As You Were, 2/3
The room felt like familiar.
Dean couldn’t say why. It was empty, mostly. Nothing on the walls, a shelf above the bed that didn’t have much on it. But it felt like he’d been here before.
He asked Castiel as much.
He didn’t answer, just lowered his hand again into Dean’s hair, then his shoulder as he helped him bundle a sleepy Sammy into the bed.
“Sleep,” Castiel said, as he lifted Dean into the bed, too. “I will come to check on you later. I’m sure you’re very tired.”
“Not really,” Dean said, swallowing down a yawn. His throat felt full with it, and he kept his teeth shut tight against it.
Castiel smiled, and Dean frowned.
“Good night, Dean,” he said softly, standing up from the bed. He turned the lights off when he reached the door.
“Good night, Cas,” Dean called back, and saw Castiel’s silhouette pause before he stepped out and shut the door behind him.
Dean burrowed into the bed, which was big and soft. Softer than he could remember a bed feeling before. It was almost uncomfortable, the way his back dipped into the bed--
That was the last thing he thought before he fell promptly asleep.
*
Fire chains pain the scent of sulfur that never leaves your nostrils, gets clogged in your pores, caked onto your teeth, in your hair, the way your skin tingles when it’s not hurting and it’s almost worse, the waiting, because hurting is all the worse for a reprieve, for false hope, and they always wait just long enough for you to break down and allow yourself to dream that once just once it won’t hurt again and then the door opens and the heat swells and you start to cry but Dad said crying is for babies and it’s been so long since you’ve been a child but here, pride isn’t even a memory and here, Dad won’t save you and here, nobody will save-
*
“Dean!”
Dean jolted, his whole body convulsing with panic, his chest aching from hyperventilation and his throat burning from screaming, and Castiel’s hands were on his face and in his hair and Castiel’s eyes were wide with worry, and Sammy was sitting up because he was awake now, woken by Dean’s screaming, and they were in the Bunker.
They were in the Bunker, not in Hell.
But he had been in Hell, once.
Castiel grabbed the trash can just before Dean began to vomit.
*
The next time Dean woke up, it was on the couch, snuggled up with Castiel.
It was gentler, this time, the waking. He hadn’t dreamed at all. He wriggled a little bit, just getting more comfortable, and Castiel looked down at him.
“Good morning, Dean,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
Dean peered around Castiel’s chest to where Sammy was sleeping.
“Good morning,” Dean whispered back. His words stuck in his throat and made it ache.
Castiel adjusted his arm around Dean’s shoulders,
“You had a dream last night,” Castiel said. “And I know it frightened you.”
“I remembered about Hell,” Dean whispered.
He leaned harder against Castiel, and Castiel held him tighter in return, his hand running gentle circuits up and down Dean’s arm. He melted into the embrace.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “I wish you hadn’t.”
“Was I bad? Is that why I went, because I was bad?” Dean asked, and Castiel’s hand stopped.
“No, Dean. You were very, very good, and you went because you were very brave. And you are out, now. I took you out, and I will never let you go back again.”
“I was a grown up. In Hell.”
Castiel moved his hand again, up and down on Dean’s arm, gentle and grounding and steady.
“Yes.”
Dean shivered, pressing in tighter against Castiel.
“You don’t have to think about it if you don’t want to, Dean. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
Dean leaned his head heavily against Castiel’s ribs.
“Okay.”
*
The stuffed animals were a surprise.
Castiel, to be fair, looked almost as off-balance as Dean did. He stood awkwardly behind the couch, the pink horse and fluffy killer whale perched on the pillows like they didn’t quite know what to do, either.
Sammy knew exactly what to do.
“Fish!” he shrieked, and launched himself at the sofa, barreling sideways onto the cushions and wrapping his arms around the killer whale.
Castiel peered down at him, then back up at Dean.
“He likes it,” Dean said with a shrug.
“They were remarkably soft,” Castiel said. “And firm enough to serve as a pillow, should one of you fall asleep on them.”
“Dean, fish,” Sammy said, holding the killer whale out. “It’s a fish!”
“Orcas are actually oceanic mammals, related to the-” Castiel began.
Dean was frowning at him.
“Dean, Sam wants to show you his fish,” Castiel said mildly.
Dean oohed and ahhed over the stuffed oceanic mammal until Sammy was satisfied, and then went to look at the horse, which was apparently going to be his since Sammy claimed the killer whale. Orca.
He felt Castiel’s eyes on his back as he approached the horse, and stuck out a hand to touch it from arm’s length. He ran his fingers down its fur.
He heard the little sigh he let out just too late to stop it from happening.
It was pretty soft. And okay, pink, but really soft. And big enough to rest his head on or curl up with at night. And probably it didn’t kick like Sammy did.
He climbed up on the couch and knelt in front of the toy, studying it. The horse stared straight ahead, of course. But in its inattention was a kind of comfort. It didn’t expect anything of him. It was okay with him just being there.
He put his arms around it and leaned on it, closing his eyes.
It was a pretty good pillow.
He opened his eyes and sat Castiel looking at him. He glared, and his grip slipped, ready to release the toy if Castiel said something.
Instead, Castiel walked over to Sammy and put his hand on the orca. “Shall we bring them to your room?” he asked.
“No,” Sammy said. “Story.”
Dean settled against his horse, looking up at Castiel with pleading eyes that matched his brother’s.
He remembered story time from when Mom was still here. Sammy didn’t remember it, of course. He was too little. But Dean remembered.
He liked it. And he wished Sammy had ever gotten a story.
Castiel looked nervous, but he nodded.
“All right,” he said. “A story.”
*
Castiel was a terrible storyteller.
He wanted to tell Bible stories. And not just Bible stories, but scary ones that Dean knew would be too scary for Sammy.
“Not that one,” he said for the sixth time.
Castiel sighed heavily. “I know millions of stories, and yet-”
“Three Little Pigs,” Dean said.
Castiel quieted, looked thoughtful. “Three Little Pigs,” he said. “One moment.”
He slipped his arms out from behind Dean and Sammy, and left the room.
The room was chilly without him in it, and Dean shivered, scooting next to Sammy.
It was only the second time since they’d been with Castiel that he’d left them, at least when they were awake. It felt kind of weird. Dad left them alone a lot, because he had to, because of his job. Like now. He’d left them with Castiel, this time, but he’d left them alone before. Not for long, just for an afternoon, just to go talk to people for his work.
But Castiel stayed close, like he was worried that if he looked away, Dean and Sammy might disappear.
Dad acted like he knew they’d always be there, waiting for him. Castiel acted like he thought they’d slip away any moment.
It made Dean feel a little bit good, even if he couldn’t quite say why. Why it made him happy that Castiel worried. It just did.
It also made him happy when Castiel came back, a thin, leatherbound book in his hands, a smile on his face.
Dean moved over as he approached, giving him room to sit between him and Sammy, only pausing afterwards to wonder why he’d done it. Let somebody else sit next to Sammy, instead of him.
Letting somebody who was practically a stranger sit next to Sammy.
But he felt himself leaning into Castiel’s chest again, and he could hear Sammy breathing on the other side as he did the same thing, and he forgot his complaints.
Castiel waited until they were both settled, wrapping his arms around both of them, and Sammy’s fish, too. Dean leaned back against his shoulder so he could see the book, and Sammy cuddled in by his chest.
Even then Castiel waited, but for what, Dean couldn’t tell anymore. He looked up, cautious at the stillness.
Castiel was looking at the book, but Dean could tell he wasn’t really seeing it. Instead, he felt the way Castiel’s arm tightened a little around him, pulled him a little closer, did the same with Sammy on the other side. He saw the way Castiel’s eyes closed for just a moment, the way his face turned sad-but-happy, like it was in the car when he’d talked about his best friends.
Then it was over, and Castiel’s eyes opened again, and he said, “The Three Little Pigs.”
Sammy was enraptured from word one, but Dean didn’t pay a lot of attention. He watched Castiel’s face, instead.
Once upon a time he was a grown-up in Hell, and Castiel took him out of there.
Anybody who could do that must be pretty awesome.
He wondered who Castiel’s best friends were, that they were off being safe somewhere else while Castiel looked sad.
He didn’t think they were very good best friends at all.
*
Sammy started having bad dreams.
His were almost as scary for Dean as having the bad dreams himself. Sammy wouldn’t wake up, he would just scream and cry and while he was crying he would say things, horrible things in some kind of language Dean hadn’t heard before.
Dean would wake up and shout for Castiel, who was always close, always in the room as quickly as Dean could hope for, his eyes blood-shot and the rings under them darker than they were in the daytime. He would always run to the bed and scoop Sammy up and keep a hand on Dean’s arm, because he knew how scared Dean was, because he knew how alone Dean felt when Sammy wouldn’t wake up.
Castiel would talk back in that language, and it didn’t sound so scary when he did it. It sounded nice, almost, rhythmic, like cars on the interstate or white noise on the nice alarm clocks that helped Daddy go to sleep sometimes. And he and Sammy would talk, and Dean would feel really useless and really small because he was the only one who didn’t speak that crazy language.
And Sammy would almost wake up, his eyes would open a little, and his voice would get all hoarse from the screaming and he would sit up and talk so calmly to Castiel in that weird language that it made Dean shiver. He sounded like a grown-up, like Dad, like Castiel.
Dean had been a grown-up in Hell, once upon a time.
Maybe Sammy had been a grown-up, too.
Sammy would go to sleep after, but Dean would stay awake, feeling all crawly and wiggly and uncomfortable next to a Sammy who could make those sounds.
And Castiel knew, and he would put Dean’s horse between them, so Dean didn’t feel like he was abandoning Sammy but also didn’t have to be right next to him.
And Castiel wouldn’t leave until Dean had fallen asleep.
*
The Bunker was really big.
Sometimes things in it would make Dean feel weird, like he should remember them but couldn’t quite. He would stand and stare at things-books, pictures, even weapons (there were a lot of weapons)-until Sammy or Castiel came by and snapped him out of it.
It would always make Castiel have this worried look on his face, when he caught Dean doing it. Dean didn’t like to make Castiel look like that, but he couldn’t help it. Things just reminded him of something. Something from maybe when he was a grown-up.
Castiel said he didn’t have to think about it. But sometimes, he did anyway.
If he’d been a grown-up before, why was he a kid now? That wasn’t how things worked. Maybe being in Hell had turned him back into a kid again, but he didn’t think so. If that was true, why was Sammy a kid, too?
Sammy couldn’t have gone to Hell. Sammy was too good to go to Hell.
It was something else.
Dean wandered around the Bunker, staring around himself at the art and objects placed on the shelves that lined the walls. Sammy was taking a nap back in their room, and he had been, too, but he’d woken up first and Castiel hadn’t been around. He didn’t know where Castiel would be in this big place, but he figured he couldn’t get too lost.
Just to be on the safe side, though, he broke his animal crackers into little pieces and left them behind him, like the breadcrumbs in that story Castiel had read to them.
When he finally found Castiel, it was in one of the libraries. Castiel didn’t look up, probably didn’t hear him-just kept reading the big book in front of him.
The lights were pretty dark, mostly just one lamp right above where the book was. Castiel looked really tired, his elbows propped on the table, his forehead resting on a hand. He was wearing the same sweater he’d been wearing for more than a day now, and there were circles under his eyes.
He looked like Dad did, sometimes. Dad would read books really late at night, too, books with scary pictures, or he’d write in his own book and draw his own scary pictures.
Dean was almost all the way up to Castiel before he noticed him. He sidled up to the table, glancing at the big, old book that sat atop it, full of words he didn’t understand and just a few he did.
Curse. Child. Reversal.
Castiel shut the book quickly.
“Are you hungry, Dean?” he asked.
Castiel had apparently decided that Dean and Sammy were always hungry. It wasn’t far from the truth, but sometimes there were other things wrong, like sometimes Sammy got too sleepy and that’s why he was mad, or Dean got lonely for his dad and that’s why he wasn’t talking. Castiel always guessed hungry first, though.
“Nah,” Dean said casually, peering up to get a better look at the book.
Castiel pushed it further onto the table.
“What can I help you with?” he asked.
“What are you reading?”
Castiel’s expression shuttered. “Nothing for children,” he said.
Dean frowned. “I saw it said child.”
“That doesn’t mean that it’s intended for children. This is not a discussion, Dean.”
Castiel had been doing that lately, too. That Dad voice.
But he’d seen the words he’d seen.
“Am I cursed?”
Castiel took Dean’s face between his hands, and said again the words he’d said he first night.
“You are perfect as you are.”
*
The book did not look innocent.
Not the one Castiel was reading-that one was lost on the shelves somewhere, hidden away from prying eyes, and probably too far up for Dean to reach, because Castiel was not dumb. No, this was a different one. Smaller, leather-bound, unmarked on the outside. It was soft, like it had been touched a lot of times. It felt familiar in his hands.
Dean was still mad at Castiel-even though it had been two days-for shutting him down about the other book, so he figured one scary book was as good as another when it came to getting back at a grown-up.
He opened the book.
*
He woke up shaking under Castiel’s hands.
“Shh.” Castiel didn’t pause in his slow stroking of Dean’s arm. “Don’t move too quickly. You fell when you passed out.”
“Dad’s not coming to get us,” Dean whispered.
That caused a stutter in Castiel’s movements, but only a stutter.
“You’ve remembered more,” Castiel said, traitorously unhelpful.
“We went looking for Dad,” Dean said, his breath hot against Castiel’s pant leg as he tried not to cry. “When we were grown-ups. We found him. But Dad’s gone now.”
Castiel didn’t answer. Dean wondered if he thought this was a test, like Dean wasn’t sure.
Dean was sure.
“You lied to me,” he said, but he couldn’t quite work the anger into his voice. He could barely feel it under the crushing, numbing weight of his grief and confusion.
“I did,” Castiel finally said. “Would you have come with me, otherwise?”
“No.”
“And have I harmed you or Sam?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Do you remember me?”
Dean rolled over so that he could study Castiel’s face. Its planes and angles, the scruffy beard he always seemed to have, the bright blue eyes, the messy hair. He knew he should remember that face. He knew it. That face was important.
A tear rolled down his cheek as he shook his head.
Castiel wiped it away with his thumb.
“It’s okay, Dean. I promise. It’s all right.”
Dean shook his head.
“My daddy is dead.”
Something broke in Castiel’s face, and he shifted his grip on Dean, lifting him up and laying him against his chest. Dean’s face tucked into Castiel’s shoulder, and he cried.
*
Dean liked cereal.
The sugarier, the better. They had this one at the Bunker that had marshmallows in it and that one was just the best. And there was enough for him and Sammy to both have some, every morning, if they wanted to.
That was the best part. Sammy liked it, too, and Dean didn’t have to pick who was going to get the last bowl. They could both have it.
(Not like he’d ever not pick Sammy, anyway.)
Sammy was still asleep this morning, though. Dean had left him snoring softly in bed-the bed they were still sharing, even though Castiel said they had rooms for both of them. Dean didn’t want Sammy out of his sight for that long. He trusted Castiel-he just didn’t trust Sammy around all of this stuff in the Bunker.
Especially not now that he remembered.
Not everything-just enough. Just enough to know that if Sammy didn’t remember, and he was pretty sure he didn’t, he could hurt himself really easily on a lot of the crap they’d stored here.
(Crap was a grown-up Dean word that he found himself thinking sometimes. He didn’t say it out loud. It wasn’t a kid word, and he didn’t know if Castiel could get mad about it, but he knew Dad would have.)
He had been sleeping badly since he started remembering. It wasn’t all the time, just pockets of memories-memories that sat badly in his head, came at him sideways when he wasn’t expecting it. He’d look at Sammy’s sleeping little face and he would think I sold my soul for him and then he’d start to cry.
Or he’d look at Dad’s journal and he would remember sleepless nights on the road with Sammy as they hunted vainly for their dad.
Or he’d find a book and open it and see a picture of some horrible monster before Castiel could take the book away, and he’d remember killing something that looked just like it.
It didn’t affect him the same way every time. Sometimes he’d cry, especially when he remembered something about Sammy. So many bad things happened to Sammy. It made his head hurt to look at that tiny face and think about the things that the big, angry man in his memories had been through.
Sometimes it made him throw up, because it was like looking cross-eyed at something. He’d see two images that he knew were the same, but he couldn’t make them come back together in his vision. It hurt, like a physical thing, and Castiel had already grown to know that look on his face that meant he’d better get to a garbage can, and quick.
And sometimes it just meant he couldn’t sleep. That his brain was too full, his six-year-old’s worth of neurons just not able to handle decades and decades and decades of memories, and he couldn’t go back to sleep.
So he sat alone at the table, the digital readout on the clock saying 3:30 AM in red numbers, his feet swinging off of the chair, eating his sugary, sugary cereal.
He looked up when Castiel came into the room, followed him with his eyes as he hesitated by the table and then sat down across from Dean.
Dean took another bite of cereal.
“Hi, Cas,” he said.
“I’ve found a cure,” Castiel replied.
Dean took another bite of cereal.
He chewed and swallowed.
“Dean.”
“Okay.”
Dean put his spoon down and carried his bowl to the sink, standing on his tiptoes to push it onto the counter. When he turned around to walk back to the table, Castiel was already in front of him.
He crouched down to Dean’s level, and Dean folded his arms, looking away.
“I found a cure,” Castiel said again, and Dean shrugged. “Dean. A way to turn you and Sam back to normal. To fix you-so that you don’t keep getting sick. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Dean muttered.
He still didn’t look up, but he could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, studying him, figuring him out. Castiel didn’t touch him, though. Just looked.
“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked.
Dean shrugged again.
“Dean.”
“Dunno.”
“Dean.”
Dean sat down hard on the floor, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and started to cry.
The next time Castiel said Dean, it was surprised, and a little alarmed, and a lot softer.
“Grown-up me is really sad,” Dean said between sobs. “Grown-up me gets hurt all the time. Grown-up Sammy is so mad all the time. At me. And I’m so mad at Sammy. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to have to sell my soul and go to Hell and fight monsters and be in charge and I don’t want to be grown-up me. He’s scary and it’s scary to be him and it makes my head hurt when I think about him. I don’t want you to fix me. Can’t you just take care of me?”
Castiel didn’t say anything, and after a long while Dean looked up.
There were tears in Castiel’s eyes, and on his face. He nodded.
“I’ll make the cure,” he said, and Dean started to protest but quieted when Castiel raised his hand. “It takes two days. If you don’t want to use it-if you don’t want to go back to being who you were-I won’t make you. It’s your decision. Yours and Sam’s.”
“You won’t make us take it?” Dean asked.
“I won’t hurt you,” Castiel said. “And if that means letting you be children, then that’s what I will do.”
Dean thought back to the car, when Castiel had looked at him so strangely, and the strange apology he’d given.
“Were we your best friends?” he asked, and Castiel grew still. “Me and Sammy? When we were grown-ups?”
Castiel brushed a final tear from Dean’s cheek.
“Let’s see if you can go back to sleep,” he said.