As You Were, 1/3

[katzenspn]

It was real cold.

Real cold, and his pants were wet with snow, and his hat was wet with snow, and he could barely feel his fingers or his toes and he was about to cry, and Dad said crying was for babies.

Dean Winchester was not a baby.

He huddled by a tree as far from the snowbank as he could get and tried to figure out where he was. Also where Sammy was. Also tried to get feeling in his fingers and toes. Also tried to get a hold of himself, because tears were not going to make this cold any better.

"There you are."

Dean startled at the voice, his whole body convulsing at its loudness, its sudden proximity, its gravelly depth, so much like Dad's. Dad's voice rarely held the relief that this man's did, though, a relief that bordered on frantic, and the form that appeared over the snowbank was not John Winchester but it was an adult, it was-

Dean inhaled sharply as the stranger crashed to his knees beside him. A tan trench coat was whipped off of broad shoulders, and before Dean could fight back, it was bundled around him, and he was scooped up off the ground by strong arms and held close to a very warm chest.

“I will fix you,” the stranger promised, his voice a low murmur in Dean’s ear. “Dean, I swear to you. I'll fix this.”

Dean started to cry.

*

Dean had stopped crying by the time the stranger got to the motel room.

“I'm going to take my coat off of you,” the stranger was saying, the latest in the constant monologue he’d kept up since finding Dean in the snowbank. “Then I'll ask you to remove your clothes. They're wet, and you could get sick. I have dry clothes for you. I'd like for you to take a bath to get warm. Does that sound okay?”

He put Dean down on the ground, and stared at him. His eyes were very blue, very big. He was very big. Dean shivered, but nodded.

He took the coat off, like he said, and he asked, “Do you know who I am, Dean?”

Dean squinted at him. He should remember who the man was. He was important. With his coat and his blue eyes and his gravelly voice.

But he didn’t. So he shook his head.

The man slowed down at that, peeling the last sleeve off of Dean’s arm, and Dean was worried for a moment that he’d made the man angry, but he just looked sad.

The man gathered the coat in his arms and walked over to the window, laying the damp fabric across the heater.

“My name is Castiel,” he said. “I'm here to protect you. I'll set the bath running. Do you need help getting out of your clothes, or can you do it by yourself?”

“I c’n do it,” Dean mumbled, dodging any hint of Castiel’s hands as he took off toward the bathroom.

Castiel followed behind him and turned the water on, showing Dean how to turn it off when it was full, and then left. Once he was gone, Dean stripped off his soaked pants, his damp shirt, his undershirt, until he was down to just his underwear.

He hesitated.

A moment passed, and then Castiel’s voice came through the door. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Dean called, hurrying out of his underwear and slipping into the bathtub.

It felt real good. Warm but not too hot. It made his fingers and toes tingle, in a nice way, like they were waking up. He sighed happily.

“There's soap and shampoo,” Castiel said, still through the door, “if you want to clean yourself. I'm putting your clothes in the bathroom, but I'm not coming in. Okay?”

Dean nodded, then realized Castiel couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he said, and his words were met with a contemplative hmm from Castiel.

He turned the water off and washed quickly, not wanting to be naked and alone in the bathtub with a stranger outside the door for any longer than he had to be. He grabbed a towel from the rack and dried off, slipping into clothes that were a little too big for him once he was done, then opening the door and stepping outside.

Castiel was sitting on one bed, but just barely, like he didn’t want to mess up the covers. Perched, maybe, like a bird. As soon as Dean left the bathroom Castiel’s eyes were on him, like Dad’s when Dean got hurt, looking for something.

Whatever he saw seemed to disappoint him, and he sighed, and Dean curled in a little bit, hoping that he wasn’t the disappointment.

“The clothes are too large,” Castiel said morosely. “I apologize. I forgot that you were so thin.”

Dean frowned. “‘M not that skinny,” he protested, wrapping his arms around his stomach, suddenly self-conscious.

Castiel blinked, then stood from the bed for just a moment before kneeling down in front of Dean. Dean’s stomach lurched when Castiel was standing, but his worry quickly turned to confusion when the man came down to his level.

He flinched a little when Castiel’s hand lowered onto Dean’s head, but all the man did was run his fingers through Dean’s wet hair and say, “You are perfect as you are, Dean. The clothes are too big. You are perfect.”

"Where's Sammy?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked kind of sad again, and Dean got scared and his breath started coming faster. But Castiel said, "He's asleep, Dean," and pointed to a little lump on the other bed, beneath the covers.

Dean's breathing slowed down again.

"He's okay," Dean said, because it could not be a question.

"He's fine," Castiel replied. "Worried for you. But now that you are here, he'll be fine."

Dean felt his stomach twist.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said, mumbling in his embarrassment, his sense of failure at having let his brother down. “Don’t know how I got outside.”

He looked around at the room, familiar mostly in its unfamiliarity. It was just another nameless, anonymous motel in a string of nameless, anonymous motels stretching back to the Fire, but this one had been as close to home as it had gotten for the past two weeks. He couldn't really remember where they were or what Dad was doing that brought them here, but he knew this ugly wallpaper, these scratchy sheets. The bed that Sammy was sleeping on was the one he'd been laying his head on every night for thirteen nights.

Castiel smoothed the fabric of the too-big shirt over Dean’s shoulders, and he felt himself relaxing, just a little, under the touch.

Dad still carried Sammy, sometimes, when he couldn’t walk fast enough, because he was just a baby. But Dean was too big to be carried. Dad patted his head, sometimes. It was okay. He was a big kid and big kids didn’t need to be babied.

Castiel’s hands were warm, that was all. Dean was still pretty cold.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel said, putting one hand against the back of Dean’s neck, the other against his forehead. “And your brother is safe.”

“Where’s my dad?” Dean asked, only leaning into the warm hands a little bit.

Castiel got really still.

“He is away,” Castiel said, taking his hands away from Dean’s face.

Dean knew something was wrong because he said it really slowly, like he was making it up as he went along.

“He has left me to take care of you,” Castiel continued. “Until he returns, I will take care of you and your brother.”

“Did he really leave us with you?” Dean asked.

Castiel didn’t say anything, and that was scary, but eventually he smiled sadly and put his hand in Dean’s hair again.

He nodded, which wasn’t as good as saying yes out loud but was better than nothing.

“I promise, I will keep you safe,” Castiel said.

Dean didn’t want to believe him.

But he couldn’t really help it.

*

Sammy woke up about an hour later.

He started crying, and Castiel moved like he was going to go get him, but Dean ducked under his arms and ran to the bed. Castiel didn’t argue, and Dean was glad. Sammy was his job.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said, keeping his voice quiet, because Sammy was always grumpy when he woke up. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He peeled the covers off from Sammy, and was greeted with his little brother’s flushed, fussy face. Sammy glared up at him, then relaxed when he saw it was Dean.

“Dean,” he whimpered, his little face scrunching up again. Dean pulled the rest of the covers away and climbed onto the bed next to him.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he said. He held his arms out, and Sammy scooted over into the hug. “Shh, don’t cry, Sammy.”

Sammy sniffled into Dean’s shirt, and Dean felt Castiel watching them. He was quiet, though, patient, not butting in, like Dad would say. That was good.

Sammy was Dean’s job.

“Daddy?” Sammy asked, and Dean hugged him tighter.

“Daddy’s gone for right now,” Dean said. “He’s coming back. Right now Cast--Cas--Cas is taking care of us.”

He looked over to the strange man, in case the nickname wasn’t okay, but Castiel was smiling. Dean felt the knot in his stomach unwind, just a little bit.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, looking down at his little brother’s messy brown hair. Sammy nodded, his nose bumping against Dean’s ribs as he did. “Okay. Good.”

Silence fell over the room, other than the quiet shift of cloth as Sammy settled in against Dean, and the soft noise of Dean’s hand in Sammy’s hair.

He looked up at Castiel, who was still watching them, his smile faded into thoughtfulness.

“What now?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” said Castiel.

The snow kept falling outside.

*

Castiel was weird.

He wasn’t mean. He was kind of scary, but mostly because Dean didn’t know him and he still wasn’t sure that Dad had actually left them with him. But he wasn’t mean.

But he talked funny, and he didn’t know stuff that Dean was pretty sure all grown-ups were supposed to know.

“I’m not allowed to watch that show,” Dean said, shielding Sammy’s eyes.

Castiel frowned. “I thought you liked this show.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

Castiel frowned deeper.

“Dad says it’s for grown-ups,” Dean continued. “Sammy can watch Sesame Street.”

“Sesame Street,” Castiel echoed.

Dean sighed and took the remote control, flipping through the channels until he reached the local PBS station. The screen filled with colorful puppets.

Dean glanced at Castiel, whose head was tilted very far to the side.

“Sesame Street,” Castiel said again.

“It’s got puppets and songs.”

“It does appear developmentally appropriate for a child of Sam’s age.”

“It’s--I guess.”

Sammy laughed at something that Grover said. Dean smiled, shifting his hold on his brother. When he looked up, Castiel was smiling, too.

Dean didn’t know smiles could look that sad.

*

Dean was used to leaving motel rooms.

“This is insufficient,” Castiel said, looking at the walls like they’d insulted him. “If you are going to stay like this for an extended period of time, as it appears you will, we have to find better accommodations.”

“We’re leaving,” Dean said.

He’d said it before, to Dad. We’re leaving. It wasn’t really a question, just a clarification. Making sure he understood before he started packing. It wasn’t like he cared.

So when Castiel gave him a funny look, he didn’t know why.

“What?” he demanded, shifting uncomfortably.

“Do you not want to?” Castiel asked.

“What?” Dean said again.

“Do you not want to leave? Do you want to stay here?”

Dean looked at Castiel, suddenly angry. He did not like to be made fun of.

But Castiel didn’t look like he was making fun, so the cranky look on Dean’s face turned into confusion.

He waited for Castiel to tell him what he meant.

He waited for about two minutes.

“What?” Dean said for a third time.

Castiel sighed and sat down, touching the bed next to him--an invitation. He didn’t pat it like a normal person. He just touched it, then pulled his hands onto his lap.

Dean sat, and he realized after a second that he’d folded his hands on his lap, too. Just like Castiel.

It made him feel weird.

Sammy laughed at something on TV. Sesame Street again, Dean was pretty sure.

“I don’t want to do anything that will make you unhappy,” Castiel said. “If you don't want to leave, we can stay.”

“Why?”

Castiel tilted his head again.

“Because I want you and Sam to be happy and safe.”

Dean pulled his feet up onto the bed, hunching over a little.

“Aren’t we safe here?”

Castiel peered around the motel room, like he was deciding.

“We are safe,” he said, finally, and Dean felt something in his chest unwind. “But we can be more comfortable. There's mold here, and it could make you sick.”

“It could make Sammy sick?”

Castiel looked at him, then, and his eyes were sharp and intense, and Dean got very still and looked away.

He jumped a little when he felt Castiel’s hand on his arm.

“It could make you sick,” Castiel said. “You or Sam. And either is unacceptable.”

Dean shrugged.

*

An hour later, they carried their few belongings out of the motel room and into Dad’s car.

Dean didn’t ask why Castiel had Dad’s car.

He didn’t want to know.

*

Castiel drove very slowly.

It set Dean on edge. He sat in the back with Sammy, who fell asleep as soon as the engine turned on just like he always did. Cars kept driving around them, their drivers yelling soundlessly beyond the glass or throwing ugly looks and gestures at Castiel, who didn’t even seem to notice.

“Dad drives faster,” Dean said.

Castiel gave him a look.

The look was annoyed, and it startled Dean. Castiel had been really careful with him before--Dean knew it when he saw it, that Castiel was holding back, being nicer than he could have been.

He could see it in his dad sometimes, that holding-back. That effort. It was harder for his dad than it was for Castiel. Castiel made it look easy.

But this look scared him. It wasn’t angry, but it broke the illusion that he’d been building--that Castiel was always happy, always okay.

“Sorry,” he murmured, curling himself a little around Sammy.

His heartbeat sped up as Castiel pulled over wordlessly, easing the car onto the shoulder. He pushed himself in front of his brother, his fear churning in his stomach and turning into energy.

But it stilled when Castiel turned in his seat, and his expression was sorrowful. His hand reached into the back seat, and Dean flinched away from it at first, then relaxed when gentle fingers brushed his own.

“I keep thinking you are someone else,” Castiel said.

“Who?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked away, into the passenger seat, like there should be someone there.

“My best friends,” Castiel said.

“Where are they?” Dean asked.

Castiel met his eyes, and the sadness didn’t fade, but he smiled anyway.

“They are safe,” he said.

*

Castiel called their new house the Bunker.

It was big. Bigger than Dean had ever seen a house be before. Sammy was walking behind him, hands gripping Dean’s sweater, eyes wide as he stared around himself.

Castiel hung the keys on a hook near the door, and kept close to Dean and Sammy as they wandered slowly through the entrance. The staircase wound down in front of them, and it felt like there was too much air for it all to get warm. Dean shivered.

“There are rooms for both of you,” Castiel was saying when Dean started paying attention again, “or you can sleep in the same room.”

Dean remembered having a room. He had one at Home, before Mom died.

“I want to stay with Sammy,” Dean said. His voice was quiet, swallowed in the vast space.

He almost jumped when he felt Castiel’s hesitant hand in his hair, but he kept himself still.

“Of course,” Castiel said. “Let’s get you settled.”