good." Castiel leaned back into Dean, relishing his warm, solid body. The world around him held firm, and that was good.

Three weeks, two days before Thanksgiving, and one grueling plane ride later, he and Dean were standing in the airport in California. Dean looked a bit worn around the edges, his face still sallow from the midflight sickness that had taken him. "Where the hell is he?" he growled, looking agitated. "If he got the time wrong—"

"Dean!"

Dean perked up like a dog hearing the squeak of its favorite toy. "Sam?"

It took half a second for them to find Sam, his height offering him a considerable advantage. He shouldered his way closer to Dean and reached down and embraced his brother immediately, ignoring the vaguely sour smell of him. "God, Dean, it's so good to see you."

A tall blonde woman walked up to them, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She smiled tentatively at Castiel. "Are you… Castiel? Did I pronounce that right?"

"Yes I am, and yes, you did." He reached out and shook her hand. "You must be Jessica."

"Jess, please. It's good to meet you." She had warm hands and a firm, but not punishing, grip. Castiel liked her on the spot.

Sam stepped back from Dean at last, looking a bit self-conscious. "Oh, yeah. Um, Jess, this is Dean and his partner Castiel. Dean, Cas, this is Jess. She's my girlfriend. Roommate."

"I get it." Dean stepped forward, not quite smiling as he sized Jess up. It took a moment before he extended his hand to Jess and said, "Pleased to meet you, Jess."

"And you." She smiled at Dean. His expression grew a fraction warmer.

"It's good to see you, Cas." Sam gave him a quick hug that was easily reciprocated by Castiel. "How've you been feeling?"

"The same, thank you." He was dreaming at least four days a week, the headaches hadn't let up at all (and neither Advil nor Tylenol were having any effect) and he still had those moments of spacing out, times when it felt like he wasn't really living in this world. Or times when things went all… fuzzy around the edges. It was strange, but something told him not to dwell on it, that it wasn't a big deal. He could handle it, just as he'd been handling the dreams. "Should we go and find our bags?

"Of course. C'mon." Sam bounded off like an eager puppy, Dean walked almost as speedily after him, and Castiel and Jess made up the rear. It was warm that day, and Castiel couldn't help but hope that things were looking up.

Sam's apartment was small but serviceable, looking out onto a busy Palo Alto street. "It gets noisy at night, sometimes," Sam said as he stood in the doorway of the guest room, "but it's not that bad. You don't really notice it."

Dean bounced down onto the starched white sheets. "Nice place you got here."

"It is." Sam gave him a hesitant smile. "We're proud of it."

There was a pause, and then Dean said quietly, " I'm proud of you, Sam. She… she seems nice. Great, I mean."

Castiel hid a smile and busied himself with emptying out the suitcase. He knew that the brothers were having a moment, and he didn't want to interrupt. He waited with his head more or less in his suitcase until Sam had left, closing the door behind him. "Good talk?"

"Yeah." Dean flopped down on the bed. He didn't say any more than that, but it was enough. The relaxed, content expression on his face said more than enough.

Castiel didn't dream that night, and he thought that maybe things were getting better. The next day went well, too – it was spent mostly in either the kitchen or the grocery store down the street; they all took turns between doing cooking duty and picking up whatever ingredients had been forgotten. Things were light and easy between them all; Jess slipped easily into their dynamic. The world around him stayed perfectly clear, and everything was very, very good.

It was at dinner the next day when things went wrong.

One moment, Castiel was walking to the table, laughing with Jessica. The apartment smelled of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie, and Castiel was more calm and relaxed than he had been in months,

A minute later, he had collapsed, and Jess was yelling, and the world around him seemed suddenly very unsubstantial. The only thing that he could think was, Why now? Even though that didn't really make any sense at all.

He could feel a hard floor beneath him, cold through his thin clothes. Everything was cold, all of a sudden. He didn't know when that had happened.

"Castiel?" Dean was leaning over him, his face paler than Cas had ever seen. He had seen many emotions come and go over Dean in their years together, but he'd never seen this: worry, pure and unadulterated, thinly covering panic. "Stay still, man. Just… don't move. Sam's calling an ambulance now."

He blinked. Move? He didn't think he could move, not when the world was spinning out of control, hurtling through a void somewhere. Not when Dean and Sam were worlds away.

"…you with me? Jesus, man, hang on." Dean's hand was clutching his. His calloused fingers wrapped around Castiel's softer ones, and they were warm when everything else had frozen over. Even though Castiel knew that it was, like all of this, fleeting, he didn't care. He forced himself to squeeze back.

"Good. That's it, that's real good. Keep holdin' on, Cas, okay?" His other hand slid under Castiel's head, cradling it off the floor. It was gentle, and tender, and it hurt Castiel more than anything else, because that wasn't Dean. Dean was a good man, a great man, and there was very little in the worlds that Castiel wouldn't do for him. But Dean — Dean would never treat him like this. It wasn't cruel of him, or wrong, or bad — he just wouldn't. Dean Winchester was not a man prone to sweet, kind gestures, least of all ones directed at Castiel himself.

Castiel blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the world was almost gone. The edges of the dining room were blurry, and the middle of it was fading fast. The table above him was no longer recognizable as such, and even the hard wooden floor — for a moment, it looked like stone. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he said, because in a moment this version of Dean, who didn't carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and who was happy with his life, would stop existing. As it was, he didn't really even exist now, much as Castiel wished otherwise. But he'd be well and truly gone in a moment.

"Don't say that." Dean gripped Castiel's hand with a fierceness that was sharply contrasted by how he was supporting his head. "Damn it, Cas, just hang on. You're gonna be all right."

"I doubt that." He glanced up at Dean one last time, wanting a final memory of him as his lover, but it was already too late. His features were a blurred mess, a wet portrait that the artist had smeared over. "Dean, I—"

Part III | Masterpost

All This Derision [3/3]

lies_unfurl — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 02:11:20 GMT

He didn't know how long it had been since Dean and the vampire had escaped. It had been too long; of that, Castiel was certain. Any time spent here was too much.

His breath was coming out in harsh pants as he ran desperately through the forest. The tips of his fingers were tender and sore from having been scraped against trees time and time again, as he guided himself more with his hands then his eyes. Decaying leaves made the ground slippery, and roots were known to jut up in places where they really had no business being. His wings were still tender from the run-in with the manticore, and Castiel knew that he couldn't fly, nor could he outrun the werewolf behind him for much longer. There was only one option left.

Castiel stopped so suddenly that he almost fell over his own feet. He whirled around, crouching into a fighting position. He could hear the beast coming, slobbering and snarling as it slammed its way through branches that he'd needed to dodge.

And then he saw it, barreling out from the path that he had just come down. Its eyes were eerily green, glowing with that feral edge that seemed to touch most of the pupils in Purgatory, and its mouth was pulled back in a growl. It spied him, leaped—

He was prepared for it. As soon as he felt its gigantic paws slam into his shoulders, he summoned up what little of his Grace remained and pushed back. They fell to the grown in a tangle of coat and fur, but Castiel managed to stay on top of the wolf. Adrenaline was pounding through him, motivating his body as much as his angelic power was, and nothing else mattered but what he was doing now.

The wolf tried to throw him, thrashing from side to side. The claws of its left front paw sank into his side, and Castiel snarled, and slammed it back down onto the carpet of rotting grasses and leaves. Not giving it time to react, he wrapped his arms around its neck, and twisted. He could feel the snap of bone against him, and he smiled grimly. It would heal eventually; things did not die in Purgatory. But it wouldn't be getting up any time soon. He had won.

Castiel pushed himself up onto his feet, and nearly fell back down. His hand went instantly to his left side, and he uttered a few choice words that he had learned from Dean. They felt strange on his tongue, wrong, but they reminded him of Dean, and sometimes he needed that.

He knew that he couldn't just stand around and wait for some other vile thing to come out of the bushes, made bold by the scent of his blood. So he began to walk, and then to jog, through the eternal nighttime of Purgatory. There would be a cave, an empty den, a hollow tree soon enough. There were always those little resting spots, places for hunters to recover after they were made prey.

He got a mile, maybe less, before he started to feel his guts squishing against his fingers. He stumbled, slowed down. A wave of pain clouded his mind, dizzying him.

Castiel leaned back against a nearby tree, biting down hard on his lip to keep his breath from coming out in overloud pants. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to block out the world around him and let him focus on turning the pain into something more easily ignored. He stayed very still and very quiet, trying to listen for any other hunters coming up on him, who'd be hoping to get an easy kill from his already weakened state.

It was pointless in the end, though. He didn't hear her approach at all, and by the time that he'd opened his eyes and seen her standing there, watching him, it would have probably been too late for him to react, if death was what she'd had in mind.

He opened his eyes, and he vaguely recognized the face that loomed above him. He had given her to Crowley… well, he couldn't remember how long ago it had been. Time was strange in Purgatory. A lifetime separated him from when he had appeared in Crowley's workshop following the demon's fake execution, his hand wrapped firmly around the tanned forearm of a jinn. She had struggled then, sworn at him—first in English, then Arabic, then a language that hadn't been heard on Earth for several centuries, at least.

Now, though, she wasn't yelling or protesting. Instead, her blue eyes were glowing dimly in the gloom of Purgatory, and she looked hungry.

Castiel pushed himself into a standing position against the tree, well aware of how damningly pathetic he looked. He kept one hand over the wound where the werewolf had clawed him open. He could feel his guts spilling wetly out against his palm. "Stay back."

She laughed. "Or what, angel? You'll bleed all over me?"

Castiel straightened, no longer relying on the press of slimy bark against his back to keep him upright. He called up enough of his fast-dwindling Grace to temporarily staunch the flow of blood, and allow his hand to drop to his side. With almost all of the strength that he had, he forced his wings away from the captivity of his vessel and let them flash outwards. They were too weak to fly with, but they could still make a half-impressive show of strength. "I could destroy you if I wanted to."

"You got me killed once," she said sharply. She sneered, and the tattoos on her face seemed to darken. "Don't think I'd let it happen again."

He stepped forward, letting his wings flare out again. "Do you want to risk that?"

Then, a flash of fear in her electric-blue eyes. Once that wouldn't have affected Castiel; at the most, he would have acknowledged it as a sign that he was doing his job correctly.

Now, though, it sent a savage pleasure shooting through him; he wanted—

He wanted her to hurt. He wanted her to fear him as an angel, one of God's warriors, almost as much as he had wanted to rip that werewolf's head from its body.

Castiel's wings slipped back into his vessel without his command. The front that he had put on fell away, and he was distinctly aware of what he must look like right then: a pathetic excuse for an angel trying to find redemption by suffering in this prison for monsters — except, there was one factor that he hadn't accounted for that he really should have, given all the things that he and Dean had seen in this place:

Purgatory didn't cleanse you of your evil. Purgatory found whatever small seeds of corruption lay dormant inside of you, and it brought them forth and nourished them. It tangled the roots of badness up with your bones and your muscles, and it made it so that they could never be separated.

Purgatory made you into a monster, and Castiel, in all of his arrogance — the same cursed hubris that he had been trying to cleanse himself of — thought that he would be strong enough to avoid it. And he was utterly and completely wrong; he would fall farther than he had ever fallen before, and he would become a monster no different from the werewolf, the jinn, or the leviathans that he had let loose.

"Still going to slay me?" the jinn taunted. The small flash of fear was gone, arrogance in its place, as though it never existed at all. "Think you can get me killed again? Fucking angel — don't you know that you can't kill what's already dead?"

"I could hurt you very badly. Go, right now, and I won't."

Instead, she stepped closer. Castiel stayed in place, glaring down at her. He would have shown his wings again, but that had already proven ineffective, and he really didn't have the strength. Nodding at the wound that had begun to sluggishly bleed again, she said, "You smell good. Delicious, I'd say."

"Do you think I'll just stand here and consent for you to feast on my flesh?"

She grinned, looking more like a feral predator than a jinn. "Demons aren't the only ones who can cut deals."

Castiel's fingers dug into the slimy bark of the tree closest to him; he could feel it flake off and stick underneath his fingernails. His legs were threatening to fail him again, and he knew that he needed to finish up with the jinn quickly if he didn't want to humiliate himself further. "You're not a sphinx. Riddles don't become you."

She rolled her eyes, and for a moment he was reminded of the demon Meg. Briefly he wondered what had become of her — if Crowley had gotten her, or if she had beaten him. But that was neither here nor there; Meg was the past, from a world he would never return to. "I've got a proposition for you, angel. I think you're gonna like it."

"A deal with a monster? How foolish do you think I am?"

The tattoos on her face swirled and blurred as she stepped closer. "We keep our word, the jinn. Never doubt that."

"I'm certain that the innocents you slay value your integrity as you bleed them dry."

"Mock us if you will. It's true." She spat on the ground. "We were born of pure fire, angel. Forged by the same Maker as you, if you hadn't forgotten. And there's honor in fire."

"It burns all that touches it. Hardly honorable."

"You're not nearly as dense as you're acting. You know full well that fire can help as much as it can harm. And little angel, I can help you. And if you get burnt along the way… well, it's all one and the same." She laughed and spat on the ground again. "Nothing dies in the land of the dead. You'll heal eventually."

It was true. He'd torn the heads from creatures and watched their fingers flail around, searching for the missing parts, and he very strongly believed that if he had stayed around to watch, he would have eventually seen muscle and bone knit back together, and blood coming from where there was no blood before. The reapers didn't care to pick up souls a second time. "What are you proposing?"

"I'm hungry, angel, and you… you smell better than most of the corpses here. And you're not a monster yet — you don't want to be one."

She stepped forward, closing in on him until he could smell her over Purgatory's endless stench of rotting leaves and stagnant water. Her scent was of fire and sand, of some old spice that he didn't care to identify. The jinn hadn't been dead long enough to completely lose herself to the land. "Give me yourself. Your blood, your flesh — whatever I crave. And in exchange, I'll craft you up a pretty little world to live in while I have my feast."

"You expect me to take you up on that?" He straightened, the pain in his side flaring up again. He couldn't suffer the indignity looking any weaker than he already did, though. "Get out, unless you want to be destroyed."

She laughed. "I can give you your own little place where all your brothers up in Heave bow down to your glory. Would you like that?" And she laughed, and said, "No, that's not what you want. I can make him love you, little angel."

Castiel didn't ask her who she meant. He already knew. "You think that's what I want?"

"I'm certain it's what you want. The things you've done for him, and for his brother? You'd have to be the most altruistic being this side of the universe, if it wasn't love that motivated you… and I think we both know that angels aren't nearly as benevolent and kind as the human masses seem to think."

He held her gaze, not denying it. He loved Dean, and he had for a very long time. Dean was who he looked to when God was gone; Dean was who he protected, more than he protected the Earth itself. Were he an angel, he'd be ashamed of himself — but he wasn't, not really. He was one in name, but he certainly didn't serve Heaven anymore. "I'm not a human. I can't be swayed so easily."

"You're a human with wings, Castiel, and one that's hunted by every damned creature in this place. And let me tell you, most of them aren't going to be as sweet as me. Most will wait until you're tired and bleeding from some other fight, and then… then they'll get you. Devour you, torture you, make you scream and cry and beg… but if you want that, go for it. You and your little pride will be better off for it, I suppose. All your memories of that human, the one who got out—they'll sustain you for a little while. You'll forget him eventually, though."

Her eyes were mocking, shining with mirth, and she was smiling. Her teeth were pointed and inhuman, and she looked as wild as he remembered the first jinn being. They'd learned to blend in eventually, but in the days of prophets and gods… they had been wild things back then. They still were, in a few old places. "You think I never took a lover in all the centuries gone by? You'd be wrong. There were some; I'm sure I cared for them… but I don't remember them. This place claims you, shapes you, makes you its own. Give it a few months, and you'll forget his name. A few more, and his face will be gone. In a year, all that'll be left of your precious little Dean is the idea that something might be missing — but even then, you won't be sure."

The jinn's tattoos were glowing, Castiel noted apathetically. She was readying what remained of her powers, as though he'd already said yes. "If you let me take you, you'll never forget him. You'll live it out in a pretty world, and it'll seem like a lifetime to you. And when you're all drained of blood, I'll leave you alone until your body repairs itself, and then I'll give you a whole new life with him. And so it goes, forever and ever. The closest to Heaven that you'll ever get."

Castiel looked up at the sky, black as tar and with an occasional star pinpricking its surface, no constellations discernible. The moon above glowed, bringing the most light that was ever shed onto this forsaken place. This was by far the loneliest of the realms, the one with most fury and hatred, and absolutely no hope — because even in Hell, the sinners who had yet to be broken prayed to their god, and every once in a thousand lifetimes, someone was lifted up and given redemption.

There were ways to get out of here, ways that were few in number and impossible to use without a companion by your side. But even so, getting out only changed where you were. It didn't change who you were, or that you were still damned, unforgiven.

He could stay here forever and become a monster as base and vile as the leviathans. He could wander around, hoping that Dean made good on his promise, and also hoping that he could keep enough of his self away from whatever it was that let this place twist and turn its creatures into things more wretched than demons. He might even escape eventually, and still have to face how terribly he had acted, how many people he had hurt.

Castiel wished that he wasn't a coward, that he could trust himself to keep being himself no matter how long he called Purgatory his home. He wished that he were strong enough, if he ever went back to Earth or Heaven, to somehow repent and make all of his sins right.

But he didn't trust himself to do either of those things — because after all, wasn't it that hubris that had made him free the Leviathans in the first place? Wasn't his belief that he was strong enough to act on his own ultimately what failed him?

He looked the jinn straight in her electric blue eyes. "Make it so that I can't tell it's a fantasy. Ever."

She laughed and held out her tattooed hand. He took it, sealing the deal as effectively as a kiss with a demon. "I'll do my best, angel. No promises, but I'll do my best."

Castiel's eyes opened to a dimly lit room.

It wasn't the bedroom that he had been in once upon a time; it was much smaller than that, and much darker. It wasn't his. He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten there, or why he could feel several invasive objects pricking into his body.

But he did know who he was: Castiel, an angel of the Lord who had fallen and climbed back up multiple times. He wasn't a museum curator in Topeka, Kansas. He didn't live in a city called Lawrence, and he certainly wasn't in a relationship with Dean Winchester.

He closed his eyes as shame burned on his cheeks. For what, he wasn't entirely sure — thinking that he deserved Dean Winchester as a lover, maybe; thinking that Dean ought to choose his health over being with his brother; or maybe for being so weak in the first place that he had given himself over to the jinn. Most likely, it was a combination of both those things, and a hundred other actions he had foolishly taken over the course of his existence.

"Castiel?" A hand, larger than Dean's had been, gently touched him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes obediently.

Sam Winchester loomed over him. He looked older than when Castiel had last seen him, which made sense. He thought that perhaps the jinn's world had taken place at some point in the Winchester's past. Even if it hadn't, he didn't know how much time had passed in Purgatory.

Sam smiled when he opened his eyes, looking genuinely happy. He probably wouldn't have, Castiel thought, if he'd known what Castiel had done after Dean had escaped. "How do you feel? It's awesome to have you back."

Castiel licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. The gesture didn't escape Sam; he stood up from the chair he had been sitting in, reaching over to steady himself against the wall nearest to Castiel's head. "Here, I'll go get you something to drink. You've been out for almost five days; you're gonna need it."

Then he was gone. Castiel took advantage of the room's sudden emptiness to brace his palms against the hard mattress he was lying on, and push himself up into a sitting position. Doing so took far more effort than it should have, and by the time he was leaning against the headboard, he was thoroughly exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment, just long enough to catch his breath.

What had happened? He remembered the world he had emerged from very well, and the deal that he had cut with the creature in Purgatory to get it. But what had happened between his fantasy falling apart and now… it was shattered in his mind, fragments that alternated between burningly bright light and the overwhelming shadow of Purgatory.

He remembered the jinn's cave very faintly, the sound of voices (the Winchesters, he thought, though it was hard to be sure) and footsteps. He thought maybe someone had picked him up at one point, easily as though he was weightless. He hadn't been very aware, though.

Sam returned with a glass of water just as he was taking stock of his surroundings. It was a small, square room. His bed was pushed parallel against one wall, its headboard tucked into the corner of the wall with the only window. It wasn't very large, and was sparsely furnished — there was his bed, the chair that Sam had been sitting in, and a small nightstand next to his bed with nothing on top of it.

And the pricking that he had felt before, that had come from several medical devices set up nearby. An IV and a bag of blood. He didn't know where they had come from, and he thought that he should probably find out, once he got the more pressing matters out of the way.

Sam must have noticed him looking around, because he said, "We're in a place right on the outskirts of Vermont. Legally, I think. Inias got it for us." He grimaced, sitting back down in the chair. "We're kinda broke right now."

"Inias?" That couldn't be. His brother, although living in the hallucination he had had, was dead. All of them were.

"Drink this." Sam handed him the cup. "Yeah, Inias. He hooked up with me just before Dean and that vampire guy busted out, and he's been here since. I'm kind of surprised that he isn't here right now, to be honest. He's probably in Heaven; he's been working with Joshua — well, he'll tell you. Most of it doesn't make sense to me, anyway."

Castiel lifted the cup to his lips and took a drink, hating the way that his hand shook, spilling droplets of water over the sheets that he was lying in. Sam, ever perceptive, reached out and patiently covered Castiel's hand with his own, ensuring that the drink wouldn't spill. That he needed help made Castiel feel worse, but all the same, he said, "Thank you, Sam. I… I find myself weakened, after being away for so long."

Sam nodded, his brown eyes sympathetic. "When Dean got out, he was… well, not as bad as you, but not great. He was really tired, and he just seemed kind of… I don't know. Not okay."

"I can imagine." With Sam's help, he set the glass down on the nightstand. The water made him feel nominally better, and Castiel knew that he couldn't keep dancing around the elephant in the room. "How did you get me out?"

"With a lot of help," Sam said simply. It wasn't really an answer at all, though, and Castiel was about to insist on the details when he asked, "Are you… can you heal yourself? Are you still an angel?"

Castiel leaned back against the headboard and took a deep breath, not answering immediately. Sam would wait, he knew. He was good like that.

Closing his eyes and evening his breath, he reached inside himself. It wasn't a meditative state, not exactly; he didn't have time to do it properly, but it was close. He focused in on his body, on the sensations that he was feeling. His head was sore, and almost every muscle in him ached. He was tired, cold and sweaty, and he was fairly certain that his muscles would fail him if he tried to walk. His throat was scratchy, despite the water.

But the more he pressed, the harder he concentrated… there was something there, curled up deep inside his chest. A spark. It wasn't much, but it filled Castiel with dizzying relief.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sam. "No, I can't heal myself. But I am still in possession of some Grace. I'm a poor excuse for an angel at the moment, but given time, I expect most of my strength to be recovered."

Sam nodded, leaning back in his chair. He gave Castiel a tentative smile. "That's good. That's awesome, Cas. We were really worried about you."

The concern was touching, in a way. More than he deserved. But it would be foolish to dwell on that; there were things he needed to be far more concerned about, things that he ought to have asked about already. "Where is Dean now? He's recovered from Purgatory?"

"Dean's sleeping. I didn't wake him up; it's the first time he's been out since you came back. And yeah, he's gotten a lot better. It's been almost four months since he came back, and almost eight since you two went in."

So Dean had been by his side for four months. It was far too long, but it could also have been much worse. Castiel counted himself lucky that Dean had gotten out before Purgatory had been able to forge him into some sort of monster. "And yourself? Crowley didn't capture you, after he imprisoned us?" That had been one of Dean's greatest fears, that the demon king had somehow harmed his brother. Castiel hadn't been able to assuage his concerns, mainly because he was unwilling to lie about how probable it was.

"No. Crowley…" Sam grimaced. "He captured Meg and Kevin. Kevin, we got back — he's with us now, actually; he was the one who translated the spell for getting us into Purgatory. He's sleeping in the other room. We don't really know what happened to Meg, but Kevin doesn't think she's dead."

That was good. She had saved his life on several occasions, and he was in her debt, even if he no longer harbored personal attachments to her. "You were safe until Dean got back?"

Sam glanced at him with an expression that was either amusement or mild offense. It was decidedly human, and Castiel had never been good with things that were that. "Yeah. I mean, I am a hunter. I… hunted." He shrugged haplessly. "Leviathans, mostly, and some demons. I was looking for Crowley."

"You must have found him eventually, if you freed Kevin."

"That was after Dean had come back." Sam stood up. "I'm going to go and wake him up now, all right? You're probably tired and all, but he'll have my head if he finds out that you woke up and I didn't get him."

Castiel nodded, and he left.

When Dean came back, it was alone. Sam had slipped off somewhere else. Castiel was grateful for that, although he couldn't have said why.

Dean settled into the chair next to his bed. They sat in silence for a moment and looked at each other.

And then Dean smiled. It wasn't hesitant, or worried, or any of that. It was a full-on, genuine grin, and Castiel thought that it had been quite some time since he'd seen that on the face of the actual Dean Winchester. "Cas. Man, I — I didn't think that you were going to make it for a while there."

He tried to smile back, but the expression had always felt foreign on his lips, and now was no exception. "I did. You… you rescued me? Thank you, Dean."

"I told you that I wouldn't leave you there, and I meant it." His face grew serious. "How much did Sam tell you? I mean, I know that you just woke up, and we don't want to push you or anything, but…"

"He didn't say much. Just that Kevin was here, and also that Inias had helped you."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. We found Kevin—well, that's a long story, and Kevin should probably be here when we tell it. But anyway, apparently the Word of God wasn't just instructions on how to kill Dick. There were instructions on getting into Purgatory there too, so, well." He shrugged. "We did it. And Inias had this ritual that was supposed to work in any of the worlds out there, a finding spell. Once we were in Purgatory, he did it, and we found you and brought you back."

His face clouded over. "We didn't think you were going to make it at first. Inias thought you were fallen completely, and that that jinn bitch who'd captured you had you almost drained. You were so pale, Cas, Jesus…" he shook his head, passing his hand over his face. "Inias didn't know if the blood would take, either."

Castiel glanced up at the bag of red that was hooked into his arm. "Whose is it?"

"Mine." Dean looked surprised, as if Castiel should have known — which, really, he should have, he thought; were he fully powered, he would have been able to examine the structure of the cells floating into him and determine who they belonged to. "Inias said he couldn't do it, because his Grace would mess with yours or something. And he didn't think that Sam's would work, just 'cause of the demon blood that he's had. So it came down to me and Kevin, and I was the only match."

Castiel nodded. He looked at Dean more closely now, and noticed that, even in the darkness of the room, he looked pale. Too pale. He would have needed to give a considerable amount of blood to replenish what the jinn had taken, he thought. More than he should have. "You didn't need to do that."

"You're always glad to bleed for us, aren’t you? Figured I should return the favor. I mean, I wish that Sam had gotten me cookies and juice, but beggars can't be choosers."

Castiel pretended to know what that meant. "Still, it couldn't have been conducive to your health. Sam told me that Purgatory had hurt you…"

Dean waved that away. "I was tired, sure. It's not that easy, travelling between realms or whatever. But I was okay after a week or two. I'm fine now. What did the jinn show you?"

He started, looking sharply at Dean. The turn in conversation had been so sudden that he wondered if he'd let something slip. Had he been talking in his sleep, calling out to Dean? Had the jinn told him?

But Dean's face displayed nothing of that. Rather, it showed open curiosity.

Castiel thought of what the jinn had given him, his own little world crafted up from his subconscious. He remembered how Dean had been there for him, how he hadn't been so foolish as to ignore all of Dean's suggestions. He remembered the carnal pleasures he and Dean had indulged in, and the feel of Dean's lips on his.

He turned away from Dean, not willing to meet his eyes. "I don't remember. I — maybe I will after I've had more rest. I'm tired," he added. "As I'm sure you understand."

Dean nodded, standing up. "Yeah, I do. Trust me, I do. I'll just… leave you, then." He walked away and then paused in the doorway, his body silhouetted by the light from another room. "I'm glad you're back, Cas."

"Thank you. I'm glad to be back."

He waited until Dean had pulled the door shut behind him before he lay back down. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling, and thought that on the whole, they were better than the stars and the horned moon of Purgatory.

Castiel didn't know what he was anymore – an angel, in name, but in purpose? He had nothing left. Heaven was gone to him, and the world he had imagined was just that – an imagination. He didn't get Dean's love, because… because that was how things went. That was fair. It wasn't something he deserved, anyway.

But the night was growing late, and Castiel was tired. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe in and out, until he had established a comfortable pattern. In the morning he could figure things out. He could face Dean in the light, and Sam, and maybe he could even admit to them that he had made a deal with a monster. Things weren't ideal, but maybe – maybe Castiel could confess, atone, make himself respectable again. It was possible.

He slept then, and for the first time in a very long time, no nightmares came.

I just passed the 10K mark on my Sassy MB!

lies_unfurl — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 03:04:16 GMT

This is a Very Good Thing.

fic: I Found Him Not

lies_unfurl — Sun, 16 Sep 2012 02:40:17 GMT

Title: I Found Him Not
Author: lies_unfurl
Word count: 4600
Rating/warnings: PG-13, brief violence
Summary: S5. Castiel and Claire are both looking for their fathers. Their paths eventually meet up.
Notes: Written for spn_summergen, for a prompt that was pretty much the summary. Many thanks to tfw_ftw for their beta reading. Title taken from a poem by William Bliss Carman.

Claire Novak leaves home the Saturday after her birthday. Just walks out, right after putting a note on the kitchen table. It's surprisingly, almost disturbingly, easy to do that. Maybe it's because "home" is nothing but a pay-by-the-month apartment in a building where the ceilings have water stains and the rooms smell permanently of cigarettes, even though neither of them smokes. Maybe it's because her mother's promises that she's going to find them a real house soon and get them settled down far away from where any demons could find them became stale after the first ten times she made them.

Or maybe it's because they haven't really been a family for a long time. Not without Dad.

Mom,

I'm going to look for him. I have my cell phone with me, but I'm not going to be answering any calls. I'm sorry, but I need to do this.

I love you,

Claire

She travels light. The cell phone she keeps in the right pocket of her jeans, where it forms a tight and comforting outline against her thigh. In a shoulder bag she puts a full water bottle, a change of clothes, and all the money that she has saved up, a grand total of $264.87. It's not much, but it's enough.

Her first stop is the train station, where she buys a ticket to take her three towns over. The seller raises his eyebrows as she pushes over her cash, taking in how small she is—built that way by genetics. "Aren't you a little young to be travelling on your own?"

"I'm meeting my father," she says brightly, though the words leave a sour taste in the back of her throat. In the past, she might have said that that was because she had lied, and lying is a sin. She knows that's not the case anymore.

The ride doesn't take long, and she's thirty miles away from the apartment by eight that morning. A small bakery provides breakfast, just some croissant grabbed from the "day old" rack. It's not nearly as soft as the fresh ones looked, all golden-brown and mouth-wateringly flaky as they lined on the shelves of the store, but it's cheap. Which is what she needs right now, since Claire doesn't really have a timeline for the moment.

She forces it down as she walks to the library. It's a small town that she's set down in, and it doesn't open for another hour. Claire sits down on an old bench underneath an overgrown maple tree, closes her eyes, and waits. She's been waiting for months, since the angel Castiel walked away from her and her mother, taking her dying father with him. She can wait a little while longer.

*

In Sicily, Castiel watches the procession of the Blessed Madonna. The devout Catholics bring out their idol of the Virgin Mary and ask her to please bless the sea. For them, he imagines it is beautiful—the idol with her worn, peeling paint covering a serene wooden face, held over an ocean that is incredibly still and bright and blue. A priest, small and hunched over, recites the prayers in a dry voice.

Castiel stands on the outskirts of the ceremony. The devotion of the people here on this little island, so broken by organized crime and by a misuse of the ocean's resources, is impressive. Others would have forsaken God, but here they are, still praying, just as they have been for years.

Part of him is moved by their faith. A greater part, though, is disappointed. He had thought that perhaps the loyalty shown by the Sicilians here would be enough to draw out the Mother that they are calling upon. Mary would know where God abides, would be able to tell Castiel the precise location of her Son. A Mother's intuition. And he knows that She is very willing to protect Her children; that to have the Holy Mother on their side would be a great boon to him and the Winchesters.

But Mary is as absent as God is, even at this, one of the oldest ceremonies venerating Her name. It frustrates Castiel almost as much as it disappoints him—which, granted, isn't much; he's a realist, and he knew that realistically, the chances of the Mother showing up were very slim.

Before he goes, he remembers to bend down to the ocean, wet his hands in the water that the priest was blessing, and offer a quiet benediction of his own. It isn't much, nothing like what Mary could do if She came, but he thinks that maybe the fish will have increased reproduction rates over the next year. These are good people, God's people. Castiel has no doubt that they would fight with Sam and Dean if he asked. For that, they deserve something.

He leaves just as the sun is staining the waters red and gold, ready to move on to the next site that might or might not bring him to God. It's a tiring, frustrating journey, but he has faith. His Father will show himself so long as Castiel works until he's ready to appear.

*

Claire slips into the library ten minutes after it opens. It's early in the morning, and naturally it's just her and a single librarian. She approaches the front desk warily and asks about internet usage.

The librarian regards her with an equal amount of scrutiny. "What's a girl of your age doing here so early?"

"It's for a school project," she lies, glad that it's a Saturday and she can't be accused of cutting. "I don't have a computer at home, and I know you usually ask for minors to have a note from a parent, but my mom was working the graveyard shift last night, and I forgot to ask her before for one. And my dad is probably passed out drunk on a street somewhere." She tries for a laugh, widening her eyes to convey how pathetic a soul she is. "So… please?"

The librarian stares a moment longer, but Claire meets her with a crinkled brow and a pleading, almost pouting, mouth. Finally, the librarian's look softens and she says, "Okay. I guess I can make an exception this once." She writes something down on a slip of paper and passes it over to Claire. "This is the password for the login. I assume you know how to use it?"

"Oh, yeah." She nods vivaciously and smiles as sweetly as she can manage. "They taught us in school."

"Good. They're over there, in the back." The librarian points to her right, and Claire can just barely make out a line of old, chunky monitors from between the rows of the bookshelves. "If you need anything, you can just come to the front desk and ask me, okay?"

"Okay. Great, thanks a lot." She smiles again and, readjusting her backpack, slips into the stacks of dusty old books. The smile slips from her face, is replaced with a look of grim determination. She's going to find her father, and she's going to find him soon.

*

Sam and Dean are fighting and losing against several demons, low-ranking citizens of Hell who would gladly turn them in to Lucifer in hopes of a promotion. Castiel comes at Dean profanity-laced prayer and smites the trio of demons. It takes more out of him than it would have last month. Castiel finds that worrisome, but he doesn't mention it to the Winchesters in their brief conversation afterwards. It shouldn't surprise him, the way that he's slowly losing his power; he can no longer tap into the steady flow of energy from Heaven that fuels him and his brothers.

Instead, Castiel draws his strength from his determination to find God. Following his meeting with Sam and Dean he flies to a Russian monastery that has been standing for approximately 500 years, and has been the site of several miracles over the centuries. He's disappointed to find no trace of his Father, and quickly abandons the Russian winter to go to a humble church in Albania that is heavily saturated with a sense of holiness that cannot be faked. It looks as promising as anywhere for God to have been recently.

As soon as he sets down, though, Castiel is overcome with wrongness. The sincerity of the place is true, he's sure; it has the distinct feeling of a location where people pray and genuinely believe that their requests will be answered, where neighbors help one another, and people are loath to covet what isn't theirs. But beneath that, lurking nearby, is—is—

The scent of Heaven fills Castiel's nose a half-second before the first blade slices through his trench coat, very narrowly missing his skin. He ducks instinctively, brings out his own sword and begins to fight back even as he rushes to take stock of the situation.

There are three of them, all of his former garrison. Iruel, Elad, and Jabin stand around him in a half-circle, swords drawn out and lips pulled up into identical sneers.

Castiel remembers when time was young and they had observed Earth in its earliest stages together. How Elad had been both fascinated and vaguely disturbed when man began owning animals as pets, and how Jabin had expressed grief more keenly than any of them when the Son had died. How Iruel had, at one time, been Castiel's second-in-command until Zachariah decided that he was too invested with certain happenings on Earth, and had him reeducated and replaced with Uriel.

It seems that he's leading once again, though, because it's he who steps forward. "Castiel. How dare you tarnish this holy place with your presence?"

"I'm fighting for their sake. You'd see it all destroyed." Keeping his eyes on Iruel and daring him to respond, Castiel reaches out and thoughtlessly drives his blade into Elad's gut. Elad was never a strong fighter, always preferring to watch. He and Inias were pacifistic for foot soldiers and frequently spent time together, overseeing Earthly affairs from a distance instead of getting involved with the fighting. Castiel wonders where Inias is now, if he's okay. He hasn't had to face him yet.

Elad dies impaled on his sword. Castiel waits until his wings are nothing but ashen marks on the ground before he goes to deal with the other two, whose faces now burn with sheer, unadulterated fury. It will be a difficult fight, but Castiel is confident that he'll win. He hasn't found God yet, and he cannot be stopped until he does.

*

Once she's actually away from home and sitting in a chilly library with a slow computer looming in front of her, Claire realizes that she has no idea where to start. She doesn't know if Castiel is still on Earth or if he went to Heaven, although she's guessing it's the former: from the time he inhabited her, she remembers a private, burning hatred of his higher-ups that, coupled with a growing sense of doubt, leads her to think that he probably didn't stick around for too long. But maybe Heaven found that out too and had him killed. There were a lot of angels who were mad at him, she knows that because he knew it when he took up residence inside of her.

Still, she's going on the idea that she'd know if he were gone, because wouldn't Dad have come home? She doesn't know if an angel's death releases their vessel or not, but she thinks that maybe it does. And anyway, she must have some sort of connection to Castiel, even if she's not too aware of it. There's got to be some sort of bond between an angel and its vessel that would let that vessel know that her services would never be required again.

With that in mind, she tentatively brings up Google. If Castiel were on Earth, she doesn't think that he would just be hanging out with those two brothers. He didn't have much patience for humans, definitely not enough to be around them at all times. So if she were an angel wandering the Earth, where would she go?

Maybe she's still driven a bit by the Guideposts of her childhood; maybe all of the fluffy stories that her youth pastor told her Sunday school class have stuck with her a bit too much, but Claire likes to imagine that maybe Castiel would be where it counted. He's a soldier, she knows, but can't God's work be done in a million different ways? And maybe certain things draw angels to them. Maybe.

In any case, it's not like she has any better idea. So, hoping to anyone-but-God that this works, she leans over her keyboard and types in miracles winter 2009, and waits to see what comes up.

A giant load of crap, is her answer.

Most of it, anyway; it's all things like how some lady's father died and she knew that he was watching her because she found a penny from the year he was born lying outside her car. Or how someone had prayed for their lost cat to come home, and he showed up two days later. Someone who was depressed until they saw a giant figure made of light in the sky, and realized that it was an angel telling them that it would be okay. Claire is torn between feeling irritated that she's wasting her time reading these stupid stories (that are mostly just giant leaps from coincidence to God) and feeling the most intense secondhand embarrassment ever. Once upon a time this sort of thing would have made her go all gooey-eyed, made her heart turn into a giant pile of mush. She might even have written one and expected it to inspire other people to see how God cares.

Now she thinks that they were all written by pathetic saps, people so sad and desperate that they're willing to see Jesus in a cloud formation. Her father would have scolded her for being so intolerant of other people's beliefs but, well, he's not exactly here, is he? Isn't that the whole damn problem?

A hand touches her arm gently, and she almost jumps out of the hard wooden chair. She swings around and glares at the hand's owner, a woman old enough to be her grandmother with a blush spreading over her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she says politely. Claire notes the nametag, and realizes that she must be a librarian. A nosey one, at that. "You looked frustrated. Is there anything I can help you find?"

Claire almost tells the woman that no, she's fine, it would be awesome if she would just leave her alone. But then her stomach rumbles, and she realizes that she's probably been here for two hours, maybe more, wasting all of that time looking through meaningless stories. "Um, maybe. I'm looking for reports of, like, miracles? You know, things that have happened recently? For a project I'm doing."

The woman—Gina, her nametag reads—shakes her head. "Miracles? Hon, you don't need a library for that. What you need is a church."

*

In New York there are three new men standing on the streets with signs, claiming to have received messages from God Himself about the end of days. Castiel visits all three of them and quickly verifies that none of them are being sincere.

In Reykjavik, a boy wakes up at his own funeral. Castiel is disappointed to learn that this was due to a team of faulty doctors, not divine intervention.

In Tennessee, Sam and Dean puzzle over a translation. Castiel stops in to look over it and inform them that it's nothing but directions on how to open a portal to the Sixth Circle. They burn it together.

In Tehran, a blind man claims to have been visited by angels. Castiel approaches him with caution, sees that he has indeed been marked by Heaven, and leaves in a hurry. Only one of his brothers is quick enough to follow him, and it's a cupid, of all things. They've got everyone on battle duty, he thinks as the nearly-naked corpse drops to the ground, which means that they must be getting desperate. He wonders how many of them have been killed so far. If Balthazar is still alive, or Inias, or Hester.

There's still no sign of God, and as Castiel stands invisibly watching a bazaar in Kabul, fingering the amulet that he got from Dean, he wonders how much longer he'll have to look. He's willing to go as long as it takes, of course he is—but still. He wonders.

*

"Miracles?" says the old, balding priest. His brow wrinkles, like he's not sure if he's ever heard of such a thing. "Well, of course, there are things happening every day that count as miracles."

"Yeah, but I'm looking for big things," Claire says, as patiently as she can manage. Respect for men of the cloth is deeply ingrained in her, but as she stands here inside of St. Lucy's Congregation, Father Rotella is seriously testing her. "Like, ones that… divine beings would be drawn to? You know, angels coming down and all that?"

"You could try praying if you'd like to talk to the angels," the Father suggests helpfully.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I know, but it's for a project. I want to talk to people who have, you know, been visited by angels. Things like that."

"Well…" he taps a gnarled old finger against a pew. "There was a man who reported stigmata nearby."

"Really?" She perks up. Stigmata, that's a big thing. Probably Castiel would be drawn to something like that. "Where?"

He gives her the address, and it's only two train stops away. Claire leaves the church feeling considerably better than she did two hours ago.

Castiel doesn't show up there. Or the place after, where a kind old deacon told her that a woman had begun receiving visions from God. He's not at the place where a dozen witnesses swore that they heard angels trumpeting and saw huge winged figures in the sky, or at the old abandoned brick house where a drawing of Jesus appeared overnight (okay, so she knew in advance that that was a flimsy one, but it was within walking distance, and she figured that maybe it was worth a try).

But Castiel doesn't show up at the sites of any of a dozen miracles, and Claire wonders if she got this all wrong. Maybe Castiel did end up going back to Heaven after all, despite the storm that she could feel brewing inside of him when he occupied her body. Or maybe he did join the Winchesters. Maybe he's waiting out the Apocalypse somewhere quiet. Maybe he's dead.

Either way, she's almost out of money, and she hasn't talked to her mother in a week. As bad as things were in that cramped little apartment, as much as her mother was silent and depressed, and only spoke to snap at Claire, she misses her. She wonders if she's missed, or if maybe Mom is glad to be alone.

She's sitting on the steps outside of a town hall somewhere in Illinois at the moment. It's a nice building, big and stone with gargoyles looking down. She probably doesn't match with it very well, though—she hasn't showered in a week, and all of her sleeping has been on trains. Clothes don't go too far when you're always in transit. And hair, well, who has time to brush that? She does her best, but she's preoccupied with more important things right now.

As she rests back against the stone and watches the sun setting, she can hear claps and cheers coming out of the building. There's a faith healer in there, one who claims to have just been struck by God. You can only get in if you pay, though, and Claire would rather have supper than watch to see if he's sincere.

She wonders if maybe she should pray. That would—that should—bring Castiel in a hurry, if he wanted to keep his promise about watching over her dad's family. But it feels dirty and terrible and wrong to pray to the thing that stole her father, and Claire doesn't want to lower herself to that.

She's still watching the sun going down like an egg yolk slipping into a mess of watercolors when there's a sound like wind rushing through the leaves. Claire looks up and—

It's too easy, really. Too simple. How can he be here after all of this time? She didn't have to go to the ends of the Earth, to wrestle with lions to get him back. She isn't doing anything but sitting down, and yet that's unmistakably him.

The trench coat that he always wore is torn and matted. The tie is more askew than he ever kept it. And his eyes, trained firmly on her, are more tired than she ever saw her father's. It's Jimmy Novak all right, though. It's her father.

"Are you injured?" he asks, and it's too direct. Missing the sense of urgency that such a question would have had if it was Dad.

"No." She stands up and brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Why are you at a faith healer's, then?"

All at once, her anger that's been pulsing beneath the surface, subtly driving her through this, is brought up in full force, and the only reason that she's not hitting the stupid angel is because he's in her father's body. "Why am I here? Because I was looking for you, Castiel. Because I was hoping I'd be able to find you again."

"You need only to have prayed. I would have come."

He's calm, and it infuriates her. "Why would I have prayed? You've done nothing but ruin my family and my life; you don't deserve to be prayed to."

Castiel looks away. Claire thinks she sees guilt in his eyes, but it's gone too soon for her to be certain. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I want my father back."

The words suck out all of her energy, and she slumps back against the rail of the town hall. "I want Dad back," she repeats. "I've been looking for you, going to where there were miracles and stuff… I figured that you were an angel. You'd probably be there, if you were still on Earth. And I was right, wasn't I?"

He hesitates a moment before he dips his head down in acknowledgement. "Yes, I suppose you were. Although probably not for the reasons you're thinking."

She doesn't care enough to ask him to elaborate. "Can I just… please, Castiel. I want to talk to my father."

To tell him… what exactly? She's not too sure. That she loves him, that she misses him, that Mom is trying her best, but ever since he walked away from them that night after she was possessed, she hasn't been the same. To ask him to tell Castiel to get out. To ask him to come back to his family.

Being so wrapped up in her thoughts, she almost misses the sheer sorrow that passes over Castiel's face, chilling her to the bone. "Castiel?" she asks. Her throat is tight all of a sudden, and a cold sweat is starting to bead at her brow. "Castiel, let me talk to him."

"I'm sorry. That's not possible."

"What are you talking about? Just… just leave him for a minute! I don't need long, and he'll take you back, I know he will; I just… please."

"Your father isn't here," he says in as gentle a voice as she imagines he's capable of. "Claire, listen to me. He's in Heaven now, I'm fairly sure of that. There was… an incident, and this body—and myself—were temporarily destroyed. When I came to, I was alone. His soul was gone. He was ensured a place there, though, and I believe that's where he is."

No. It doesn't make any sense to her, and she stares at him blankly, not comprehending. That can't be true, because he's standing right there in her father's body, and doesn't he have to be in it? Right? "But. But I've been looking for him, I've been searching, and you're right here…"

"I'm sorry." He sounds so sincere. She hates that, because that makes it so hard to believe that he's lying. "If I could let him talk to you, I would."

"You asshole," she whispers. Her hands are gripping the wide stone rail that runs along the city hall stairs, and her knees have locked together. "You were supposed to keep him safe."

"Let me take you home," he says, reaching out a hand. She jerks away, stumbles, and only manages to avoid falling and cracking her skull on the pavement through virtue of the banister.

"Don’t. Touch. Me." He has the sense to withdraw his hand, and she continues. "I'll find my own way home. Just… get out. If that's all that you have to say, Castiel, I don't want to hear it."

Tears sting the corners of her eyes now, and she really, really doesn't want to cry in front of the angel who stole her father. "Leave."

Castiel seems to hesitate, and then he shakes his head. "No. I made a promise to keep you safe, and I think that leaving you alone right now would violate that." He steps forward. "Your father was a good man, and I'm sorry, Claire."

She wants to run or scream or something, but her dad's hand reaches out to her and touches her on her forehead, and then she's slumping down, the world going all fuzzy at the edges, and even though her Dad's body is standing right there, catching her as she falls, Claire is still no closer to him than she was when she first ran away.

*

It isn't hard for Castiel to scan through Claire's mind and pull out an address for an apartment in suburban Detroit. He goes there unnoticed, deposits Claire in her bedroom. Amelia is still sleeping, and he doesn't bother waking her.

Outside, the night sky is cloudy. There is a sense of an approaching snow in the air, and his breath makes small puffs in the chill. His hand automatically goes to the amulet, which is still cold, untouched by God's presence.

Claire never found her father, he thinks. Won't see him until she goes to Heaven. She deserves better, and he wishes that he could change that, he really does.

But wishes are a poor substitute for action, and angels are creatures of action. So Castiel walks away from the apartment, and he keeps going until he decides where to look next for God—because his Father isn't in Heaven, but he's still missing, and Castiel cannot and will not accept failure as an end.

fic: Makes Me Feel Fine

lies_unfurl — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 21:26:10 GMT

Title: Makes Me Feel Fine
Author: lies_unfurl
Rating/warnings: PG; mentions of bullying
Word Count: 1700
Pairings/genres: Gen, hurt/comfort
Summary: In which Dean has a stutter, and isn't looking forward to going back to school.
Notes: This was written for hoodie_time's awesome summer-themed comment meme. Seriously, if you're looking for inspiration, you should definitely check it out. sailoreyes67, who wrote the prompt for which this was written, wrote a fic for me (!! :D) set in the same 'verse as this: The Fall. It's adorable wee!Sam and Dean, and I highly reccommend it!

The title was taken from the song "Summer Breeze" by Seals & Crofts.

Out of all the seasons, Dean likes summer the best. When it's summer, it's just him and Sam and Dad, and maybe Bobby or Caleb. He's around people that he knows, and who know him.

It's a lot better than during the school year.

He sits at the edge of the dock. His legs dangle out over the water, not quite long enough to let his feet graze across the mostly-placid surface. The late-afternoon sun has turned the water gold; it casts a haze through the humid air that illuminates tiny speckles of dust floating absolutely everywhere. Dragonflies flit by him. Sometimes they'll come to Dean and land on his finger if he sticks it out, their tiny feet tickling his skin.

Right now, though, Dean doesn't want the dragonflies to come to him. He just wants to sit here, alone and quiet, and look at the water.

Dad finally dropped it on them today; Dean knew that he'd be bringing it up soon, but that didn't make hearing it any easier. "Fall's coming, boys. We gotta get you signed up for school. We head out on Tuesday."

Sammy had clapped his hands at that, all happy and stuff. He would be excited about going into kindergarten. Dean doesn't have the heart to break it to him, to tell him how all the kids there are just gonna ask him where his momma is, why he wears such worn-out clothes, does his daddy work in an office? And Sammy won't be able to answer those questions, 'cause he's only five. He doesn't need to know that Mom is just plain dead, not with the angels or something; that they can only afford to shop at the Salvation Armies and Goodwills that they pass, buying frayed old shirts and pants that hang loose and can be grown in to; that Dad has never and will never be a proper office worker or doctor or policeman, like other people's dads. He's something better, but Dean knows that other people don't see it like that.

He kicks down, letting his bare toes dip into the cool water. Ripples spiral out, and he catches a glimpse of a little black fish darting away. The lake is full of them, perfect for fishing.

Maybe it won't be so bad for Sammy. Dean doesn't really remember kindergarten. He knew that in Lawrence, his teacher was a young woman with big sympathetic eyes that always seemed to well up whenever she turned her gaze on him, and he had hated that. But the other kids are just a blur in his mind. Most of the classes that he's been in have been like that. Sometimes the bullies stand out (Dean remembers one from Albany who would always look right in everyone's lunchbox and take whatever he liked, until Dean kicked him in the crotch for making a girl cry. He'd gotten expelled after that, but Dad had just smiled grimly and ruffled his hair). Mostly, though, Dean just thinks of masses of people who are roughly his age, who scoot away from him in the cafeteria and who giggle at him and make fun of him behind his back (usually).

Dean wriggles his toes and sighs. The trees across the lake have just started to turn, the faintest hint of oranges, yellows and browns showing underneath the cool green that Dean has become used to seeing. It's nice out here, really. Pastor Jim gave Dad the keys to this place, this cabin. He told Dad to give him and Sam an actual vacation, and Dad had kinda done that. He had stayed home, except for that week in July, and he had taken them fishing and swimming, and he hadn't made Dean go running as often. Dean's not really sure, but he thinks that's what normal people do on their vacations.

He thought that maybe this was the summer that it would go away. Maybe being out here in all of the trees, somewhere where he could step outside and see a rabbit or a squirrel instead of a city street with trash strewn all over it would make him okay. Dean isn't stupid; he's heard people talk about "The power of nature" and all of that. He'd thought that maybe, just maybe, being away from other people would make whatever it is that causes him to be broken better.

"My name," he begins, and then his voice hitches. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips. He's been taught a thousand different tricks from a thousand different speech therapists — one at every school that he's been to that could afford to have one.

"My name is Dean W-Win-"

He catches on the --ch, like he usually does, his lips gaping helplessly like one of the fish in the lake. He closes his mouth so hard that he can practically hear his teeth rattling, disgusted with himself.

Dad and Sam, they don't mind it if he doesn't talk too much. He always shows his respect, even when his clumsy tongue catches on the "Sirs." And that's what Dad is looking for, mostly. Dean doesn't kid himself by thinking that he's perfect in Dad's eyes; he knows that Dad would much rather have a son who could read a paragraph out loud without having to repeat a word two, three times before he can say it fully. But at the same time, Dad knows that it's either this or not talking at all — and Dean's been there, done that.

Sammy, Sammy probably thinks that it's normal. Dean thinks that it's a good thing that he can talk okay, that he hasn't tried to imitate his big brother's messed-up way of speaking.

Soon enough, though, Sammy is going to learn the truth. He'll be in kindergarten and Dean will be in fourth grade. The kids in kindergarten won't be very smart 'cause, well, they're kindergarteners, but they'll know how to talk. Soon when Sam asks him why he talks like that, his, "'Cause I'm awesome, squirt," won't be enough.

And the other fourth graders, no matter where they go, will just be the same. They'll assume he's stupid and imitate him when he's not supposed to hear them. He'll be the last kid picked in gym class (even though he could run the mile faster than anyone else in Amherst, and he was the quickest one up the ropes that time in Baltimore). He won't have friends, or even someone to pair up with at lunch.

Dean kicks at the water with sudden ferocity. He's just then very aware of the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, and all of his mosquito bites start itching at once. His legs are sticking to the scratchy wood of the dock, and the lake seems clouded with algae under the hazy sun. "My name is D-Dean Win-ch-chester!"

There's a soft laugh from behind him, and he almost jumps a mile even as he recognizes his dad's voice. "I think we all know that out here, kiddo."

His father walks forward, his steps somehow silent even against the creaky old beams that extend out over the water. He crouches down next to Dean, and Dean turns his head away, embarrassed.

Dad doesn't look at him, though. Instead he looks out onto the water, like Dean was doing before. In a quiet voice he asks, "Not looking forward to school?"

Dean shakes his head, staring down at his knees. They're tanned from being out so much, scabbed because he's not very careful when he's chasing after his brother in a forest filled with roots and rocks. "You sh-should be with S-Sam."

"He's sleeping. You know how he gets in afternoons on days like this. Kid's dead to the world."

Dean nods, and then he waits. He knows how deeply Sammy sleeps on days when the air itself seems to add an extra layer to your skin, and even a dip in the water doesn't make it better. But he also knows that Dad doesn't like leaving Sam alone, because he's only five, and they're right next to a lake.

After a few moments Dad says, "You're better than the other kids there. No matter what school you end up in. I'd like to see them try to go through half the crap life's thrown at you and come out standing."

There's a gentleness to the words that Dean almost never hears from his father, and it makes a small part of him light up. Praise is rarely passed from John Winchester's lips, and Dean knows to treasure each and every word. But he also knows that Dad isn't done, so he stays quiet, watching the dragonflies dart out and skim the surface of the water.

Finally, Dad goes on. "It's not your fault, Dean. That you talk like that." Dad rubs at his eyes and sighs. Dean figures that it's just the late-summer pollen; it's getting to him, too, making his eyeballs feel all withered up in their sockets. "And it doesn't matter. You're a hunter; hunters need to run fast, and think quickly, and be able to keep their hands steady when they shoot. They don't need to talk."

He ruffles Dean's hair, and then drops his arm over his shoulders. It's as close to a hug as their Dad ever gives, and Dean leans into it unreservedly. A breeze stirs up the air, and the trees across the lake give soft sighs, some of their leaves slowly drifting to the ground. Summer is ending, and soon Dean will be in a new school with a new set of classmates who will just look at him funny and cup their hands over their mouths as they whisper about him, just like the last group did — but he doesn't stutter as he says, "Yes, sir," and Dad is right next to him, and it's all quiet out here save for the distant chirping of a bird and the sound of the wind in the trees, and Dean thinks that as bad as the autumn will be, at least he got to experience this first. It's just going to be a memory soon, and his inability to speak without stammering will still be a reality, but maybe, just maybe, it counts for something.

Chaos With Better Lighting [Masterpost]

lies_unfurl — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 05:23:30 GMT

Fic title: Chaos With Better Lighting
Author name: lies_unfurl
Artist name: remivel
Pairing: Friends-with-benefits Castiel/Balthazar; Dean/Castiel; Sam/Jessica
Rating: R
Word count: 60,000
Warnings: Depictions of sexual activities; underage drinking (Sam is 16)

Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester were separated after their father's execution and raised as the heirs to Hell and Heaven respectively. According to prophecy, they one day have to duel to the death because… well, because of reasons. It isn't a very clear prophecy. Meanwhile, Castiel, lowest-ranking prince in all of Heaven, has just learned that he is to marry Lord Dick Roman.

No one is particularly happy about any of this.

Things change when they all end up at Singer's Salvage School. Sam and Dean are reunited; Dean and Castiel are roommates who want more. And as their friendships grow, hanging between them like a perfect ray of sunshine (or possibly a deadly bolt of lightning) is the possibility of maybe being able to run away, and gain the freedom that they all covet.

Notes: Oh, boy. This is going to be long. First off: the title is taken from a quote from Alan Dean Foster, the full of it being, "Freedom is just chaos, with better lighting." Supernatural is not mine; this is a fanwork, and so on. Secondly, remivel is simply fantastic. She's incredibly talented and hardworking, and deserves so much credit for being that amazing. Please, please check out her art (here) at some point. Thirdly, schism982 was my incredibly thorough beta reader. I can't thank her enough for all of her work, nor can I overstate how much she helped me! And finally, I'd like to thank anyone who has listened to me whine about this, or who's offered up friendly words of encouragement. You all deserve eternal kittens and rainbows, or whatever it is that makes you happy! <3

Chaos With Better Lighting [Prologue]

lies_unfurl — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 02:35:12 GMT

Bobby Singer takes one swig from his flask, and then another. And a third. There are three letters on his desk. Two bear the cross-and-halo insignia of Heaven, and one has Hell's trident stamped in the red wax holding its envelope shut.

He knows where at least two of the three came from, or at least, he can put in a damn good guess. The enrollment period at Singer's Salvage School is almost over, and these boys, they're getting old. Sam's not too far gone at sixteen, but Dean's twenty, and nearing the max age for him to attend. And Bobby's not so naïve to think that he'll get one Winchester without the other.

He reaches for the smaller of the two Heaven-sent envelopes first. The letter inside is written in some scribe's perfect calligraphy, dark ink that flows across the paper in pretty shapes that barely resemble letters. He scowls at it as he puts on his glasses.

A quick scan over the page reveals that it's from Lord Zachariah of Heaven's Fourth Providence. One of the cousins of the fabled High King, Bobby thinks. Or something like that. The lineage up in Heaven is all tangled up; it's impossible to get a straight answer from those people.

It's not much, nothing out of the ordinary. Low-ranking Prince of Heaven, set to be married off to — Dick Roman? Bobby grimaces. Poor kid. But the letter describes him as being polite, obedient, and studious. Doesn't sound like he'll be too much of a problem. He sets that letter aside; he'll have a bird sent out with his acceptance later.

Then he picks up his flask and takes another sip, grimacing. He regards the remaining two letters that lie in front of him. Pick your poison.

Bobby decides to go with Heaven's first. The leader to the south is bad, but Bobby finds that Michael is far more pompous. He'd rather get that over with before going to Lucifer. The Lord of Hell at least knows that he's an asswad.

To the Esteemed Robert Singer, Dean of Singer's Salvage School for the Education of Young Men,

I write to you to request admission for the Heir to the Throne of Heaven and current ward—

"You stole him, you asshole," Bobby growls. He remembers that very clearly: John being arrested for killing the bastard magician who burned down his castle and his wife with it. His two sons disappearing in the chaos, and then, a week later: news leaking from Heaven that the children from Azazel's Prophecy had been found, and were being trained for their final battle in their respective kingdoms.

Their names, Dean and Sam, hadn't made their way down to the people for another few months, but Bobby had known from the start. The dicks to the north and to the south of earth had stolen his best friend's children because of some prophecy made by a madman.

He shakes his head and reads on. The past is the past. He needs to see about the present.

--Dean Winchester. At twenty years of age, I predict that will soon have cause to take the throne—

"Kill his brother? I don't know what you're betting on, Michael, but it ain't gonna happen." Because that's what the prophecy's all about, isn't it? One brother will slay the other, take the reins, all that crap? Something to do with taking over Hell, Earth and Heaven; Bobby doesn't know. He's read that prophecy over a million and one times, and it doesn't make sense to him, or to Rufus, or Caleb, or anyone else that he's ever asked.

Still, he reads on. As predicted, Michael's letter is two pages long extolling how virtuous Dean is: how skilled at swordplay, how talented at negotiating. How his personality truly charms everyone that he meets.

Bobby hasn't seen the kid since he was eight. He supposes that it's possible that Dean really has changed that much. But for some reason, he thinks that most of what Michael wrote is total bullshit.

When he's done, he tosses the letter back down on top of the other one from Heaven, and then reaches to the Hell-sent one. It smells vaguely of sulfur as he picks it up, and he wrinkles his nose. Singer's Salvage School is dedicated to providing education for all the highborn sons from all the kingdoms; that's the way that it has been for centuries. Since long before Lucifer had his little hissy fit and ran away from Heaven, fled through Earth, and then united all of Hell's loosely-knit kingdoms under his banner.

Lucifer is a conniving, power-hungry maniac, Bobby knows that. But he's not nearly as verbose at Michael. His letter is short and to the point:

To Robert Singer:

Admission is requested for Sam Winchester, Prince of Hell and soon-to-be Ruler of All, to Singer's Salvage School. The Prince is 16, and would make a decent enough addition to your crop. Tuition will be paid in full.

Signed,

Lucifer Morningstar, High Ruler of All Hell

Bobby wonders what Sam is like. He was only four when his daddy died. It's been over a decade since he's been with his brother, and Bobby knows how impressionable kids can be. For all he knows, Lucifer could've molded him into a mini version of himself.

But it's not like he's going to reject Sam. Singer's accepts all the up-there boys. The letters are only a formality, really.

Bobby sighs and rubs at his eyes. So he's got one prince who's set to marry a lord of Purgatory who's renowned for being a giant dick. He's got one prince raised in Heaven by the most arrogant ass Bobby's ever known (and he's known a lot of asses). And finally, there's one boy who may or may not have been brainwashed by Hell's leader. Oh, and the latter two are brothers who are prophesied to fight to the death. Throw in a dozen other students all with their own issues for fluff—it's going to be an interesting year.

Bobby reaches down and takes another drink. Then he reaches for three sheets of parchment and readies up his wrists. He's got some acceptance letters to write.

Chapter One

Chaos With Better Lighting [1/7]

lies_unfurl — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 02:34:04 GMT

"I’m getting married,” Castiel says flatly, “to Dick Roman. Of Leviatha.”

“That’s correct. Although Richard's his preferred name.” Zachariah cocks his mostly-bald head. The sunlight reflects off of it, making it glow like it’s backed by a halo. Devil horns would be more accurately, Castiel thinks sourly. And also, why in the name of all that is holy did Zachariah think that breaking the news to him while he was outside with his falcon was a good idea? Wasn’t it considered proper to do that sort of thing inside the castle, where everything is all stiff and formal and life-ruining proclamations are made on a daily basis? “Is there something that you don’t understand, Prince Castiel?”

“Yes.” He glares at Lord Zachariah, who, by virtue of being older, is technically higher-up than him, and also owner of the manor at which Castiel was raised. “You can start with why I’m marrying Dick Roman.”

“Your brother was aware of your…deviant sexual preferences. He decided to respect them—”

“This isn’t about that,” Castiel snaps, cheeks coloring. Damn the High Prince Michael and his stupid ability to know everything about a person. “Zachariah, I’m politically insignificant. I’ve only met Michael a handful of times; I've never even met his heir.” The High King, prior to his mysterious disappearance, had distributed all of his sons and daughters (and there were a lot; say what you would about his ruling abilities, but that man could get around) to be raised by servants in the manors of the assorted lords of Heaven's providences. Zachariah was one of those (actually, Castiel thinks that there's some sort of distant relation, but it's hard to tell. For all he knows, Zachariah is actually his brother or something). “And I’m hardly the princely type, anyway. I don’t even know what I would do if I was to be married to Dick.”

“You’re not ‘politically insignificant.’ You’re one of the High King’s sons, kiddo. As for the princely thing? That’s my next bit of news.” He smirks, clearly savoring the anticipation of dropping this new and wonderful surprise. For one entirely inappropriate moment, Castiel dearly wishes that his head would catch on fire. “We’re sending you to finishing school.”

“Finishing school.” He stares at Zachariah for a moment. The smug bastard (and it goes against all of Castiel's upbringing to think of him like that, but there's no other possible term) just grins. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. You start next week for this year's term at Singer's Salvage School for Young Men.”

Castiel shakes his head, and tries to imagine that he's just having some sort of weird, bad dream. He's just out practicing with Grace. Any moment now his decades-older relative/brother/whatever is just going to leave, go back to ignoring him unless he needs to order him around. The way things usually are.

"Castiel," Zachariah says firmly, "I hope you're not thinking of rebelling. Michael wouldn't like that. He's giving you a very good opportunity. Interkingdom travel! The opportunity to marry up someone who isn't so far down the throne list that there are women before you."

Cas ignores the not-so-subtly sexist comment (he's used to them. Zachariah is rather insensitive about everything in existence; asking him to be decent would be like asking Balthazar the stable boy to not be promiscuous). And he doesn't put much weight on the whole "rebellion" thing: Zachariah knows that to go against Michael's wishes directly violates everything that Castiel has been brought up to do. Even this, this anger that smolders within him like the glare from an irate cat is against everything he has been taught to believe in, and makes him feel rather uncomfortable.

Still, he presses the issue just a bit further. Talking to Zach is decidedly not the same thing as fighting against the High Prince, and the tiny bit of fury inside of him will be easily suppressed when he goes to his rooms and thinks about obedience. He does that a lot; the concept of total obedience is engrained rather deeply in his mind. Even this minor disagreement feels about as taboo as dancing around naked in the gardens at dawn. "But I don't want to marry him. Pardon me for my naiveté, but I was hoping that I could actually have a relationship with the man I married before we tied the knot."

"You're a prince, Castiel. You don't get romance; that's the bane of the commoners and the poets."

Before he can respond to that amazing bit of wit and wisdom, his falcon is swoops down and lands on his hastily outstretched wrist. Grace glaring at him with no little amount of annoyance. She dislikes it when he gets distracted on the hunt.

"You'll have to leave her behind, of course," says Zachariah, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows. He's never been fond of Castiel's bird. "No pets allowed."

"Do I have a say in any of this?" Castiel asks through gritted teeth. Grace dances on his leather glove, sensing his distress. She's always been very sensitive, like an extension of Castiel himself, and leaving her behind will be a bit like tearing out his soul. "Because if I do, then I can promise you that I don't want this. Any of it."

"Nope. No choice." Zach grins, like he takes pleasure in stripping away Castiel's autonomy — and okay, he probably does. "Get your affairs in order, kiddo. You're leaving in the morning."

"Finishing school." Dean raises his eyebrow, not entirely sure how he's supposed to respond. Probably excitement, judging by how Michael is looking at him, but the dick should know by now that he doesn't do enthusiasm. After all, it's been a good twelve years since he snatched him up after his mother's death. "You're sending me to finishing school."

"Heaven knows you need it," Michael mutters, deflating at his lack of excitement. "Yes. It's high time that you stop wasting your life in the stables and actually start acting like a prince."

"It's high time for you to start acting like you didn't fucking kidnap me, but hey, who am I to complain?" Dean rolls his eyes as he paces the throne room. The crown upon his head itches, and he's really tempted to just take it off and start scratching. That's a decidedly unkingly thing to do, and he likes unkingly almost as much as Michael hates it.

He gives in to the temptation, dropping the crown down upon the gilded floors. High on his throne, Michael grits his teeth, and Dean smirks as he watches his great effort to not say anything about it. "I didn't kidnap you, and it doesn't do you well to put it so crudely," Michael says stiffly. "You were removed from a drunken father—"

"—who just happened to be lord of one of Earth's providences—"

"—who just happened to rule over a failing land in a lowly kingdom, in order to fulfill a prophecy. You know that, Dean." He sits up straight. Bright golden sunlight streams through the windows that wrap up high around the throne room. Most of them utilize the lovely method of stained glass to tell of the legendary exploits of Michael's father. The so-called God, who disappeared when Michael was seventeen, and Dean four.

That, incidentally, was also the year that the Winchester's own castle burned down, the year that his mother was killed in that fire, and the year that his father began his vendetta against the arsonist/sorcerer responsible for the fire. It was four years before John succeeded in taking his revenge, and then was subsequently executed for it. It was four years before Dean was split up from his brother, both of them being kidnapped by two fucking dicks following their father's death.

He, with all of his fan-fucking-tastic Winchester luck, was taken by Michael, eldest brother and leader of the northern kingdom of Heaven. Sammy was snatched up by Lucifer, Michael's exiled younger brother and the snakelike younger ruler of the southern Hell. His father, executed after he stabbed the prophet and alleged arsonist Azazel, had ruled Winchester, one of the small kingdoms that were collectively referred to as "Earth." Earth stretches on the border between Heaven and Hell, and according to everyone Dean had ever talked to, totally sucks. Dean thinks that he loves it; still considers it his home, even though he hasn't been there in twelve years. Anywhere has to be better than Heaven, stuck in a land with Michael and his thousand-and-one siblings.

Now Michael is frowning at him, and, taking on a chastising tone, says, "The prophecy, Dean. Recite the prophecy."

Dean rolls his eyes, wondering why the hell fate hates him enough to make him have to deal with that. "Once upon a time, there were two little boys—"

"Dean." Michael's taken on his pissy tone now. "Recite. The. Prophecy."

Dean sighs again, but consents; he'd really rather get on to the whole business of how he's not going to some frigging finishing school, anyway. "'There comes a time when south and north/come together as two from Earth/brothers and brothers, marked by fire/and but one will have their heart's desire.' Man, I never met Azazel, but I hope you told him that he frigging sucked at poetry."

Michael ignores his last remark. "You are, of course, one of the brothers. Samuel is the second."

"Really?" Dean splays a hand over the red tunic that he's forced to wear in Michael's presence; he far prefers the loose shirts and blue pants of the laborers down in the stables. "You can't just spring something like that on me, Mike. My poor heart can't take it."

"I have come to believe that the prophecy will soon come to pass." Michael gets up and begins to pace the length of the throne room — and it's one hell of a length; Dean imagines that they could probably hold horse races within its walls, if they were so inclined. "Soon it will be time to face your brother, and win victory for Heaven. You need to be prepared to act as my co-ruler after that. The school you're being sent to will get you ready."

"My brother's sixteen," Dean snaps. He hopes that the kidnapping dick can feel the burn of his gaze through the ugly green silk thing that he's wearing. "I'm not fighting a sixteen-year-old. And for what it's worth? Ruling Heaven isn't my 'heart's desire.' So I don't know why you're acting like it's going to go ahead and happen."

"That's not what the prophecy means," Michael retorts, turning around and facing him. His pale features are contorted into a scowl, and Dean takes some amount of satisfaction in knowing that he is indeed irritated. "Don't speak on matters upon which you have no knowledge. And I didn't say that you were to face Samuel immediately. However, I have come to think that it will be soon, and I expect you to be ready for your assent in the aftermath. Singer's Salvage School will whip you up into shape…not literally, unfortunately," he adds as an afterthought. Dean probably isn't supposed to hear it, but everything echoes in the throne room.

It isn't like Dean doesn't know how he feels or something. There's some small pleasure in knowing that Michael loathes him almost as much as he loathes Michael.

"And where is this school?" he finally asks, because Mike's looking at him with an expression that indicates that the responsibility of the conversation has clearly fallen to him. And while he'd normally just reject it and walk out in stony silence, he has to admit that some small part of him is (beneath all the hate and fury, of course) curious about the prospect of going away. Michael doesn't let him go out of the castle unsupervised (which just means that Dean has become a champion at sneaking out of his chambers, of course). Could be interesting to see Heaven in the light of day.

"Well, that's the interesting part." Michael pauses, clearly trying to build tension. It doesn't work; there's very little he can do that would make him, or what he has to say, interesting. "It's an interkingdom place. Its land has borders with Earth, Hell, and Heaven. All the future rulers of the major kingdoms, interacting together."

There's a loudly unsaid, so you need to scope out future competition. Michael would never admit to his exceedingly competitive nature, or how utterly petty he actually is.

"Okay, so first of all, I'm pretty sure that Purgatory and all those weird places on the coast are kingdoms too." Michael makes a dismissive noise in his throat, which fair enough; Dean knows that it's a stupid point to argue. No one ever thinks of Leviatha or any of the other lands making up the loosely-connected place known as Purgatory-by-the-Sea. "And second, I'm not going to be a ruler, so I don't see why I should go in the first place."

"Fine." Michael throws his hands up in the air. "There's no reasoning with you whatsoever, Dean. But know this…" he pauses and smirks, and suddenly Dean's tunic is clinging very tightly to his back, because he's pretty sure that whatever Mikey's about to say, it's not going to be pretty. "If you refuse to go, you'll miss out on what might you your only chance to see your brother before you have to kill him."

"Finishing school," Sam says. "You're sending me to finishing school." He studies Lucifer's gray eyes for a moment, and then throws his hands up in the air. "Why not?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam." Lucifer smirks down at him from his perch atop a giant throne carved with intricate bone designs. "I almost expected you to protest just for the sake of it."

"I'm getting away from you," Sam retorts. "What do I have to protest?" Lucifer's nickname isn't the Devil for nothing, and Sam welcomes the chance to walk away from him.

Not that Lucifer has ever laid a hand on Sam, or even really been cruel to him. Sam is allowed to go wherever in Hell he wants, allowed to spend time with whoever he wants (not that there are a lot of people whose company he's clamoring for; most of them are giant sleazebags) and allowed all of the information that he wants. Lucifer's never lied to him; as manipulative as the jerk is, Sam is certain on that account.

Still, he's never quite forgiven Lucifer for kidnapping him when he was four years old. He knows that this infuriates Lucifer, who's given him virtually everything, including the prime opportunity to become co-ruler of the world, once he wins. But call Sam crazy if you will; he just has trouble forgetting the whole taking-him-from-his-bed thing. His memories of Earth are, admittedly, kind of hazy, but he's quite certain that he had a family there who loved him. Even Lucifer has never denied this.

"Ever since you became a teenager, you've hated me. Fought me every turn you can get," the Devil says mildly. He shrugs, like he's just stating a fact—which, okay, he kind of is. "I figured you'd want to stay consistent. Not that I'm complaining," he adds in something of a stage whisper. "I get away from you and your…particular sixteen-year-old nature."

"I'd rather be thought of as a hypocrite and be out of your sight," Sam returns. He crosses his arms across the baggy shirt he wears, a sign of his refusal to accept Lucifer's offer of kingship. Which is not just a whiny teenager thing, thankyouverymuch. "And I've hated you since before I was a teenager."

"That really hurts my feelings." Lucifer touches his heart and swoons back in the chair; Sam rolls his eyes at the melodramatic display. Lucifer is such an ass. Sam doesn't blame his mysterious Father for casting him out of Heaven. He probably did it just to get a moment's worth of peace and quiet. "Aren't you curious about the school?"

"Not really." Yes. Sam begins to pace through the throne room, an unattractive chamber with walls made of the same dark stone as the rest of the castle. Which is really more a series of caves that were already in Hell when Lucifer came to rule over the few people already living down there in vaguely-organized groups. Hell has always been here, a loose group of states offering a lowlife alternative for people who grew sick of Purgatory, Heaven, or Earth, but Lucifer was the first to reunite them all into one kingdom.

"All the male heirs get sent to Singer's Salvage School. To not do so would completely break tradition, and it would probably mean that no one would ever consider me a real ruler." Sam had read about the school often enough. Apparently it had been owned by a crotchety old family for as long as anyone could remember. The girls' equivalent was Harvelle's. Both were set firmly between Earth, Hell, and Heaven, and refused allegiance to any kingdoms. Because all of the rulers were slightly afraid of the Singers (or, at least, that was the conclusion that Sam had drawn from his reading) no one had ever contested that. "I've read about it."

"Books can only tell you so much. I remember when my oldest brothers and I were there…fun times." Lucifer smirks, all reminiscent about the time before he'd been run out as a teen. "Singer's, as you should know, has a year-long curriculum designed to get you in shape for princehood. Or co-princehood, I should say."

"No, you shouldn't," he mutters, to no avail.

"Future rulers of all ages, from all kingdoms will be there, coexisting peacefully. It's really a lovely thing, Sam. Very nice. I support it intensely; you know I'm not a big fan of war."

"Yeah, you just want to wipe out everyone from Earth 'cause your dad said that even they had a better kingdom than you did. And he was right." Sam's never been to Earth, and he's heard it's an absolutely terrible mess of crime, stupidity, and generally the dredges of human life. At the same time, though, he's heard that they have considerably less volcanoes than Hell, and that they've got air that doesn't smell like rotten eggs half the time. He imagines that that must be nice.

"You'll see enough of Earth while you're there," Lucifer replies. He's still not fazed. Lucifer's refusal to get pissed off really pisses Sam off. "And you'll also see your brother, by the way."

"What?" Sam turns around from the wall he was carefully examining and stares at Lucifer, who now has a small smirk on. "Dean is going to be there?"

"The one, the only. Michael put it off for as long as he could, but he had to send him to Singer's at some point. And apparently, his seers have told him that the prophecy thing will come true soon." He raises an eyebrow. "Something that you should consider. You might want to study a bit more diligently with Alistair, unless you want a total dick ruling over us all."

Sam studies plenty with Alistair, the creepy-ass weapons instructor. He just doesn't care about some bullshit prophecy made by a guy named Azazel. Sam has no intentions whatsoever of fighting his brother for Lucifer's sake, and he'll screw destiny, if that's what destiny has in store for him. "The prophecy is a piece of crap."

"You can call it whatever you want, Sam." Lucifer rises from the throne and steps down, silent and cat-like. "I just care about seeing it come true."

There's a lot more that Sam wants to ask, mostly things that relate to the whole 'seeing his brother again' thing. But Lucifer is walking away now, and given his love of dramatic exits, Sam guesses that he's not going to get anything else out of him. Not right now, at least.

"Pack your bags!" he calls as an afterthought. "You leave in the morning."

Sam nods, even though Lucifer can't see him (which, granted, probably is a good thing; if he did, Sam would be stuck listening to a whole sardonically-made speech about what a wonderful, welcome surprise it was for Sam to actually acknowledge him, but was he feeling okay?). So he's going to see Dean, who he doesn't know at all, and who's probably forgotten about him entirely. Great.

Tomorrow, at least, should be interesting.

Dean stares at Michael, who's smirking in clear enjoyment of all the things that are going through Dean's head right now. "Sam — you mean — my brother is going to be there?"

"Indeed he is. Lucifer, for whatever reason, has decided to send Sam to Singer's this year as well. In all likelihood, he's just sending him to get a reading on you. I promise you Dean, the boy that you meet—he's not going to be some sweet child, as he was at four years." Michael shakes his head in faux-sorrow at the tragedy that he apparently believes in. "Lucifer will have corrupted him, you know. Perverted him into some…demonic thing."

"Fuck you, my brother is not a demon," Dean shoots back. He doesn't know Sam, not really, but this one bit of information is not up for question. Just 'cause Dean doesn't know him doesn't mean that Sam isn't his brother, and Dean Winchester does not have a demon for a brother. Nor does he have a jerk for a brother, or an asshole, or anything like that. He is quite certain that his little brother—who he, not any of their guards or servants, but he, at four, carried out of a burning castle—is a decent, perfect person. And his dick of a king is not going to tell him otherwise.

The way that he just directly swore at Michael clearly hasn't sat well with him. His nostrils are flaring slightly, and there's a certain tic to his jaw that only develops when Dean's really pissed him off. Dean takes some pride in this; Michael spends a lot of time just turning the other cheek, and it can be hard to find the right buttons to press.

"You have no idea what your brother is like. And if you go in with high expectations, I assure you, you will be disappointed." Michael walks back to his throne, an irritatingly high chair with puffy crimson cushions. Expensive jewels are inlaid in the wood. Like most of Heaven, it's probably very pretty from an outsider's perspective. To Dean, it's sickeningly luxurious, like the sauces on most of the dishes that are served at feasts. Just as he'd rather be down in the stables with horse shit under his nails and hay sticking to his hair, he'd rather eat a burger with a bunch of fried, greasy stuff than the latest delicacies from the Northern chefs. "Sam has doubtlessly been twisted beyond recognition by the devil. My spies have assured me of this," he adds quickly, and that sounds more like bull than anything. Dean doesn't even think that there are Heavenly spies who've infiltrated Hell. Virtually everyone here walks around with the same sort of pompous air that just marks them as a rich, ignorant dick. He doesn't think that sort of thing would blend in well with Hell.

"When do I leave?" Dean finally asks, because Michael's glare is making it clear that he doesn't want to say any more on the matter of Sam, or on his not-so-successful spy system, and anyway, Dean kind of wants to get this show on the road. Particularly since said road is going to lead him to Sam, and he hasn't seen Sam in so long, and he wants to. Badly. Because okay, he has to admit that there's a small, infinitesimal part of him that admits that maybe Michael is right. Lucifer is kind of a bastard according to everyone down in the stable (although granted, most of the folks there will say the same about Michael once they've got half-a-jug of homebrewed beer in them, so it's possible that they just hate The Man) and so maybe the kid that he's essentially raised has turned out like him. Maybe. Dean isn't willing to admit it until he's actually seen Sam.

"You leave tomorrow. I'll send a courier up to your room to help you pack." Mikey looks mildly thankful at this turn in opinion, like he actually believes that Dean is acquiescing to going to finishing school because he wants to obey Michael's every command. "Oh, and you'll be rooming with one of my brothers."

"I think I'll be rooming with my brother," Dean replies, crossing his arm and putting one foot on the golden ringlet that he dropped from his head earlier. He probably won't damage it, but by the way Michael's eyes are glued to his black boots, he's aware that it is very much a possibility. "You know. The one I haven't seen in twelve years, who you just told me would be at the same school. That brother."

"It's not my decision to make," Michael replies firmly. "They don't allow interkingdom boarding. Or, well, they did when I was there," he amends. "Unfortunately, Gabriel nearly started a war with his roommate, a lovely young fellow from Purgatory-by-the-Sea, and the Singers haven't allowed it since."

Dean smirks a bit at that; he's never met the prodigal Gabriel, who left Heaven and his chance at ruling right around when Lucifer went to Hell. But according to all the stories he's heard, Gabriel is his type of guy. Namely, one who thinks Michael is a total dick.

Still, it doesn't really satisfy his demand to be put with Sam. So he crosses his arms and frowns at Michael, pressing down on the crown with his foot.

Michael's jaw gives that twitch again. "Dean," he says stiffly, "That's been within my family for a number of generations; I would appreciate it if you let up on it. You might not have any objections to your roommate, really," he adds as a last, desperate resort, and because there really isn't anything he can do, Dean decides reluctantly to just flip the golden ringlet up into his hand. There are bigger things he can protest; much as he enjoys pissing off the jerkbag who kidnapped him, he's learned to pick his battles, and at the moment, he has bigger fish to fry. From his throne Michael winces as he steps on the yellow rim and sends it into the air, snatches it out and into his hand. He places it on his head with a ghost of a smirk.

When Dean is done with the show of adjusting it until it sits just so, Michael goes on. "His name is Castiel. I don't believe you've ever met him."

"Castiel." Dean nods, almost displacing the stupid crown as he tests out the name. It's definitely not one that he's familiar with, and he instantly conjures up an image of a mini-Michael: green eyes, features that are set either to 'impassive' or 'annoyed,' a scrawny covering of dark hair. "I suppose that's almost normal, given the standards of your family."

"He's my youngest brother. Twenty-two, so well within your age range. He lives to the north, with Lord Zachariah."

Ah. That name Dean does recognize, and with some scorn, at that. Zach is almost as big a dick as Michael, all smarmy comments with a "Let's take over Earth!" attitude. He never knew that there was someone living with him, though, and he says as much to Michael.

"Yes, well, the fact that Castiel is so far down in terms of succession has rendered him more or less…insignificant." Michael curls his lip up ever so slightly; he has little regard for those with no political weight. Dean wonders if he remembers that he's talking about his brother here, or if he just doesn't care. "I managed to arrange a marriage for him—"

"Arranged marriage?" Dean interrupts, incredulous. "Did you forget that we're living in, y'know modern times? When you actually have chamber pots inside the house?"

"Castiel is of royal blood. It's not expected that he would just find himself a lover and fly away to live off his life as a…commoner." Michael wrinkles his nose, like just thinking of those disgusting proletarians conjures up their unwashed smell (ignoring, of course, that most people these days do have some form of indoor plumbing). "He's set to become husband of Dick Roman. Of Leviatha?"

Dick Roman. Dean winces in sympathy for this Castiel guy; there are only a few people that he would wish Dick Roman upon. The guy is a total asshole, ruling over his kingdom with the tightest control possible, and practically eating anyone alive who doesn't live up to his standards (seriously, when he was in Heaven on a diplomatic visit a few months ago, Dean witnessed him chewing out some servant who had accidentally brought him the wrong kind of croissant; he'd have sworn that the guy was about to just open his mouth and swallow the poor fool whole). It hadn't occurred for him to wonder what the guy was in to, or even if he was married back in Purgatory-by-the-Sea, the official name for the land he'd conquered years back. Now he's got his answer on both accounts. "Do you hate your brother or something? The hell'd you agree for him to go with Dick?"

"Castiel understands what's expected of him. He's very loyal to me." Michael shrugs, apparently not caring about the sort of thing that he's subjecting his younger brother to. "That's neither here nor there. I'm certain that the two of you can discuss it plenty when you're sharing a room. I just mentioned it so that you'd know that you're sharing a ride with him on the way to Singer's. He'll be here at high noon tomorrow. Be prepared for then; I'll see to it that you're sent off."

"Fine." Dean turns to leave the throne room, not bothering to bow or any of that crap that everyone else does before Mike. But as he's leaving, something important occurs to him, and he turns back to Michael, who raises a questioning eyebrow. "Can I bring my horse?"

"Your horse? That old mare?" Michael wrinkles his nose. "No, of course not. You want to represent yourself well to the future lords and kings that you'll be studying alongside. I'll see to it that Gordon sends a different one along. One of this year's geldings will do just fine, I think."

"No." Dean crosses his arms and glares furiously, a thousand responses to the insult burning up within him. "Tell him to send Impala."

"Dean, be reasonable. She's barely going to match up to the other animals there—"

"Don't care. If Impala doesn't go, I don't go." His mare was the daughter of his father's warhorse, Chevy, who Michael took when he kidnapped Dean. She's ten years, which is old amongst the stables, but Dean's been working with her since she was nothing more than the last of Chevy's offspring, a gangly little all-black filly. She's his baby, and no one takes her away from him.

They hold each other's gaze for a moment. Finally, just when Dean thinks that he might actually have a chance at setting Michael's head on fire, the douche relents, throwing up his hands and then banging them down on the wooden arms of the throne. "I'll speak to Gordon about it."

Dean smirks. He'll speak with Gordon too, and seeing as he's the one that's been working down there with Gordon for years, he's fairly sure he knows whose voice will carry more weight with the grizzled Head of Stables. And it's not the one who forgets to pay him for days that end with "y."

With that taken care of, he saunters out of the throne room and goes to start packing.

In the end, Castiel gives Grace to Balthazar. He hands her over with little ceremony after he's explained the situation and listened to Balthazar bemoan his terrible arranged marriage.

"Me?" says the stable boy from the western part of the kingdom when the bird hops onto his wrist, raising his eyebrows in mock exaggeration. "You're giving your most beloved pet to me? Castiel, I'm flattered. I had no idea that you cared so much!"

Castiel smiles wryly. Balthazar is his oldest friend and, when you get down to it, really his only friend. He's been an essential part of Castiel's life since he came to Zachariah's manor ten years ago, to begin working as a page for one or another of the knights. Somehow, he never progressed past that stage (Castiel guesses that his mild kleptomania probably has something to do with it; he'd have been thrown out long ago, if it weren't for Castiel's repeated pleas to Zachariah) and he's been in the stables ever since then.

He was also Castiel's first… lover, for lack of a better term. There's nothing particularly emotional between them on that level, but as soon as they were both of age, Balthazar had turned to him and said, "Castiel, you're good-looking, and I think we both know that you at least swing in the direction that's got outies instead of innies. Now, I've got a lovely little place by the barn, and if you don't mind a bit of hay being around, I think that we could have a very good time tonight."

Apparently, Castiel is a sucker for romantic pickup lines (or he was too dumbstruck to protest, not that he would've anyway) because he accepted Balthazar's outstretched hand, and they've been screwing casually ever since. 'Casually,' of course, is pretty much the only way that Balthazar goes; Castiel is fairly certain that he's been around the castle twice, save for Zachariah. And he doesn't mind, not at all. Sex with Balthazar is always fun.

Now Balthazar is sprawled out on a hay bale in the barn, stroking Grace. She hops from side to side, knowing that she isn't with Castiel, but Balthazar has used her before, so at least she's not being left to a total stranger. "Thank you, though, Castiel. She's lovely."

Castiel nods, watching him carefully. He knows that Balthazar will work diligently with her, but it still feels like he's giving part of himself up. "I'll speak to Uriel about it tonight. I'm sure he won't be concerned with her change in ownership." Uriel heads the manor's aviary, among other things. Really, he gets what needs to be done, done; he's technically Zachariah's second-in-command. As much as he looks down upon Castiel for his occasional bouts of not-entirely-obedient talk, no one can possibly deny that he's very good at keeping birds.

"I'll bring her up there right now." Balthazar stands to his full height, carefully keeping Grace steady. "And maybe later, when you're done packing, you could come down to my place and have a little going-away party…?"

Castiel smiles, although the pain at knowing that this is the last time he'll see Grace does sting. "I'm looking forward to it already."

"Good!" Balthazar starts off for the aviary. "Until tonight, then, Cassie!"

He shakes his head as he watches his best friend saunter away, feeling an unexpected pang in his chest. He's going to miss him more than he realized.

But of course, Castiel thinks as he heads to his own chambers to figure out what he needs to take, such is the life of one of the descendants of God. He hates having to go off and marry some stranger from Leviathan, particularly one whose cruelty is legendary. However, for all that he expresses his irritation with Zachariah, and for all that he does break a few unwritten rules by going to Balthazar's rooms some evenings, Castiel is not disobedient. When push comes to shove, High Price Michael's rule is law, and Castiel does not disobey the law.

Sam is packed and ready to go before the sun has cast its last light over the twisted, ugly terrain of Hell. Really, there isn't much to bring—he doesn't bother with his personal library, since it's a school and all that, and his clothes don't take long to toss into a trunk. He's left lying on his large, plush bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering what, exactly, he's supposed to do with the rest of the day.

Angsting, he figures, would probably be a good idea. He's a teenager, so naturally, he does a lot of that. And anyway, it isn't like he doesn't have some pretty legitimate things to angst over. Like the whole 'about to meet the brother that he hasn't seen in twelve years' thing.

Before he can begin his teenage version of suffering, however, a knock at the door provides a slightly more uplifting alternative for the night. "Sam?" a sweet voice calls out. "Sam, can I come in?"

He sits up, almost smacking his head against the headboard. "Ruby! Yeah, of course. Come on in."

And come in she does—slinks in, really, in that way that she does. Ruby is incredibly beautiful, with long, dark brown curls and full, red lips. Sam knows that she's really just another pawn of Lucifer's, but damn it, he's a sixteen-year-old boy, and he does have kind of a sex drive.

Not that Ruby can satisfy that; no, he's still stuck with his right hand. Sam thinks that Fate must have something against him, because it would just figure that the loveliest, most seductive girl in the castle is the one who's training under Lilith, working to become a priestess. Sam knows that it's against Ruby's vows as a trainee to have any lovers. It's only when she becomes like Lilith, a full-fledged magic-worker and advisor to Lucifer that she can hook up with another person.

That's never prevented them from hanging out, though. Sam is pretty sure that she works somewhat with Lucifer, or at the very least, that she's been told to try to seduce him fully into the idea of becoming Hell's next top man. And she has, albeit in subtle, hard-to-recognize ways. But it hasn't worked yet, and now that he's going away, Sam is pretty sure that it won't.

Now she sits on the edge of his bed and frowns at him, her lower lip sticking out in a pout that, okay, that is way sexier than it ought to be, especially considering that he's pretty sure she's just joking around with it. "I just heard that you're going away tomorrow."

"Yeah." He nods, fully meeting the intensity of her dark eyes. "To Singer's Finishing School. Lucifer figures that it's about time I start shaping up to be a prince."

She shakes her head, and her soft curtain of hair brushes against him. "That's not very nice, Sam. Now who am I supposed to go to the night after Lilith initiates me into a full-fledged priestess?"

He gulps, forcing the image of what he had imagined that night to be like out of his head. "I don't know. If it helps, I feel badly about that, too."

She laughs. "Sam, you are such a typical boy. I'll bet you don't even like me for my personality."

And okay, that probably has a grain of truth in it. He knows that she's not entirely goodhearted; that, like most of Hell's citizens, she looks out for herself first and foremost, and that she really wants him to ally up with Lucifer, which he, by the way, has no intentions whatsoever of doing. Still, she's Ruby. He's known her for about five years, since they were both on the verge of teenhood and she first began studying with Lucifer's creepy-ass prophetess. Under most circumstances, he'd probably hate her. But she has been his friend for quite some time, and even if their friendship was one based mostly on hormones and loneliness, he can't discount it completely. "Come on, Ruby. You know that's not true."

Ruby just laughs again. She can see right through him, has always been able to. "Are you ready for school, Sam? Ready to go so far away?" She leans in close as she speaks; he can feel the soft press of her breasts against his arm. He bites down hard on his lip. He knows that she's doing it on purpose, teasing him with her vows of chastity, but his body doesn't really care very much.

"I'm sixteen, Ruby." Sam leans away from her and tries desperately to ignore the growing hardness in his pants. Damn his hormones. "I can't stay here forever."

"You'll come back, though, right?" She sits up straight, turning off the joking seductiveness, and replacing it with the passionate seriousness that's a bit more true to her nature. "Tell me that you're going to come back, Sam."

"Of course I will. I don't think that Lucifer would allow anything else." He rolls his eyes, not afraid of being disparaging of Lucifer in front of Ruby. Not that he wouldn't do the same thing in front of Lucifer himself, of course. Sam doesn't really censor himself very often. "One year, and then I'm all set to just start being co-ruler of the world with him. After I fight my brother and all that, of course." He shakes his head. It's a really stupid prophecy, probably one of the vaguest ever made, but so much has been done based upon it. Such as the whole thing with he and his brother being kidnapped by agents of Heaven and Hell three days after their father's castle burned down.

"Yeah, but you've never really cared what Lucifer has to say." She plays with her hair for a moment, deep in thought. "Still. It's gonna be really boring without you around."

"You can amuse yourself, I'm sure. You always do."

"I know. And there's the whole 'studying to become a prophetess' thing. Keeps me kind of busy, that."

"I'd guess that it would." They settle into a companionable silence. Ruby eventually lies back, her hair falling in a dark halo surrounding her head; Sam crosses his legs and avoids looking too long. He really is going to miss her. She's unquestionably not a particularly moral person, and she doubtlessly reports all of their actions at least back to Lilith, if not to Lucifer himself, but she's played the role of his friend for quite some time. That's not quite something that he lets go lightly.

Eventually the light that streams in through the stony windows of Sam's chamber is warm and orange, the last of the sunset. Ruby sits up, glancing outside. "I should be heading back. Lilith will want me soon."

"Yeah." Sam watches her walk to the door with a pang of regret. "Bye, Ruby. I'll see you when I get back."

"Course you will." She grins. "Maybe by then I'll be waiting in my priestess robes, and I'll greet you when you get off the carriage… and maybe if you haven't fallen in with some goody-two-shoes from Harvelle's, then you can greet me with arms that are wide open…"

Sam laughs, and thinks that yeah, he's definitely going to be bathing in some ice-cold water tonight.

"By the way," Balthazar says casually, with one hand lingering near Castiel's crotch and the other holding a probably-stolen cigarette, "I'm going to be driving you to the school, you know."

Castiel sits straight up, dislodging Balthazar. This post-coitus ritual of smoking and small talk is the closest that they've ever come to cuddling. Which is probably a good thing, because cuddling with Balthazar? Would be highly uncomfortable on an emotional level.

This, however, isn't exactly small talk. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." He smirks and takes a long drag from his cigarette. The small cottage that he lives in isn't exactly aerated well, and it perpetually smells like some unidentifiable herb that might or might not be legal. "Actually, Uriel told me when I brought Grace to the aviary. Apparently they've finally taken notice of my stellar carriage driving skills. And no one feels like going down to the Earth border in what's supposed to be pouring rain. We're heading down at around sixish," he adds, and then follows that up with, "Oh, and you'll never guess who your roommate is."

"My roommate?" Castiel lowers himself back down to the bulky mattress, lying on his side so that he's facing Balthazar. "How would you know this? Zachariah didn't mention anything about a roommate to me."

"Because I'm—well, we're—picking him up. Come on, guess." He smirks, and Castiel is quite certain that he won't go on until he at least tries.

"Oh, I don't know. Lucifer's heir. Sam Winchester." He throws the name out at random, trying to figure out who, exactly, would be the polar opposite of him, an insignificant Heavenly prince.

"That's remarkably close." Balthazar wraps his lips around the cig in an entirely inappropriate manner, and when he's done fellating it, he says smugly, "Dean Winchester."

"Dean?" For the second time since they finishing screwing, Castiel sits straight up. "Balthazar, you can't be serious."

Balthazar raises an eyebrow as he says, "I'm fairly certain that Uriel isn't into joking," and okay, Castiel has to admit that's probably right. "Apparently we're stopping at the High Castle to pick him up before we get to Singer's."

"You couldn't have told me this before? Balthazar, I'm completely unprepared for this. I was planning to wear just casual clothes for travelling; you can't just tell me that we're probably going to encounter the High Prince without giving me time to prepare for it." He tosses the scratchy, off-white sheets from his body and swings his bare feet over the side, onto the packed dirt floor. "I need to have my formal clothing ready."

"Castiel." Balthazar reaches out and clasps a hand around his wrist; he turns around, annoyed. The look of amusement on his friend's face makes it clear that he doesn't understand how important a meeting with Michael is. "Relax. It'll be raining anyway; you could be naked under your cloak, and no one would notice. And I don't know that we're going to be meeting with Michael, anyway. Just with Dean, and from what I've heard, Michael's heir isn't exactly a stickler for formalities."

He tugs on Castiel's wrist, and Castiel reluctantly allows himself to be pulled back onto the mattress. Balthazar pulls the sheet up and, after extinguishing the cigarette, leans in close to Castiel, bracing his head in his hands. Castiel instinctively wriggles away from the strongly unpleasant scent on his breath; he rolls his eyes. "Stop. Worrying. You're going to be in school in a day, and you'll probably find some new and better lover—someone who won't be bedding the scullery made within the week," he adds, grinning devilishly. "Let's make our last night together a damn lovely one, okay?"

And Castiel sighs, but because it's Balthazar that he's dealing with, he agrees to one last round of bliss before they fall asleep together, waiting for tomorrow to arrive.

Chapter Two