Entertaining Angels (3/?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Crackiness, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them-they can’t quite tell.
Word Count: 1438
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: OMG PLOT. ::shivers in fear:: Hold me, guys. I’m pretty sure I have almost no idea what I’m doing.
1 | 2
3
The supermarket in the anonymous little Kentucky town where they’d landed was small, but well-stocked. Not a lot of variety in the brands, but a good supply of the basics. Sam found what he needed without too much trouble.
Several times, though, he blinked and realized that he was staring sightlessly at the eye-level items on the shelf, at the label of a box in his hand, at the prices in the produce section. His mind was still whirling furiously, struggling to make sense of the latest pile of weirdness that had been dumped in their laps. The universe had seen fit to give the Winchester boys an eight-year-old angel, and they hadn’t a clue of what to do with him.
Well, he looked like an eight-year-old, and apparently felt like one, certainly acted like one, but really, who knew how old Castiel actually was. Millions of years? Mere millennia?
Yep. Big load o’ weirdness, dumped in their laps.
Still so many questions, so much badly needed information that they would have to pry from Castiel’s obviously fractured memory. Still no knowing what had caused this, choice or curse or punishment or something else they couldn’t guess. It was one thing for the universe to give them an eight-year-old, but there was that damning angel tacked on to the end of that phrase, bringing with it such weight and mystery, such profound awe and unknown power, and a whole lot of scariness.
For now, though, they could at least feed the little human body. Sam pawed through the plastic shopping basket hanging off his arm, looking over the items he’d chosen. He was no nutritionist, and it had been a long time since he’d listened to Rick ramble about West Africa while stoned out of his Peace Corps-loving mind. But these ought to help, at least until they could figure out what to do.
Dean was going to bitch about it, though. Sam smiled softly, still looking down at his basket. He could hear Dean’s voice, incredulous and faintly outraged. Oatmeal? Rice? Freakin’ organic apples? You sure you didn’t accidentally go shopping for a hamster instead of a kid, Sammy?
Dean…Dean was taking this entire situation so well. Sam didn’t know why he was surprised. His brother had always had this tenderness in him, buried under layer after layer of machismo and profanity and gruff laughter, bone and blood and sinew to the person he had made of himself. But Sam remembered. He remembered childish nightmares, smoothed by a young hand. Remembered Dean’s silly jokes and warm laughter chasing away the hurt of a bully’s insult, making it meaningless. Remembered room after empty, formless room made into home by the familiar presence of his big brother, filling them to overflowing.
Dean had taken the child Castiel into his arms as if he belonged, as he’d been waiting for him. It did funny things to Sam’s heart, watching his older brother, so hurt and broken himself, interacting with the defenseless boy who had arrived on their doorstep. Dean was open with children in a way he couldn’t be with Sam. He went to their level without hesitation, without thinking, instantly and overwhelmingly generous with everything he had to give.
Maybe it was selfish, but Sam couldn’t help hoping that this entire thing, as bizarre and scary as it was, would somehow be good for Dean. Somehow give him a small measure of joy, a light to the dark path he’d been treading lately.
Castiel’s sudden humanity might be choice or punishment or curse. Or it might be some strange kind of gift.
The synthesized classical music playing somewhere above Sam’s head switched over to another track, and he looked up, blinking. He’d faded off again. There would be time enough to figure all of this out later-right now, a child back at the motel room needed to be cared for. Sam turned toward the cash register, suddenly lighthearted as he swung the basket by its plastic handles.
Then, in the corner of one eye, Sam saw a large, looming figure, a bald dark head, and all of his lightheartedness burned away in a flare of panic.
So much for figuring this out later.
X
Dean looked up from the couch as Sam unlocked the door and came in, stomping his feet on the mat, keys jangling in the lock. Two empty juice bottles lay on the floor by Dean’s feet, and Castiel was curled up asleep with his head on the man’s thigh. At Sam’s noisy entrance the boy wiggled sleepily, eyelids fluttering, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s denim-covered leg, but he settled again when Dean threaded his fingers through his dark hair.
“Dude, you shop like a girl. I was just about to give up and take Cas down to the diner for pancakes.”
All but vibrating with agitation, Sam tossed his keys on the stand by the door and thumped the groceries down on the table. “No. Pancakes are bad.”
“What the hell, man? Pancakes are made of natural stuff. Butter and milk and flour, that’s good for you, right?”
Sam paused to narrow his eyes at his idiotic older brother. “This is America. We put crap in the flour, too. And dairy is also hard on the sensitive stomach. He can’t have pancakes.”
“Oh, dude.” Dean’s face lengthened almost comically in dismay. “That has to be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Poor little guy can’t even have pancakes.” He looked down at the child sleeping on his lap and tenderly patted the unruly mop. “That’s rough, kiddo. Sorry your life sucks so much right now. We’ll make it better.”
Sam started unpacking the groceries, ignoring the way his fingers shook. Nothing had happened. They were fine.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice had gone quiet, serious. Sam looked up, swallowing, and saw how intently his brother was watching him. “What happened, Sam?”
“I…” Sam rested one hand on the box of instant oatmeal packets, looking intently at his fingertips. His nails needed a trim. “At the grocery store. I thought I saw Uriel.”
Dean sucked in a gasp, and Sam darted a look over to him. “It wasn’t him. Just a big bald black guy. Freaked me out though. I was hoping to see Ruby-she can probably help with this thing.” He laughed shakily and ran a hand through his hair. “Dude, how messed up is this?”
“That we’re scared of angels and hoping to see a demon? Pretty messed up.” Dean looked down at the boy. “I don’t…we don’t know what happened. We don’t know if he really fell. Anna came down as an unborn baby. This is…different.”
“Yeah, but we don’t know. We don’t know anything.” He took a few deep breaths, feeling himself finally calming down. Just sharing his freak out with Dean was making it better. “Has he said anything else? Anything at all?”
Dean shook his head reluctantly. “Kid was tuckered out. After you left, it was like he ran out of batteries. The juice was a good idea, though-his stomach stopped growling and he seemed more comfortable. Then he just toppled over, pretty much.” He considered, then went on. “So I got dressed and everything, let him sleep on the couch, and when I came back out, I think he was having a nightmare.”
He began stroking his hand through Castiel’s hair, slowly, almost meditatively, as if he’d been doing it for a long time. Sam came around the table and moved back to sit in the chair he’d been using before he went shopping. The child’s face was smooth and peaceful in sleep, but his knees were drawn up to his chest, small hands knotted in fists under his chin.
“Did he…did he say anything?”
Dean’s eyebrows pulled together over his nose. “Yeah, just a few broken syllables, but…it wasn’t English. Wasn’t Latin either, or anything else I’ve ever heard. Do angels have their own language?”
Sam just gave him an incredulous look, and Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay, how would you know that? How would anyone know that? It’s a good guess though, right?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Dean huffed a laugh. “Believe me, I’m just as freaked about this thing as you are. The nightmare…it sounded like something bad. Something real bad. He was sweating and shaking, the works.”
“Looks like you handled it okay, though.”
“I guess.” Dean looked down at his hand, now resting still and gentle on the angel child’s head. Then he looked up at his brother, eyes suddenly wide. “Dude. What the hell are we doing?”
Sam didn’t have an answer.
Part 4
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Crackiness, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them-they can’t quite tell.
Word Count: 1438
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: OMG PLOT. ::shivers in fear:: Hold me, guys. I’m pretty sure I have almost no idea what I’m doing.
1 | 2
3
The supermarket in the anonymous little Kentucky town where they’d landed was small, but well-stocked. Not a lot of variety in the brands, but a good supply of the basics. Sam found what he needed without too much trouble.
Several times, though, he blinked and realized that he was staring sightlessly at the eye-level items on the shelf, at the label of a box in his hand, at the prices in the produce section. His mind was still whirling furiously, struggling to make sense of the latest pile of weirdness that had been dumped in their laps. The universe had seen fit to give the Winchester boys an eight-year-old angel, and they hadn’t a clue of what to do with him.
Well, he looked like an eight-year-old, and apparently felt like one, certainly acted like one, but really, who knew how old Castiel actually was. Millions of years? Mere millennia?
Yep. Big load o’ weirdness, dumped in their laps.
Still so many questions, so much badly needed information that they would have to pry from Castiel’s obviously fractured memory. Still no knowing what had caused this, choice or curse or punishment or something else they couldn’t guess. It was one thing for the universe to give them an eight-year-old, but there was that damning angel tacked on to the end of that phrase, bringing with it such weight and mystery, such profound awe and unknown power, and a whole lot of scariness.
For now, though, they could at least feed the little human body. Sam pawed through the plastic shopping basket hanging off his arm, looking over the items he’d chosen. He was no nutritionist, and it had been a long time since he’d listened to Rick ramble about West Africa while stoned out of his Peace Corps-loving mind. But these ought to help, at least until they could figure out what to do.
Dean was going to bitch about it, though. Sam smiled softly, still looking down at his basket. He could hear Dean’s voice, incredulous and faintly outraged. Oatmeal? Rice? Freakin’ organic apples? You sure you didn’t accidentally go shopping for a hamster instead of a kid, Sammy?
Dean…Dean was taking this entire situation so well. Sam didn’t know why he was surprised. His brother had always had this tenderness in him, buried under layer after layer of machismo and profanity and gruff laughter, bone and blood and sinew to the person he had made of himself. But Sam remembered. He remembered childish nightmares, smoothed by a young hand. Remembered Dean’s silly jokes and warm laughter chasing away the hurt of a bully’s insult, making it meaningless. Remembered room after empty, formless room made into home by the familiar presence of his big brother, filling them to overflowing.
Dean had taken the child Castiel into his arms as if he belonged, as he’d been waiting for him. It did funny things to Sam’s heart, watching his older brother, so hurt and broken himself, interacting with the defenseless boy who had arrived on their doorstep. Dean was open with children in a way he couldn’t be with Sam. He went to their level without hesitation, without thinking, instantly and overwhelmingly generous with everything he had to give.
Maybe it was selfish, but Sam couldn’t help hoping that this entire thing, as bizarre and scary as it was, would somehow be good for Dean. Somehow give him a small measure of joy, a light to the dark path he’d been treading lately.
Castiel’s sudden humanity might be choice or punishment or curse. Or it might be some strange kind of gift.
The synthesized classical music playing somewhere above Sam’s head switched over to another track, and he looked up, blinking. He’d faded off again. There would be time enough to figure all of this out later-right now, a child back at the motel room needed to be cared for. Sam turned toward the cash register, suddenly lighthearted as he swung the basket by its plastic handles.
Then, in the corner of one eye, Sam saw a large, looming figure, a bald dark head, and all of his lightheartedness burned away in a flare of panic.
So much for figuring this out later.
X
Dean looked up from the couch as Sam unlocked the door and came in, stomping his feet on the mat, keys jangling in the lock. Two empty juice bottles lay on the floor by Dean’s feet, and Castiel was curled up asleep with his head on the man’s thigh. At Sam’s noisy entrance the boy wiggled sleepily, eyelids fluttering, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s denim-covered leg, but he settled again when Dean threaded his fingers through his dark hair.
“Dude, you shop like a girl. I was just about to give up and take Cas down to the diner for pancakes.”
All but vibrating with agitation, Sam tossed his keys on the stand by the door and thumped the groceries down on the table. “No. Pancakes are bad.”
“What the hell, man? Pancakes are made of natural stuff. Butter and milk and flour, that’s good for you, right?”
Sam paused to narrow his eyes at his idiotic older brother. “This is America. We put crap in the flour, too. And dairy is also hard on the sensitive stomach. He can’t have pancakes.”
“Oh, dude.” Dean’s face lengthened almost comically in dismay. “That has to be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Poor little guy can’t even have pancakes.” He looked down at the child sleeping on his lap and tenderly patted the unruly mop. “That’s rough, kiddo. Sorry your life sucks so much right now. We’ll make it better.”
Sam started unpacking the groceries, ignoring the way his fingers shook. Nothing had happened. They were fine.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice had gone quiet, serious. Sam looked up, swallowing, and saw how intently his brother was watching him. “What happened, Sam?”
“I…” Sam rested one hand on the box of instant oatmeal packets, looking intently at his fingertips. His nails needed a trim. “At the grocery store. I thought I saw Uriel.”
Dean sucked in a gasp, and Sam darted a look over to him. “It wasn’t him. Just a big bald black guy. Freaked me out though. I was hoping to see Ruby-she can probably help with this thing.” He laughed shakily and ran a hand through his hair. “Dude, how messed up is this?”
“That we’re scared of angels and hoping to see a demon? Pretty messed up.” Dean looked down at the boy. “I don’t…we don’t know what happened. We don’t know if he really fell. Anna came down as an unborn baby. This is…different.”
“Yeah, but we don’t know. We don’t know anything.” He took a few deep breaths, feeling himself finally calming down. Just sharing his freak out with Dean was making it better. “Has he said anything else? Anything at all?”
Dean shook his head reluctantly. “Kid was tuckered out. After you left, it was like he ran out of batteries. The juice was a good idea, though-his stomach stopped growling and he seemed more comfortable. Then he just toppled over, pretty much.” He considered, then went on. “So I got dressed and everything, let him sleep on the couch, and when I came back out, I think he was having a nightmare.”
He began stroking his hand through Castiel’s hair, slowly, almost meditatively, as if he’d been doing it for a long time. Sam came around the table and moved back to sit in the chair he’d been using before he went shopping. The child’s face was smooth and peaceful in sleep, but his knees were drawn up to his chest, small hands knotted in fists under his chin.
“Did he…did he say anything?”
Dean’s eyebrows pulled together over his nose. “Yeah, just a few broken syllables, but…it wasn’t English. Wasn’t Latin either, or anything else I’ve ever heard. Do angels have their own language?”
Sam just gave him an incredulous look, and Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay, how would you know that? How would anyone know that? It’s a good guess though, right?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Dean huffed a laugh. “Believe me, I’m just as freaked about this thing as you are. The nightmare…it sounded like something bad. Something real bad. He was sweating and shaking, the works.”
“Looks like you handled it okay, though.”
“I guess.” Dean looked down at his hand, now resting still and gentle on the angel child’s head. Then he looked up at his brother, eyes suddenly wide. “Dude. What the hell are we doing?”
Sam didn’t have an answer.
Part 4