[FIC] Adjusted to the Dark for takadainmate
(Mod Note: There always has to be one that slips through the cracks, right? takadainmate's Secret Santa was generous enough to write two fics. We apologize to both the author and takadainmate for the delay in posting. Merry Christmas!)
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Adjusted to the Dark
Author: apokteino
Recipient: takadainmate
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7187
Warnings: Mentions of OCs committing suicide (no detail)
Spoilers: Season Five
Summary: Injured badly by holy fire, Castiel runs to Dean and Sam for help, and ends up participating in their current case - and then Dean and Castiel become a part of it.
Author notes: This is a combination of the third prompt (Castiel injured by holy fire) and having casefic and h/c in the recipient's general likes. I'm hoping this isn't too angsty, angst is kind of like air to me and it snuck in there just a bit. :p I hope you like it!
Castiel has no idea how he was found. He's shifting, flying, wings still strong and his senses searching for a trace of his Father, when an angel crashes into him and spins him out into reality.
He lands on fresh soil, fingers sinking deep into the loam, and then he's looking up and rolling, an angel's blade missing him by inches. They're in a forest somewhere, trees rising around them a hundred feet in the blue sky, and then he hears a snap and a rush. He's running before he can think about it, just barely crossing a line of holy fire freshly lit, and he feels the power of it burn into his wings and skin, coursing through his grace. He screams, helplessly, but he has no time, and he strangles the sound, scanning the area for his attacker.
He's standing a few feet away, actually waiting for Castiel to rise to his feet, knowing he can't run. Not like this. Castiel's grace still burns, vision blurry, so he doesn't recognize the angel, can only note the male vessel, dark eyes, a long reach.
He attacks, and Castiel defends.
The angel doesn't manage anything close to a killing blow, but within less than a minute Castiel has long slashes on one arm and his side. Castiel has to keep parrying, barely able to return an offensive, and he realizes that at this rate, he'll be worn down and killed.
So he lets his guard down, makes his parries slower, and lets the angel get close enough to feel his breath on Castiel's face, and Castiel slashes at his neck, and the angel stumbles back.
Castiel finishes him with a blow underneath his chin, gasping and shutting his eyes against the flash of light.
He sinks to the ground, panting. Hide hide hide, his instincts are telling him, but where? Can he even fly?
He reaches into his pocket, takes out his cell phone, and dials Dean's number. It rings twice, then, "Yeah?"
"Dean, where are you?" He chokes on the last word, spits out blood.
"Cas? Uh, we're in California," and gives him the address.
Castiel flies on broken wings, and collapses to the blurry look of Dean's face, green eyes wide.
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He wakes up mostly naked, which he can tell before opening his eyes because he can feel the air on his skin, an odd and new sensation. He shifts, and pain rises in his body, loosed through a groan he can't control.
"Cas? Cas!"
He opens his eyes. Dean is beside him, holding a cotton ball in one hand, leaning in and placing his other hand on Castiel's forehead.
Castiel glances around without answering, noting that he's in a motel room with the odd motif of circles everywhere, in green and purple. Sam isn't in sight, and he returns his gaze to Dean, seeing the frown on Dean's face, the concern nearly masked. "Cas?" Dean asks, withdrawing his hand, "you awake?"
"Yes," Castiel says hoarsely. "What are you doing?"
"You have burns," Dean explains, gesturing at Castiel's body. Castiel raises both arms, sees lines of burned skin, a match to the burned grace within him, mostly following the veins of his human body. His body, now only his, is manifesting the harm to his grace, apparently choosing this way. He's naked except for his underwear, and he can feel that the burns extend over his entire body. The slashes have mostly healed.
"Oh," Castiel says at last.
"Disinfectant," Dean continues, hefting the cotton ball. "With a numbing agent. Now stay still."
"They will heal on their own," Castiel points out.
"And I bet you'll heal better if you're not fighting an infection," Dean says, with a roll of his eyes.
Castiel decides not to argue, and in truth, some part of him welcomes the contact. "Thank you."
Dean eyes him warily for a full second, then nods in reply. He finishes with surprisingly gentle touches along Castiel's leg, then tosses the slightly bloody ball into the trash. Castiel watches Dean carefully, but all he sees is Dean's usual perfunctory concern, interspersed with glances and quick shifts in expression Castiel can't quite read.
It's frustrating, and then equally reassuring, that Dean remains the same as when they first met, holding everything in and behind a wall, a constant in a world that seems ever-changing to Castiel's mind. He watches Dean get up, silently go through a duffel, and then he brings out a pair of jeans and a shirt. "Your clothes are torn and bloody, so you'll have to wear mine, unless you feel up to doing that thing with your mojo. We're closer in size than Sam, and besides, he wears too much purple."
Castiel considers the first part of Dean's statement, ignoring the second half out of confusion. "I don't think I have sufficient reserves."
Dean tosses the clothing to him. "Have at it, then," and he pauses for a second, "unless your injuries hurt too much."
Castiel puts on the clothes, then sits on the bed, resisting the urge to pant. His wings are causing most of the pain, the burns a secondary problem. He smoothes a hand over the shirt; it smells like Dean, even clean, and he finds he likes it. "I will leave as soon as I am able."
To his surprise, Dean sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, then he looks up and gives Castiel an even stare. "You don't have to go running off, you know. You can stay here until you're completely healed up."
"I … don't want to be a burden." There are times when Dean seems to barely tolerate his presence. They are allies by circumstance, because heaven has overturned all the rules and Dean convinced him to make his own, ones he at least thinks God would want. But often, it seems like Dean grabs hold of him fast and then pushes him away with quick and angry words, and Castiel … prefers to avoid that. There's nothing like that here, not in Dean's eyes, just curious attention and worry.
"You're not," Dean says shortly. He sits next to Castiel, unusually close. "What exactly happened, anyway? What caused those injuries?"
Castiel frowns, not at Dean, but at himself. "I was taken by surprise while in flight, and partially crossed over a line of holy fire."
"Partially? I thought that'd kill you outright."
"The circle wasn't complete," Castiel explains, "so instead I was badly injured."
Dean's eyes narrow. "Worse than this?" and he gestures at Castiel's body.
"I - can't fly, at the moment," Castiel says delicately.
Dean makes a silent 'oh'. He clears his throat, not looking at Castiel, then says, out of the blue, "Sam's getting dinner. I don't know if you want anything -"
"I do not require food," Castiel assures him. He's silently dreading the day he does, if he lives long enough to see his grace essentially extinguished.
"Right," Dean says, and with perfect timing, there's the sound of the lock turning, and then the door opens.
Sam opens the door the rest of the way with his foot, and enters, hands full of takeout. He kicks the door shut, and says, "Hey, Cas. You look better." He gives Castiel a quick look over, as if to ascertain his condition, then blinks and turns back to Dean.
"What took so long?" Dean asks.
Sam smiles. "Guess who I ran into? That doctor, Carryton."
Dean sits up straight with a jerk, then stands and moves over to the table, as Sam sets the bags down. "What'd he say?"
"Told me what he sent to the CDC," Sam says. "Physically, there's nothing connecting the deaths, but he's convinced they're unnatural somehow."
Dean nods, looking distracted.
"Is this a hunt?" Castiel interrupts.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Four deaths in six months, all suicide. One of them was even just passing through, a tourist."
"In a town of five thousand," Dean adds. "The chances of that happening and not being connected are practically nothing."
"Do you know anything else?" Castiel asks.
Sam pauses. "Hey, you don't need to help us on this, really. You … don't look very good."
"I'm fine," Castiel says. "I would prefer to help, if you are amenable."
Dean walks over, almost claps Castiel on the shoulder, then stops. But the smile he gives him is genuine. "Glad to have the help."
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After eating, Dean and Sam settle down to sleep for the night. Castiel had been out for hours, apparently, his own sense of time skewed. There'd been an awkward silence, broken by Sam offering to let Castiel use his bed (Dean standing awkwardly in the background, like he wants to speak, but he doesn't) but Castiel, even as injured as he is, does not need sleep. Yet. So he sits in the chair at the table, the laptop at his fingertips, the only light in the room, counterbalance to the calm and even in-out of Dean and Sam's breathing. They even almost match, almost breathing together, still connected.
Castiel finds himself envying it, if only for the lack of same with his own family. He's discovered he hates being alone, as he hates few things. Dean looks peaceful, strangely so, like reconnecting with Sam has eased something, some tension Castiel has seen in him since Lucifer rose. The pain between them is not entirely gone, but it's faded, and Castiel feels like some part of that has moved between Castiel and Dean. He watches them, silent, for some indeterminable period of time, before he looks at the laptop with Sam's instructions in mind.
New Hill, the small town they are in with the sole motel, was settled in the early late 1900's, a way station for those headed for California proper and the beach. Unlike most small towns, there's no center of revenue, no factory that provides most of the jobs. Instead, there's an equal give and take, small businesses run locally, no chain stores, which their website would seem to suggest is common. They appear dedicated to their insularity.
It takes him nearly an hour, but he does find a local newspaper that sometimes covers the events of the town (the actual local newspaper is not online), and he finds mention of some outside interests wanting to log in the forest and create a local factory to make wood floor boards.
There's mention of the four suicides in another edition, no doubt how Dean and Sam came to be here.
He keeps searching, but finds nothing else. Most of this information Dean and Sam had been able to give him, and Castiel knows Sam is a capable researcher.
Still, Castiel goes over the creatures in his head that would leave deaths in their wake that would look like suicides. There isn't many, and all would leave signs not apparent here.
He wonders if Dean and Sam have police reports. That might be useful.
But that's for tomorrow. He shuts the laptop and waits for dawn.
He blinks his eyes open, hours later, and finds Dean standing up and staring at him. "What?" Castiel says.
"Nothing. You - never mind." With that, Dean turns and heads for the bathroom, wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt. Castiel watches him go, a strange feeling rising, familiar as always, but strange.
When he turns to Sam, Sam looks amused, throwing off his covers and throwing his legs over, standing and scratching his head. "Did you find anything?" Sam asks, glancing at the laptop.
"Nothing more than you already know, I’m sure," Castiel says. "I've gone over what I know, but though the method of death is different in each, none are similar to creatures I know that could or would fake such a thing. I'm sorry I can't be more of a help."
"Don't worry about it," Sam says, "it's good to get a second opinion. Dean and I are pretty much at a loss, too."
"One thing you could help with, actually," Dean says, leaving the bathroom and pulling on jeans. "We heard some ghost stories and junk about the surrounding forest. You'd be able to feel it if that were the case, right?"
"Yes," Castiel confirms. His grace is still present enough for something as small as that, and he finds himself pleased. "That I can do."
"Good," Dean says. "What's your shoe size?"
"What?" Castiel blinks.
"Dress shoes ain't gonna cut it in a forest, Cas."
Cas looks at his feet. "I have no idea."
Dean ruffles through his duffel, throws sneakers at Castiel. "Find out."
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Dean's shoes fit, but the sensation of walking has been rendered something entirely different. He spends most of breakfast watching Dean eat and flexing his toes while he listens to Dean and Sam argue about which one of them is Han Solo. He has no idea why they're arguing, since clearly neither is Han Solo, they are Sam and Dean Winchester, but he decides to say nothing and not reveal his ignorance. He's sure there's something he's missing, he can tell from the glint in Dean's eye when he glances Castiel's way, expecting him to speak up and express his confusion.
Castiel remains silent, though, until on the way out Dean does clap Castiel's back.
To his complete surprise, pain rocks through Castiel with such force he staggers.
"Whoa!" Dean grabs hold of Castiel's arm, by sheer force keeping him upright.
"That - that hurt," Castiel mutters.
"What hurts? Shit, the burns?" Dean says, quickly and intent, looking like he's kicking himself for even touching Castiel. Dean's body is warm and close to Castiel, and Castiel feels the urge to lean in. Dean is - he can't stop himself from wanting to be closer, to learn more, to be closer.
Castiel meets his gaze, a surge of - of something running through him at Dean's concern and worry. "My wings," he blurts, as soon as he realizes it. His vessel is bound to him more closely than ever, so the pain of his wings is being extended to the physical body. Entirely unexpected, and yet he should have expected it, as he began to feel this body's pains and aches more closely.
"Your wings? What's - are they burned?"
"Broken," Castiel says. "I didn't expect the pain to transfer to my back, though."
"If they're broken, shouldn't they be set?" Sam asks, having come to Castiel's other side and slipped an arm under Castiel's.
"I -" and then Castiel stops. "I don't know. Angels that are injured that way usually return to heaven to heal." He doesn't even know if his wings will be solid enough to set, here.
"We're taking you back to the motel," Dean says in a tone that brooks no argument, "and taking a look."
Castiel almost says Dean would be blinded, then realizes he wouldn't be - not with Castiel as weak as he is. So instead, "Okay," comes out.
The town is small, so they walk back to the motel, Castiel recovering most of his strength along the way, until he can walk on his own. He hasn't had a good look at his wings since the angel hit him and he crossed the holy fire. It's entirely possible that something needs to be done with them, and realistically, Dean and Sam are the only ones he can depend on.
"Doesn't your shirt hurt?" Dean asks, when they're in the room, hands hovering like he wants to take it off.
"It does," Castiel says, "but the pain is relatively minor." He strips off his shirt.
Dean's face flushes, and he looks away for a long second.
Castiel moves to the middle of the room, and without hesitation manifests his wings, uncurling them into this plane of reality.
"Holy shit," Dean says, sounding stunned.
Castiel twists his head to look. One wing is crooked, pain flaring when he extends it, but the other looks fine, lots of broken feathers, but now that they are no longer tucked away, he can tell that one is sufficiently healed. It's only the left wing that has a problem.
"They're blue," Dean says inanely. His eyes are wide, looking oddly astounded, and Sam is wearing a similar expression.
Castiel looks again. Yes, a very dark blue, as they've always been, and in this plane, weakened this way, the wingspan is short, only about thirty-five feet in all. There's shots of black feathers, not many, just a few here and there, different in color because of the scars beneath, unable to grow back in normally since raising Dean from hell. Then he turns back to his left wing. The bone beneath the feathers is twisted, slightly, healing but not very well. "I need you to pull my left wing, so the bone straightens," Castiel decides.
"I'll do it," Dean says quickly.
"Anything else we should know?" Sam asks, casting a glance towards Dean that Castiel can't read.
Castiel frowns. "No."
"Were you walking around with your wing broken like that all day?" Dean asks, and Castiel wonders why, since the answer should be obvious. Dean must see something on his face, because he then asks, "Want something to bite on?"
"No," Castiel repeats.
Dean heads over to the wing, extended so the tip nearly touches the wall. He grabs hold, looking uncertain, touch too light to actually get a good grip.
Castiel realizes why. "You'll need to hold it tighter to pull it," he says. "The pain will be manageable."
Dean takes a breath, and then without warning he takes hold tight of where the wing curves down and pulls.
Castiel strangles a scream, and as soon as Dean is done pulling, he forces the wings back into the ether, stumbling and then falling to the floor. Dean's at his side in an instant, arm along his lower back, and Castiel leans into the touch, head falling against Dean's shoulder. To his surprise, Dean lets him stay that way for almost a minute, Castiel harshly breathing in and out against Dean's warm body.
"You should lie down," Dean says.
"No," Castiel replies, looking up. "It feels much better now, actually."
"You should probably stay here," Dean insists, looking exasperated.
"No -"
"Dammit, Cas," Dean interrupts with a sigh.
"I will feel better if I am useful," Castiel says, which is true.
Dean sighs and frowns. "Are you sure? You just got a major body part set." He pauses, still not quite letting go.
"Yes," Castiel says quite positively. He's not going to let a little pain stop him.
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In the end, Dean insists they stay in the motel room for an hour before he agrees Castiel feels well enough to go check out the forest. Sam leaves on his own, promising to call, going to meet a family member of one of the victims that they couldn't meet with yesterday. They'd talked to all of the family members except hers, which had the first victim - her father, not long after the natural death of her mother. The family members mostly talked about the surprise of the suicides, Castiel understands, and little else.
Then Dean and Castiel head out.
There's a number of hiking paths through the forest, and they had head for one of those, Dean carrying a pack, though Castiel's fairly sure he'd be able to transport them in an emergency.
The path is narrow, a footpath more than a proper trail, and to his surprise, after half an hour or so he can feel the muscles in his body working, not gliding effortlessly, extensions of grace. It's not tiring, exactly, just a presence made noticeable, so he keeps walking without making mention of it. Dean's walking ahead of him, and Castiel wonders if he's feeling that same stretch, and imagines Dean is probably in better physical shape than he is.
"You know, you don't need to be useful," Dean says suddenly. "We're, you know, happy to have you around."
Castiel wants to say something to that, a warm feeling in his chest, but finds his tongue thick and can't force anything out for several long moments. "I - I'm glad," he finally settles on.
Dean glances back, gives him a smile. "You feel anything?"
Castiel blinks.
"I mean, here in the forest," Dean says hastily. "Anything weird?"
Castiel extends his senses as much as he can, sensing animals nearby, but nothing more intelligent. There's a strange sort of veil over it, though, when he looks closer. "There's something like a glamour here."
"What, like something a witch would do?"
"Yes, but this is harmless. Protective, light magic." It almost tickles his senses, in fact.
Dean takes out his cell phone, hits a number and brings it to his ear. "Yeah, Sam? Cas says there's a glamour over the forest."
A pause.
"What's it do?" Dean asks Castiel.
"It prevents those who wish to harm it from being here." Castiel pauses, thinks about it. "And it's strong. It's meant to last, even against concentrated human effort."
Dean repeats that into the cell, and then begins frowning as he listens to whatever Sam is saying. Then he blinks, eyes widening. "Huh. Meet us at the motel." And he hangs up. He turns to Castiel. "Sam ended up re-interviewing some of the witnesses. He found a pattern - all of those that killed themselves, in the days before their deaths they were unusually happy and past traumas became, I don't know, they remembered them less or something. That's why the suicides came as such a shock, and that doctor was suspicious. Only a few told us that beforehand, but some witnesses were uncooperative." Dean's mouth twists, like he's puzzled, thinking.
Castiel watches him, also thinking.
"What does that have to do with a protective spell, though?" Dean asks, probably rhetorically.
"I don't know. It's possible they're not related."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, like that ever happens." He puts his cell back into his pocket. "Let's head back and meet Sam." He gives Castiel one last long look, then he starts walking back. Castiel follows.
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As it turns out, Sam's even waiting with food. Dean starts rummaging through it immediately, pulls out two paper plates and puts them on the table, heaping them with food - Chinese, from what Castiel recalls of human diets.
"Looking to gain weight, Dean?" Sam inquires, from his position sitting cross-legged on the bed.
Dean gives him a dirty look, and hands one of the plates to Castiel, along with a plastic fork. "No arguing," he commands. "Doesn’t need to doesn't mean it won't taste good."
Castiel takes the plate, thinking there are far too many negatives in that sentence. "Thank you," he says, settling on Dean's bed. Instead of taking the chair, Dean chooses to sit next to him, with his own full plate.
"Dish tak to -" Dean begins.
Sam gives him a look.
Dean chews and swallows. "Did you ever talk to the daughter?"
"Of the first victim? Yeah, briefly. She'd hardly talk to me, though, kept saying she didn't want to talk to reporters."
"That could be suspicious," Dean remarks. "We should track her down, maybe she's the missing piece."
"I'll look into what someone would need to make a glamour like the one Cas said was there," Sam says, pausing in his eating to stare vacantly for several seconds. "I don't know, might help us track down who the witch is, or if it's the daughter," Sam suggests. "I think you should talk to her - she might not recognize you as a reporter, Dean. And definitely not Cas."
"Sounds like a plan. Cas, up for it?"
"Of course," Castiel says simply, and eats his noodles.
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When Castiel gets into the Impala, Dean is staring at him carefully, not turning the car on. "Can you lean back, I mean, with your back?"
Castiel attempts it. Mild pain flares, but he's been in mild pain all day, so he says, "It's fine."
"Sure?"
"Yes." He presses his full weight against the seat, and winces.
"Lean on your side," Dean suggests.
Castiel does that instead, the pain easing.
Dean nods to himself, satisfied, and turns the car on, pulling out of the small parking lot.
Ms. Sally Castor lives on the edge of town, in the house her father lived and died in. On one side there's the forest, on another lies a road that runs through town, the highway entrance a couple of miles away.
The house is old, for this area, displays the craftsmanship common to a hundred years ago. There's a well in front. Dean pulls into the dirt driveway.
"I've got ID as FBI," Dean says. "Might make her more cooperative." He eyes Castiel for a second. "Jeans aren't the best, but … you still got the ID I gave you before?"
"Yes," Castiel says. He'd put it in the pocket of his jeans, after dressing in Dean's clothes.
"Good," and Dean gets out of the car, Castiel following.
They walk up to the porch, the boards creaking beneath them. Dean winces at the sound, gives Castiel a look that Castiel is certain communicates something, and then Dean knocks on the door. There's no answer, and Dean waits half a minute before knocking again. Nothing.
"Let's check out behind the house," Dean says, stepping off the porch.
Castiel follows silently, then says, "She's near."
Dean's head whips around. "You can tell?"
"In the backyard," Castiel confirms.
They circle around. The backyard faces the forest, and as they get closer, Castiel sees it's much like the forest - tall trees, some wild grass, a stone centerpiece almost two feet wide, still and murky water in it. A woman in a jeans and a black shirt is standing over it, hands on the stone, facing away from them and looking into the water, dark hair falling over her face like a curtain, making her face unseen.
Dean doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, but she turns her head anyway, staring at them blankly, face pale.
"Ms. Castor?" Dean says, keeping in character, going for his ID. "FBI. I'm -"
"You're not FBI," she snaps. "No more than the other one was a reporter. I checked. Who are you?" she asks, turning fully, eyes flickering from one to the other.
"We mean you no harm," Castiel says.
"We just want to find out what's going on," Dean adds, but his hand is wandering to inside his jacket still - going for his gun. "That's all."
She places one hand in the water, no ripples emerging from her touch, and faces the other out, palm open. Castiel sees her focusing, sees her gathering the magic, and steps in front of Dean and then - Castiel's overwhelmed.
Darkness.
His eyes open some time later, grass waving in front of his face. He's on his side, shoulder wet from moisture in the ground, distantly chilled. His body still has that ache he's had since the holy fire, but something about it seems weirdly far away, like it's happening to someone else. He thinks about being attacked, about the woman, about the angel - but most of it is a blank. Something happened to him, but he doesn't know what. He knows he's here, he knows Dean is here, but he doesn't know why he was hiding from his brothers, he just knows he loves them still, and all he can think is, I love Dean. And it's a thought accompanied by no pain, none at all.
Hand in mired in dirt, he pushes himself up to a sitting position, and sees Dean, lying next to him. He places a hand on Dean's shoulder, gentle contact. "Dean?"
Dean blinks, rolls over, clothes smeared with dirt. "Wha happened?" he slurs, then blinks. "What happened?" he repeats, clearer, sitting up.
Castiel thinks back, and that's all it takes to rip the veil.
Betrayal. Killing his brothers. Lucifer rising, and it being heaven's plan all along, and Dean staring at him, asking him to betray all he is. And he does.
Castiel just knows why, now, freed for those seconds from his pain and fear. He lets loose a whimper, blinks rapidly, chest tight and hurting, before he takes control of his breathing, and Dean leans forward as if to touch him.
"The witch, she took my bad memories," Castiel says into the silence of Dean's stare. "She took my pain, or tried to." He reaches out, places his hand on the side of Dean's face, pain sparked, but he focuses outward, towards Dean. "Do you remember?"
"I - yeah, I guess." Dean's face is almost blank. "Cas," Dean says. His hand moves up, covers Castiel's, warm and gentle and comforting, and he smiles.
It's Dean, touching him, but Castiel knows there's something not right. "Dean, do you remember Alastair?" It's the most painful memory Castiel can think of.
Dean pauses and considers Castiel's question, strangely calm. "No."
Castiel exhales, sharp. He gets to his feet, and holds out his hand to help Dean rise to his, which Dean does, and Dean doesn't let go.
Castiel looks around for the witch, but she's nowhere in sight.
"Cas, what's going on?"
"She's not strong," Castiel says. "But the spell is, and she needs power for it."
"What?" Dean still looks confused.
"She - Sally, the witch, she took painful memories and emotions from you, from us," Castiel explains, watching Dean carefully. "Mine snapped back almost immediately, I expect because I'm an angel and my memories are connected to my grace, to some degree. But yours …" He must not have been able to block her, not entirely.
"I don't feel like there's anything missing," Dean says with a frown.
"You will," Castiel says, and he understands now, the happiness broken by suicide. He hesitates, then presses two fingers to Dean's forehead, Deana almost rearing back, then allowing the touch. Castiel presses farther inward with his grace, but no. The memories aren't simply blocked; they're gone, and so Castiel needs to find her.
"I don't feel like we need to chase her," Dean remarks.
Castiel wonders if the absence of that pain has removed the drive, as well, and then shakes off his doubts. Dean needs all of himself. "Come on," and he urges Dean forward by keeping hold of his hand and moving.
He can sense the witch, out of sight and deep in the forest. The sun is low but bright, so they have a few hours of daylight left. Dean is stumbling along behind him, hand still in his, Dean holding on tight and Castiel doing the same. He doesn't use a trail, just breaks his own way, pushing branches aside and moving over uneven ground. Dean doesn't say anything, trusting, and that's all wrong, too. Dean always confronts or misdirects or tries to take control.
"What am I missing?" Dean asks him, as they move through the forest, starting to breath faster from the pace. "I remember Sam."
"Do you remember what Sam did with Ruby?" Castiel asks, looking back.
Dean's face twists into a grimace at the name, then the expression falls into confusion. "No. He left her, didn't he?"
Castiel's exhale and turning back to face the forest is answer enough.
"How did we meet?" Dean asks abruptly.
Castiel glances back, quickly, then stops. Dean almost stumbles into him, surprised. "I saved you," Castiel says at last.
"Can't imagine why I'd want to forget that," Dean says with a smile.
A smile comes to Castiel's lips, unbidden. "I know I wouldn't want to," he says. "Despite the path it led me towards, I don't regret it."
"Would I want to remember?" Dean asks. He face turns to a frown in an uncertain way, like he's forgotten the expression. "Even the bad parts?"
Castiel closes his eyes. Of course Dean would; he knows that much of Dean's character. He'd choose the hard way when it's the right way, no matter the cost, because he's done it before. He squeezes Dean's hand, turns and starts moving again, muscles twinging, the sun falling. Maybe Dean won't want to remember, not without those memories to drive him, but Castiel has to give the choice. And he has to stop the killing.
He feels it when she stops running, waiting for them. It takes him mere minutes to catch up to her as a result, and they find her in a small clearing, looking upwards as if for guidance. Her shoulders are slumped, and she tilts her head to look at them. Castiel does not attack.
"Do you understand?" she asks, voice soft.
"I do," Castiel says gently, because he does. The glamour of the forest has nothing dark about it, what powers it transformed in the making. "Balance in nature is the way of witches with light magic. That's all you're trying to do, turn evil into good. Taking pain and turning it into safety, for this forest, from development. Maybe even for this town, haven't you?"
She nods, eyes filling with tears. "When my mother died, I wasn't able to carry it on my own. I had to find something powerful … and my father's grief was. I didn't know - I didn't know he would fight to get those memories back, the memories of my mother dying of cancer or anything else. I didn't know what was happening until the last one, I swear. Not everyone reacted that way, and even some of those that got their pain back didn't hurt themselves."
"I understand," Castiel says, Dean twitching at his side.
"I was trying to do the right thing," she murmurs.
"We hold onto pain," Dean says suddenly. "Sometimes it's all we have left." There's a line between his brows, and Castiel knows he is fighting, fighting the way Sally's father did. The way they all did, and then the pain coming back, overwhelming.
She inhales shakily, and then turns to Castiel. "I can give his back. I know you're - different, powerful. I don't know what you are, but please - if I took yours, it would last my spell centuries," she begs Castiel.
"I am different," Castiel acknowledges. "Too different, I think, for your spell, and it's my pain." His grace, which he has precious little left, and what he has he needs, for Dean. "I'll keep it. And Dean … he needs all of himself."
"Do I?" Dean returns, looking at Castiel. "I feel peace, and I have a feeling I haven't felt that for a long time."
Castiel looks at the witch, but she's silent, watching them. He turns to Dean. "You are the strongest person I know, Dean, and even through all your pain, you've always fought for what you believe is right. Will you let her take that from you? Take pieces of your life, pieces of Sam from you?"
"I - " Dean is uncertain, and Castiel remembers thinking, I love you. He wonders what lurks in Dean's mind, now. But the future, he most definitely knows, because for all Castiel's confusion regarding humanity, in many ways he knows Dean well, Dean's marks on Castiel reflecting who Dean is.
He turns to the witch. To Sally. "I know him, and he'll remember eventually anyway, and that power will be lost to you."
"That's why the suicides," Dean interrupts, fractured memory catching on. "You took away their pain, and when it came back, they couldn't handle it anymore." He pauses. "Would I?" he asks Castiel.
"Yes," Castiel says, certain. "And I'll be here, Sam will be here."
Dean blinks, nods. Castiel can see him thinking, but doesn't know his thoughts, doesn't know what Dean will do. Not here, not now, only part of himself intact. "Sally," Dean says. "What if people came to you and wanted their pain gone? Could you take it then?"
She stills.
"Consent," Castiel adds, slowly. "They wouldn't fight to get it back."
"How can I - people wouldn't believe it, people don't believe in magic."
"Not in spells, no. But - the water in your well," Dean says. "Places with water are known to have magical properties all the time. You don't have to take from people, Sally. Some will give it. I can spread the word, I have the contacts for that. You said you were trying to do the right thing."
Castiel doesn't know if it's the spell making Dean this way, softening him and thinking of Sally as a person instead of a thing to be hunted, or if Dean always had that inside of him, mostly hidden. But he sees the earnestness in Dean's face, sees the spark of hope in Sally's. She nods.
Dean steps forward, lets go of Castiel's hand. "Let me remember."
She hesitates, visibly, then raises her hand, and Dean falls.
Castiel catches him, lowering him slowly to the ground, and Dean grasps for him, fingers clenching his shoulders tightly, digging into the burns, but the pain is momentary, and Castiel returns the contact. He wraps his arms around Dean, hands on his back, Dean's face tucked into his shoulder. Dean freezes for a long second, then begins to shake, ragged sobs coursing through his body, and Castiel holds on. Dean doesn't speak.
When Castiel looks up, Sally is watching, hands limp by her sides, tears running down her face. "I'm sorry."
Castiel just nods, and together there, they wait for Dean.
-------------------------------
They move at an even, slow pace through the forest, back to Sally's house. Dean's face is pale, eyes still red from the tears, but he's calmed down considerably, only casting in turns nervous and hating glances Sally's way. She does not look at him, conspicuously so. Night is falling, more evident than usual in the shadow of the trees.
Dean holds Castiel's hand. It's the only give Dean acknowledges to what he's gone through, and Castiel finds himself grateful for the contact, an ease to his own pain, still lingering.
When they reach her house, Dean lets go of Castiel and turns to Sally. "Any more deaths, and you're a dead woman. I'll be watching. Got it?"
She nods.
"Good." He turns and doesn't look back, heading for the Impala.
Sally ghosts up to Castiel's side. "He'll keep his word?"
"Yes," Castiel says. "Both parts. Be careful."
"I will. Thank you."
Dean doesn't look at him when Castiel gets in the car. The engine comes to life with a rumble, headlights piercing the darkness, and Dean drives back to the motel at an unusually slow speed, one hand on the wheel, staring out like he's not even seeing the road.
"Dean, are you all right?"
Dean doesn't answer. After a few miles, he parks the car before the motel, and turns off the engine and lights.
"I have to admit," Dean whispers, "a part of me regrets asking for all that shit back. And a part of me is wondering why I'm not going into that motel room and dragging Sam out there."
"Dean, I'm sorry."
Dean looks at him, finally, expression oddly vulnerable and uncertain. "You're right, though, you knew. I don't want it if I miss all those important pieces, of Sam and me and Dad, and - you. And if I did take that deal, I wouldn't remember why I - why I … shit, Cas."
Dean grabs Castiel by the back of his neck and kisses him.
Castiel gasps, shock and joy and Dean's back and forth suddenly making sense, and then kisses him back, body falling forward across the bench seat, pressing against Dean's body. Dean breaks the kiss to breathe and laughs.
"Have I mentioned how fucking hot it is that you're wearing my clothes?" Dean breathes.
"I like them," Castiel admits.
"Good," Dean says. "'Cause you're keeping them." He smiles. "I'd totally do you right here, but Sam has the most horrible timing in the world, and I don't want to scar him permanently."
This time, it's Castiel who laughs.
-------------------------------
"I call the backseat," Sam said, "you can sleep in the cold. Lovebirds." He smirked, that same smirk he's been giving Dean ever since they came back to the hotel holding hands. Knowing, Castiel decides. Like he saw it coming, and Dean rolls his eyes every time in answer.
They're somewhere in Nevada, the stars fully out and the hood of the Impala still warm, Castiel and Dean sitting on it, Sam asleep in the backseat. The air is cold, fall coming on, and they're still hiding from Lucifer and Michael, and Castiel is still searching for God, but they meet here, every day, in Dean and Sam's home. Dean's gaze is already slightly sleepy as he looks up, beer in hand, Castiel's arm pressed against his, and so Castiel feels his shiver.
For once, Castiel is glad his grace is fading; he lets his wings out, fully healed now, and curls one around Dean, causing Dean to jump and blink, then laugh softly and quietly. "You're totally doing the angel equivalent of putting your arm around me, aren't you?"
"My wings are indeed another appendage."
Dean snorts and smiles. He says, "Thanks."
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Adjusted to the Dark
Author: apokteino
Recipient: takadainmate
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7187
Warnings: Mentions of OCs committing suicide (no detail)
Spoilers: Season Five
Summary: Injured badly by holy fire, Castiel runs to Dean and Sam for help, and ends up participating in their current case - and then Dean and Castiel become a part of it.
Author notes: This is a combination of the third prompt (Castiel injured by holy fire) and having casefic and h/c in the recipient's general likes. I'm hoping this isn't too angsty, angst is kind of like air to me and it snuck in there just a bit. :p I hope you like it!
Castiel has no idea how he was found. He's shifting, flying, wings still strong and his senses searching for a trace of his Father, when an angel crashes into him and spins him out into reality.
He lands on fresh soil, fingers sinking deep into the loam, and then he's looking up and rolling, an angel's blade missing him by inches. They're in a forest somewhere, trees rising around them a hundred feet in the blue sky, and then he hears a snap and a rush. He's running before he can think about it, just barely crossing a line of holy fire freshly lit, and he feels the power of it burn into his wings and skin, coursing through his grace. He screams, helplessly, but he has no time, and he strangles the sound, scanning the area for his attacker.
He's standing a few feet away, actually waiting for Castiel to rise to his feet, knowing he can't run. Not like this. Castiel's grace still burns, vision blurry, so he doesn't recognize the angel, can only note the male vessel, dark eyes, a long reach.
He attacks, and Castiel defends.
The angel doesn't manage anything close to a killing blow, but within less than a minute Castiel has long slashes on one arm and his side. Castiel has to keep parrying, barely able to return an offensive, and he realizes that at this rate, he'll be worn down and killed.
So he lets his guard down, makes his parries slower, and lets the angel get close enough to feel his breath on Castiel's face, and Castiel slashes at his neck, and the angel stumbles back.
Castiel finishes him with a blow underneath his chin, gasping and shutting his eyes against the flash of light.
He sinks to the ground, panting. Hide hide hide, his instincts are telling him, but where? Can he even fly?
He reaches into his pocket, takes out his cell phone, and dials Dean's number. It rings twice, then, "Yeah?"
"Dean, where are you?" He chokes on the last word, spits out blood.
"Cas? Uh, we're in California," and gives him the address.
Castiel flies on broken wings, and collapses to the blurry look of Dean's face, green eyes wide.
-------------------------------
He wakes up mostly naked, which he can tell before opening his eyes because he can feel the air on his skin, an odd and new sensation. He shifts, and pain rises in his body, loosed through a groan he can't control.
"Cas? Cas!"
He opens his eyes. Dean is beside him, holding a cotton ball in one hand, leaning in and placing his other hand on Castiel's forehead.
Castiel glances around without answering, noting that he's in a motel room with the odd motif of circles everywhere, in green and purple. Sam isn't in sight, and he returns his gaze to Dean, seeing the frown on Dean's face, the concern nearly masked. "Cas?" Dean asks, withdrawing his hand, "you awake?"
"Yes," Castiel says hoarsely. "What are you doing?"
"You have burns," Dean explains, gesturing at Castiel's body. Castiel raises both arms, sees lines of burned skin, a match to the burned grace within him, mostly following the veins of his human body. His body, now only his, is manifesting the harm to his grace, apparently choosing this way. He's naked except for his underwear, and he can feel that the burns extend over his entire body. The slashes have mostly healed.
"Oh," Castiel says at last.
"Disinfectant," Dean continues, hefting the cotton ball. "With a numbing agent. Now stay still."
"They will heal on their own," Castiel points out.
"And I bet you'll heal better if you're not fighting an infection," Dean says, with a roll of his eyes.
Castiel decides not to argue, and in truth, some part of him welcomes the contact. "Thank you."
Dean eyes him warily for a full second, then nods in reply. He finishes with surprisingly gentle touches along Castiel's leg, then tosses the slightly bloody ball into the trash. Castiel watches Dean carefully, but all he sees is Dean's usual perfunctory concern, interspersed with glances and quick shifts in expression Castiel can't quite read.
It's frustrating, and then equally reassuring, that Dean remains the same as when they first met, holding everything in and behind a wall, a constant in a world that seems ever-changing to Castiel's mind. He watches Dean get up, silently go through a duffel, and then he brings out a pair of jeans and a shirt. "Your clothes are torn and bloody, so you'll have to wear mine, unless you feel up to doing that thing with your mojo. We're closer in size than Sam, and besides, he wears too much purple."
Castiel considers the first part of Dean's statement, ignoring the second half out of confusion. "I don't think I have sufficient reserves."
Dean tosses the clothing to him. "Have at it, then," and he pauses for a second, "unless your injuries hurt too much."
Castiel puts on the clothes, then sits on the bed, resisting the urge to pant. His wings are causing most of the pain, the burns a secondary problem. He smoothes a hand over the shirt; it smells like Dean, even clean, and he finds he likes it. "I will leave as soon as I am able."
To his surprise, Dean sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, then he looks up and gives Castiel an even stare. "You don't have to go running off, you know. You can stay here until you're completely healed up."
"I … don't want to be a burden." There are times when Dean seems to barely tolerate his presence. They are allies by circumstance, because heaven has overturned all the rules and Dean convinced him to make his own, ones he at least thinks God would want. But often, it seems like Dean grabs hold of him fast and then pushes him away with quick and angry words, and Castiel … prefers to avoid that. There's nothing like that here, not in Dean's eyes, just curious attention and worry.
"You're not," Dean says shortly. He sits next to Castiel, unusually close. "What exactly happened, anyway? What caused those injuries?"
Castiel frowns, not at Dean, but at himself. "I was taken by surprise while in flight, and partially crossed over a line of holy fire."
"Partially? I thought that'd kill you outright."
"The circle wasn't complete," Castiel explains, "so instead I was badly injured."
Dean's eyes narrow. "Worse than this?" and he gestures at Castiel's body.
"I - can't fly, at the moment," Castiel says delicately.
Dean makes a silent 'oh'. He clears his throat, not looking at Castiel, then says, out of the blue, "Sam's getting dinner. I don't know if you want anything -"
"I do not require food," Castiel assures him. He's silently dreading the day he does, if he lives long enough to see his grace essentially extinguished.
"Right," Dean says, and with perfect timing, there's the sound of the lock turning, and then the door opens.
Sam opens the door the rest of the way with his foot, and enters, hands full of takeout. He kicks the door shut, and says, "Hey, Cas. You look better." He gives Castiel a quick look over, as if to ascertain his condition, then blinks and turns back to Dean.
"What took so long?" Dean asks.
Sam smiles. "Guess who I ran into? That doctor, Carryton."
Dean sits up straight with a jerk, then stands and moves over to the table, as Sam sets the bags down. "What'd he say?"
"Told me what he sent to the CDC," Sam says. "Physically, there's nothing connecting the deaths, but he's convinced they're unnatural somehow."
Dean nods, looking distracted.
"Is this a hunt?" Castiel interrupts.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Four deaths in six months, all suicide. One of them was even just passing through, a tourist."
"In a town of five thousand," Dean adds. "The chances of that happening and not being connected are practically nothing."
"Do you know anything else?" Castiel asks.
Sam pauses. "Hey, you don't need to help us on this, really. You … don't look very good."
"I'm fine," Castiel says. "I would prefer to help, if you are amenable."
Dean walks over, almost claps Castiel on the shoulder, then stops. But the smile he gives him is genuine. "Glad to have the help."
-------------------------------
After eating, Dean and Sam settle down to sleep for the night. Castiel had been out for hours, apparently, his own sense of time skewed. There'd been an awkward silence, broken by Sam offering to let Castiel use his bed (Dean standing awkwardly in the background, like he wants to speak, but he doesn't) but Castiel, even as injured as he is, does not need sleep. Yet. So he sits in the chair at the table, the laptop at his fingertips, the only light in the room, counterbalance to the calm and even in-out of Dean and Sam's breathing. They even almost match, almost breathing together, still connected.
Castiel finds himself envying it, if only for the lack of same with his own family. He's discovered he hates being alone, as he hates few things. Dean looks peaceful, strangely so, like reconnecting with Sam has eased something, some tension Castiel has seen in him since Lucifer rose. The pain between them is not entirely gone, but it's faded, and Castiel feels like some part of that has moved between Castiel and Dean. He watches them, silent, for some indeterminable period of time, before he looks at the laptop with Sam's instructions in mind.
New Hill, the small town they are in with the sole motel, was settled in the early late 1900's, a way station for those headed for California proper and the beach. Unlike most small towns, there's no center of revenue, no factory that provides most of the jobs. Instead, there's an equal give and take, small businesses run locally, no chain stores, which their website would seem to suggest is common. They appear dedicated to their insularity.
It takes him nearly an hour, but he does find a local newspaper that sometimes covers the events of the town (the actual local newspaper is not online), and he finds mention of some outside interests wanting to log in the forest and create a local factory to make wood floor boards.
There's mention of the four suicides in another edition, no doubt how Dean and Sam came to be here.
He keeps searching, but finds nothing else. Most of this information Dean and Sam had been able to give him, and Castiel knows Sam is a capable researcher.
Still, Castiel goes over the creatures in his head that would leave deaths in their wake that would look like suicides. There isn't many, and all would leave signs not apparent here.
He wonders if Dean and Sam have police reports. That might be useful.
But that's for tomorrow. He shuts the laptop and waits for dawn.
He blinks his eyes open, hours later, and finds Dean standing up and staring at him. "What?" Castiel says.
"Nothing. You - never mind." With that, Dean turns and heads for the bathroom, wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt. Castiel watches him go, a strange feeling rising, familiar as always, but strange.
When he turns to Sam, Sam looks amused, throwing off his covers and throwing his legs over, standing and scratching his head. "Did you find anything?" Sam asks, glancing at the laptop.
"Nothing more than you already know, I’m sure," Castiel says. "I've gone over what I know, but though the method of death is different in each, none are similar to creatures I know that could or would fake such a thing. I'm sorry I can't be more of a help."
"Don't worry about it," Sam says, "it's good to get a second opinion. Dean and I are pretty much at a loss, too."
"One thing you could help with, actually," Dean says, leaving the bathroom and pulling on jeans. "We heard some ghost stories and junk about the surrounding forest. You'd be able to feel it if that were the case, right?"
"Yes," Castiel confirms. His grace is still present enough for something as small as that, and he finds himself pleased. "That I can do."
"Good," Dean says. "What's your shoe size?"
"What?" Castiel blinks.
"Dress shoes ain't gonna cut it in a forest, Cas."
Cas looks at his feet. "I have no idea."
Dean ruffles through his duffel, throws sneakers at Castiel. "Find out."
-------------------------------
Dean's shoes fit, but the sensation of walking has been rendered something entirely different. He spends most of breakfast watching Dean eat and flexing his toes while he listens to Dean and Sam argue about which one of them is Han Solo. He has no idea why they're arguing, since clearly neither is Han Solo, they are Sam and Dean Winchester, but he decides to say nothing and not reveal his ignorance. He's sure there's something he's missing, he can tell from the glint in Dean's eye when he glances Castiel's way, expecting him to speak up and express his confusion.
Castiel remains silent, though, until on the way out Dean does clap Castiel's back.
To his complete surprise, pain rocks through Castiel with such force he staggers.
"Whoa!" Dean grabs hold of Castiel's arm, by sheer force keeping him upright.
"That - that hurt," Castiel mutters.
"What hurts? Shit, the burns?" Dean says, quickly and intent, looking like he's kicking himself for even touching Castiel. Dean's body is warm and close to Castiel, and Castiel feels the urge to lean in. Dean is - he can't stop himself from wanting to be closer, to learn more, to be closer.
Castiel meets his gaze, a surge of - of something running through him at Dean's concern and worry. "My wings," he blurts, as soon as he realizes it. His vessel is bound to him more closely than ever, so the pain of his wings is being extended to the physical body. Entirely unexpected, and yet he should have expected it, as he began to feel this body's pains and aches more closely.
"Your wings? What's - are they burned?"
"Broken," Castiel says. "I didn't expect the pain to transfer to my back, though."
"If they're broken, shouldn't they be set?" Sam asks, having come to Castiel's other side and slipped an arm under Castiel's.
"I -" and then Castiel stops. "I don't know. Angels that are injured that way usually return to heaven to heal." He doesn't even know if his wings will be solid enough to set, here.
"We're taking you back to the motel," Dean says in a tone that brooks no argument, "and taking a look."
Castiel almost says Dean would be blinded, then realizes he wouldn't be - not with Castiel as weak as he is. So instead, "Okay," comes out.
The town is small, so they walk back to the motel, Castiel recovering most of his strength along the way, until he can walk on his own. He hasn't had a good look at his wings since the angel hit him and he crossed the holy fire. It's entirely possible that something needs to be done with them, and realistically, Dean and Sam are the only ones he can depend on.
"Doesn't your shirt hurt?" Dean asks, when they're in the room, hands hovering like he wants to take it off.
"It does," Castiel says, "but the pain is relatively minor." He strips off his shirt.
Dean's face flushes, and he looks away for a long second.
Castiel moves to the middle of the room, and without hesitation manifests his wings, uncurling them into this plane of reality.
"Holy shit," Dean says, sounding stunned.
Castiel twists his head to look. One wing is crooked, pain flaring when he extends it, but the other looks fine, lots of broken feathers, but now that they are no longer tucked away, he can tell that one is sufficiently healed. It's only the left wing that has a problem.
"They're blue," Dean says inanely. His eyes are wide, looking oddly astounded, and Sam is wearing a similar expression.
Castiel looks again. Yes, a very dark blue, as they've always been, and in this plane, weakened this way, the wingspan is short, only about thirty-five feet in all. There's shots of black feathers, not many, just a few here and there, different in color because of the scars beneath, unable to grow back in normally since raising Dean from hell. Then he turns back to his left wing. The bone beneath the feathers is twisted, slightly, healing but not very well. "I need you to pull my left wing, so the bone straightens," Castiel decides.
"I'll do it," Dean says quickly.
"Anything else we should know?" Sam asks, casting a glance towards Dean that Castiel can't read.
Castiel frowns. "No."
"Were you walking around with your wing broken like that all day?" Dean asks, and Castiel wonders why, since the answer should be obvious. Dean must see something on his face, because he then asks, "Want something to bite on?"
"No," Castiel repeats.
Dean heads over to the wing, extended so the tip nearly touches the wall. He grabs hold, looking uncertain, touch too light to actually get a good grip.
Castiel realizes why. "You'll need to hold it tighter to pull it," he says. "The pain will be manageable."
Dean takes a breath, and then without warning he takes hold tight of where the wing curves down and pulls.
Castiel strangles a scream, and as soon as Dean is done pulling, he forces the wings back into the ether, stumbling and then falling to the floor. Dean's at his side in an instant, arm along his lower back, and Castiel leans into the touch, head falling against Dean's shoulder. To his surprise, Dean lets him stay that way for almost a minute, Castiel harshly breathing in and out against Dean's warm body.
"You should lie down," Dean says.
"No," Castiel replies, looking up. "It feels much better now, actually."
"You should probably stay here," Dean insists, looking exasperated.
"No -"
"Dammit, Cas," Dean interrupts with a sigh.
"I will feel better if I am useful," Castiel says, which is true.
Dean sighs and frowns. "Are you sure? You just got a major body part set." He pauses, still not quite letting go.
"Yes," Castiel says quite positively. He's not going to let a little pain stop him.
-------------------------------
In the end, Dean insists they stay in the motel room for an hour before he agrees Castiel feels well enough to go check out the forest. Sam leaves on his own, promising to call, going to meet a family member of one of the victims that they couldn't meet with yesterday. They'd talked to all of the family members except hers, which had the first victim - her father, not long after the natural death of her mother. The family members mostly talked about the surprise of the suicides, Castiel understands, and little else.
Then Dean and Castiel head out.
There's a number of hiking paths through the forest, and they had head for one of those, Dean carrying a pack, though Castiel's fairly sure he'd be able to transport them in an emergency.
The path is narrow, a footpath more than a proper trail, and to his surprise, after half an hour or so he can feel the muscles in his body working, not gliding effortlessly, extensions of grace. It's not tiring, exactly, just a presence made noticeable, so he keeps walking without making mention of it. Dean's walking ahead of him, and Castiel wonders if he's feeling that same stretch, and imagines Dean is probably in better physical shape than he is.
"You know, you don't need to be useful," Dean says suddenly. "We're, you know, happy to have you around."
Castiel wants to say something to that, a warm feeling in his chest, but finds his tongue thick and can't force anything out for several long moments. "I - I'm glad," he finally settles on.
Dean glances back, gives him a smile. "You feel anything?"
Castiel blinks.
"I mean, here in the forest," Dean says hastily. "Anything weird?"
Castiel extends his senses as much as he can, sensing animals nearby, but nothing more intelligent. There's a strange sort of veil over it, though, when he looks closer. "There's something like a glamour here."
"What, like something a witch would do?"
"Yes, but this is harmless. Protective, light magic." It almost tickles his senses, in fact.
Dean takes out his cell phone, hits a number and brings it to his ear. "Yeah, Sam? Cas says there's a glamour over the forest."
A pause.
"What's it do?" Dean asks Castiel.
"It prevents those who wish to harm it from being here." Castiel pauses, thinks about it. "And it's strong. It's meant to last, even against concentrated human effort."
Dean repeats that into the cell, and then begins frowning as he listens to whatever Sam is saying. Then he blinks, eyes widening. "Huh. Meet us at the motel." And he hangs up. He turns to Castiel. "Sam ended up re-interviewing some of the witnesses. He found a pattern - all of those that killed themselves, in the days before their deaths they were unusually happy and past traumas became, I don't know, they remembered them less or something. That's why the suicides came as such a shock, and that doctor was suspicious. Only a few told us that beforehand, but some witnesses were uncooperative." Dean's mouth twists, like he's puzzled, thinking.
Castiel watches him, also thinking.
"What does that have to do with a protective spell, though?" Dean asks, probably rhetorically.
"I don't know. It's possible they're not related."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, like that ever happens." He puts his cell back into his pocket. "Let's head back and meet Sam." He gives Castiel one last long look, then he starts walking back. Castiel follows.
-------------------------------
As it turns out, Sam's even waiting with food. Dean starts rummaging through it immediately, pulls out two paper plates and puts them on the table, heaping them with food - Chinese, from what Castiel recalls of human diets.
"Looking to gain weight, Dean?" Sam inquires, from his position sitting cross-legged on the bed.
Dean gives him a dirty look, and hands one of the plates to Castiel, along with a plastic fork. "No arguing," he commands. "Doesn’t need to doesn't mean it won't taste good."
Castiel takes the plate, thinking there are far too many negatives in that sentence. "Thank you," he says, settling on Dean's bed. Instead of taking the chair, Dean chooses to sit next to him, with his own full plate.
"Dish tak to -" Dean begins.
Sam gives him a look.
Dean chews and swallows. "Did you ever talk to the daughter?"
"Of the first victim? Yeah, briefly. She'd hardly talk to me, though, kept saying she didn't want to talk to reporters."
"That could be suspicious," Dean remarks. "We should track her down, maybe she's the missing piece."
"I'll look into what someone would need to make a glamour like the one Cas said was there," Sam says, pausing in his eating to stare vacantly for several seconds. "I don't know, might help us track down who the witch is, or if it's the daughter," Sam suggests. "I think you should talk to her - she might not recognize you as a reporter, Dean. And definitely not Cas."
"Sounds like a plan. Cas, up for it?"
"Of course," Castiel says simply, and eats his noodles.
-------------------------------
When Castiel gets into the Impala, Dean is staring at him carefully, not turning the car on. "Can you lean back, I mean, with your back?"
Castiel attempts it. Mild pain flares, but he's been in mild pain all day, so he says, "It's fine."
"Sure?"
"Yes." He presses his full weight against the seat, and winces.
"Lean on your side," Dean suggests.
Castiel does that instead, the pain easing.
Dean nods to himself, satisfied, and turns the car on, pulling out of the small parking lot.
Ms. Sally Castor lives on the edge of town, in the house her father lived and died in. On one side there's the forest, on another lies a road that runs through town, the highway entrance a couple of miles away.
The house is old, for this area, displays the craftsmanship common to a hundred years ago. There's a well in front. Dean pulls into the dirt driveway.
"I've got ID as FBI," Dean says. "Might make her more cooperative." He eyes Castiel for a second. "Jeans aren't the best, but … you still got the ID I gave you before?"
"Yes," Castiel says. He'd put it in the pocket of his jeans, after dressing in Dean's clothes.
"Good," and Dean gets out of the car, Castiel following.
They walk up to the porch, the boards creaking beneath them. Dean winces at the sound, gives Castiel a look that Castiel is certain communicates something, and then Dean knocks on the door. There's no answer, and Dean waits half a minute before knocking again. Nothing.
"Let's check out behind the house," Dean says, stepping off the porch.
Castiel follows silently, then says, "She's near."
Dean's head whips around. "You can tell?"
"In the backyard," Castiel confirms.
They circle around. The backyard faces the forest, and as they get closer, Castiel sees it's much like the forest - tall trees, some wild grass, a stone centerpiece almost two feet wide, still and murky water in it. A woman in a jeans and a black shirt is standing over it, hands on the stone, facing away from them and looking into the water, dark hair falling over her face like a curtain, making her face unseen.
Dean doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, but she turns her head anyway, staring at them blankly, face pale.
"Ms. Castor?" Dean says, keeping in character, going for his ID. "FBI. I'm -"
"You're not FBI," she snaps. "No more than the other one was a reporter. I checked. Who are you?" she asks, turning fully, eyes flickering from one to the other.
"We mean you no harm," Castiel says.
"We just want to find out what's going on," Dean adds, but his hand is wandering to inside his jacket still - going for his gun. "That's all."
She places one hand in the water, no ripples emerging from her touch, and faces the other out, palm open. Castiel sees her focusing, sees her gathering the magic, and steps in front of Dean and then - Castiel's overwhelmed.
Darkness.
His eyes open some time later, grass waving in front of his face. He's on his side, shoulder wet from moisture in the ground, distantly chilled. His body still has that ache he's had since the holy fire, but something about it seems weirdly far away, like it's happening to someone else. He thinks about being attacked, about the woman, about the angel - but most of it is a blank. Something happened to him, but he doesn't know what. He knows he's here, he knows Dean is here, but he doesn't know why he was hiding from his brothers, he just knows he loves them still, and all he can think is, I love Dean. And it's a thought accompanied by no pain, none at all.
Hand in mired in dirt, he pushes himself up to a sitting position, and sees Dean, lying next to him. He places a hand on Dean's shoulder, gentle contact. "Dean?"
Dean blinks, rolls over, clothes smeared with dirt. "Wha happened?" he slurs, then blinks. "What happened?" he repeats, clearer, sitting up.
Castiel thinks back, and that's all it takes to rip the veil.
Betrayal. Killing his brothers. Lucifer rising, and it being heaven's plan all along, and Dean staring at him, asking him to betray all he is. And he does.
Castiel just knows why, now, freed for those seconds from his pain and fear. He lets loose a whimper, blinks rapidly, chest tight and hurting, before he takes control of his breathing, and Dean leans forward as if to touch him.
"The witch, she took my bad memories," Castiel says into the silence of Dean's stare. "She took my pain, or tried to." He reaches out, places his hand on the side of Dean's face, pain sparked, but he focuses outward, towards Dean. "Do you remember?"
"I - yeah, I guess." Dean's face is almost blank. "Cas," Dean says. His hand moves up, covers Castiel's, warm and gentle and comforting, and he smiles.
It's Dean, touching him, but Castiel knows there's something not right. "Dean, do you remember Alastair?" It's the most painful memory Castiel can think of.
Dean pauses and considers Castiel's question, strangely calm. "No."
Castiel exhales, sharp. He gets to his feet, and holds out his hand to help Dean rise to his, which Dean does, and Dean doesn't let go.
Castiel looks around for the witch, but she's nowhere in sight.
"Cas, what's going on?"
"She's not strong," Castiel says. "But the spell is, and she needs power for it."
"What?" Dean still looks confused.
"She - Sally, the witch, she took painful memories and emotions from you, from us," Castiel explains, watching Dean carefully. "Mine snapped back almost immediately, I expect because I'm an angel and my memories are connected to my grace, to some degree. But yours …" He must not have been able to block her, not entirely.
"I don't feel like there's anything missing," Dean says with a frown.
"You will," Castiel says, and he understands now, the happiness broken by suicide. He hesitates, then presses two fingers to Dean's forehead, Deana almost rearing back, then allowing the touch. Castiel presses farther inward with his grace, but no. The memories aren't simply blocked; they're gone, and so Castiel needs to find her.
"I don't feel like we need to chase her," Dean remarks.
Castiel wonders if the absence of that pain has removed the drive, as well, and then shakes off his doubts. Dean needs all of himself. "Come on," and he urges Dean forward by keeping hold of his hand and moving.
He can sense the witch, out of sight and deep in the forest. The sun is low but bright, so they have a few hours of daylight left. Dean is stumbling along behind him, hand still in his, Dean holding on tight and Castiel doing the same. He doesn't use a trail, just breaks his own way, pushing branches aside and moving over uneven ground. Dean doesn't say anything, trusting, and that's all wrong, too. Dean always confronts or misdirects or tries to take control.
"What am I missing?" Dean asks him, as they move through the forest, starting to breath faster from the pace. "I remember Sam."
"Do you remember what Sam did with Ruby?" Castiel asks, looking back.
Dean's face twists into a grimace at the name, then the expression falls into confusion. "No. He left her, didn't he?"
Castiel's exhale and turning back to face the forest is answer enough.
"How did we meet?" Dean asks abruptly.
Castiel glances back, quickly, then stops. Dean almost stumbles into him, surprised. "I saved you," Castiel says at last.
"Can't imagine why I'd want to forget that," Dean says with a smile.
A smile comes to Castiel's lips, unbidden. "I know I wouldn't want to," he says. "Despite the path it led me towards, I don't regret it."
"Would I want to remember?" Dean asks. He face turns to a frown in an uncertain way, like he's forgotten the expression. "Even the bad parts?"
Castiel closes his eyes. Of course Dean would; he knows that much of Dean's character. He'd choose the hard way when it's the right way, no matter the cost, because he's done it before. He squeezes Dean's hand, turns and starts moving again, muscles twinging, the sun falling. Maybe Dean won't want to remember, not without those memories to drive him, but Castiel has to give the choice. And he has to stop the killing.
He feels it when she stops running, waiting for them. It takes him mere minutes to catch up to her as a result, and they find her in a small clearing, looking upwards as if for guidance. Her shoulders are slumped, and she tilts her head to look at them. Castiel does not attack.
"Do you understand?" she asks, voice soft.
"I do," Castiel says gently, because he does. The glamour of the forest has nothing dark about it, what powers it transformed in the making. "Balance in nature is the way of witches with light magic. That's all you're trying to do, turn evil into good. Taking pain and turning it into safety, for this forest, from development. Maybe even for this town, haven't you?"
She nods, eyes filling with tears. "When my mother died, I wasn't able to carry it on my own. I had to find something powerful … and my father's grief was. I didn't know - I didn't know he would fight to get those memories back, the memories of my mother dying of cancer or anything else. I didn't know what was happening until the last one, I swear. Not everyone reacted that way, and even some of those that got their pain back didn't hurt themselves."
"I understand," Castiel says, Dean twitching at his side.
"I was trying to do the right thing," she murmurs.
"We hold onto pain," Dean says suddenly. "Sometimes it's all we have left." There's a line between his brows, and Castiel knows he is fighting, fighting the way Sally's father did. The way they all did, and then the pain coming back, overwhelming.
She inhales shakily, and then turns to Castiel. "I can give his back. I know you're - different, powerful. I don't know what you are, but please - if I took yours, it would last my spell centuries," she begs Castiel.
"I am different," Castiel acknowledges. "Too different, I think, for your spell, and it's my pain." His grace, which he has precious little left, and what he has he needs, for Dean. "I'll keep it. And Dean … he needs all of himself."
"Do I?" Dean returns, looking at Castiel. "I feel peace, and I have a feeling I haven't felt that for a long time."
Castiel looks at the witch, but she's silent, watching them. He turns to Dean. "You are the strongest person I know, Dean, and even through all your pain, you've always fought for what you believe is right. Will you let her take that from you? Take pieces of your life, pieces of Sam from you?"
"I - " Dean is uncertain, and Castiel remembers thinking, I love you. He wonders what lurks in Dean's mind, now. But the future, he most definitely knows, because for all Castiel's confusion regarding humanity, in many ways he knows Dean well, Dean's marks on Castiel reflecting who Dean is.
He turns to the witch. To Sally. "I know him, and he'll remember eventually anyway, and that power will be lost to you."
"That's why the suicides," Dean interrupts, fractured memory catching on. "You took away their pain, and when it came back, they couldn't handle it anymore." He pauses. "Would I?" he asks Castiel.
"Yes," Castiel says, certain. "And I'll be here, Sam will be here."
Dean blinks, nods. Castiel can see him thinking, but doesn't know his thoughts, doesn't know what Dean will do. Not here, not now, only part of himself intact. "Sally," Dean says. "What if people came to you and wanted their pain gone? Could you take it then?"
She stills.
"Consent," Castiel adds, slowly. "They wouldn't fight to get it back."
"How can I - people wouldn't believe it, people don't believe in magic."
"Not in spells, no. But - the water in your well," Dean says. "Places with water are known to have magical properties all the time. You don't have to take from people, Sally. Some will give it. I can spread the word, I have the contacts for that. You said you were trying to do the right thing."
Castiel doesn't know if it's the spell making Dean this way, softening him and thinking of Sally as a person instead of a thing to be hunted, or if Dean always had that inside of him, mostly hidden. But he sees the earnestness in Dean's face, sees the spark of hope in Sally's. She nods.
Dean steps forward, lets go of Castiel's hand. "Let me remember."
She hesitates, visibly, then raises her hand, and Dean falls.
Castiel catches him, lowering him slowly to the ground, and Dean grasps for him, fingers clenching his shoulders tightly, digging into the burns, but the pain is momentary, and Castiel returns the contact. He wraps his arms around Dean, hands on his back, Dean's face tucked into his shoulder. Dean freezes for a long second, then begins to shake, ragged sobs coursing through his body, and Castiel holds on. Dean doesn't speak.
When Castiel looks up, Sally is watching, hands limp by her sides, tears running down her face. "I'm sorry."
Castiel just nods, and together there, they wait for Dean.
-------------------------------
They move at an even, slow pace through the forest, back to Sally's house. Dean's face is pale, eyes still red from the tears, but he's calmed down considerably, only casting in turns nervous and hating glances Sally's way. She does not look at him, conspicuously so. Night is falling, more evident than usual in the shadow of the trees.
Dean holds Castiel's hand. It's the only give Dean acknowledges to what he's gone through, and Castiel finds himself grateful for the contact, an ease to his own pain, still lingering.
When they reach her house, Dean lets go of Castiel and turns to Sally. "Any more deaths, and you're a dead woman. I'll be watching. Got it?"
She nods.
"Good." He turns and doesn't look back, heading for the Impala.
Sally ghosts up to Castiel's side. "He'll keep his word?"
"Yes," Castiel says. "Both parts. Be careful."
"I will. Thank you."
Dean doesn't look at him when Castiel gets in the car. The engine comes to life with a rumble, headlights piercing the darkness, and Dean drives back to the motel at an unusually slow speed, one hand on the wheel, staring out like he's not even seeing the road.
"Dean, are you all right?"
Dean doesn't answer. After a few miles, he parks the car before the motel, and turns off the engine and lights.
"I have to admit," Dean whispers, "a part of me regrets asking for all that shit back. And a part of me is wondering why I'm not going into that motel room and dragging Sam out there."
"Dean, I'm sorry."
Dean looks at him, finally, expression oddly vulnerable and uncertain. "You're right, though, you knew. I don't want it if I miss all those important pieces, of Sam and me and Dad, and - you. And if I did take that deal, I wouldn't remember why I - why I … shit, Cas."
Dean grabs Castiel by the back of his neck and kisses him.
Castiel gasps, shock and joy and Dean's back and forth suddenly making sense, and then kisses him back, body falling forward across the bench seat, pressing against Dean's body. Dean breaks the kiss to breathe and laughs.
"Have I mentioned how fucking hot it is that you're wearing my clothes?" Dean breathes.
"I like them," Castiel admits.
"Good," Dean says. "'Cause you're keeping them." He smiles. "I'd totally do you right here, but Sam has the most horrible timing in the world, and I don't want to scar him permanently."
This time, it's Castiel who laughs.
-------------------------------
"I call the backseat," Sam said, "you can sleep in the cold. Lovebirds." He smirked, that same smirk he's been giving Dean ever since they came back to the hotel holding hands. Knowing, Castiel decides. Like he saw it coming, and Dean rolls his eyes every time in answer.
They're somewhere in Nevada, the stars fully out and the hood of the Impala still warm, Castiel and Dean sitting on it, Sam asleep in the backseat. The air is cold, fall coming on, and they're still hiding from Lucifer and Michael, and Castiel is still searching for God, but they meet here, every day, in Dean and Sam's home. Dean's gaze is already slightly sleepy as he looks up, beer in hand, Castiel's arm pressed against his, and so Castiel feels his shiver.
For once, Castiel is glad his grace is fading; he lets his wings out, fully healed now, and curls one around Dean, causing Dean to jump and blink, then laugh softly and quietly. "You're totally doing the angel equivalent of putting your arm around me, aren't you?"
"My wings are indeed another appendage."
Dean snorts and smiles. He says, "Thanks."