Entertaining Angels (5/?)
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: 1555
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Warning: the cuteness quotient in this story is now at near-lethal levels. I swear I’m not doing this on purpose, and I’m not quite sure how it keeps happening.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4
5
“God, Dean, if you don’t want oatmeal, walk down to the diner and get some pancakes or something. Just stop bitching about it to me. Please.”
Sam didn’t even look up from his work, bent over the complimentary pad of motel paper with a pencil in one hand, scattered sheets discarded around him on the table. Dean had been searching through the groceries in the cupboard one more time in a vain hope that his brother’s choices would have changed since the last time he checked, that there would be a miraculous box of Pop-Tarts or a bag of mini powdered donettes or just, well, anything but healthy grain stuff and organic apples. No such luck.
“Are you writing a grocery list for next time?” he asked. “’Cause if you are, I got some suggestions. Cross off ‘bananas’ or whatever and write bee, ee, ay, ar, cee, ell, ay…”
This time Sam did look up, just long enough to glare. “If you want a bear claw that bad, go and get one. It’s not my job to make sure you have your daily allowance of saturated fat and refined sugar.”
Dean could not prevent his eyes from betraying him-they slipped over to his bed, where Castiel slept curled up on Dean’s pillow, covered with a spare blanket from the closet. After that awful-looking flashback, which had sent Dean’s heart into his throat and had Sam, too, gasping in unexpected empathy, the little guy had pretty much collapsed. He was probably still worn out from the long walk to get here, too. In a few hours they would wake him up so he could eat again, keep getting his body used to food.
But in the meantime, Dean couldn’t bring himself to leave the room.
Sam followed Dean’s gaze, and his eyes softened suddenly in understanding. Before he could do more than open his mouth, though, Dean grumbled and turned sharply away, moving back over to the two-burner stove and the pot still resting on low heat there. “Fine, fine, I’ll eat the stupid oatmeal. At least you got sugar, so I can fix it up some. Smarty-pants killjoy, enemy of all that is tasty and delicious and remotely worth eating.” He continued muttering vague insults and imprecations as he fetched a Styrofoam bowl and scooped oatmeal, adding spoonful after spoonful from the bag of brown sugar Sam had bought.
He stuck a spoon straight up in the middle of the gluey mess, like planting a little flag, and moved to the table to spy over Sam’s shoulder, stifling a yawn as he went. “What’re you working on, anyway?”
Sam didn’t try to hide it, but leaned back so Dean could look at his little pile of sketches. Looked like a bunch of different kinds of herbs and berries, and a few other, less natural things. Dean recognized a bunch of them, but others were new. He pushed a finger through the pile of half-drawn discards on the side, and finally got it.
“You’re trying to remember what all was in that super-special mojo bag Ruby made to hide us from the angels and demons, right? Shoulda known you’d pick the thing apart before burning it.”
Sam shrugged, unrepentant. “More knowledge is never bad. And I was right, wasn’t I? We need one again.”
“Ruby was a witch, dude. The kind who sells her soul to the Pit for more power. There’s probably a ritual or spell that goes along with making those things, too. I doubt that a special blend of herbs and spices is gonna cut it.”
“It can’t hurt, though.” Sam looked up at his brother, a wrinkle of concentration between his eyes. “At least until we know exactly what’s going on, it’s better if no one can track us down.”
Dean had to nod at that, though he pressed the heel of one hand against his forehead, already feeling a headache coming on. No idea if they needed to be hiding from angels or demons or both or neither, and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to find out. Something bad had happened to little Castiel, that was clear, whether before or after he’d been…changed.
He stood there and choked down his oatmeal, watching his brother sketch. Sam had always been good at the visual-recall thing, and it had helped them more than once. The sketches were rudimentary, but clear, and it was kind of cool watching pictures shape gradually under seemingly-random strokes from Sam’s pencil.
Sam looked sharply up at him. “Dude, if it’s that boring, go somewhere else and quit bugging me.”
“What?” Dean blinked, completely nonplussed.
“Dean, you’ve been yawning every few seconds for the last, I dunno, ten minutes or so. It’s annoying, and you’re throwing off my concentration.” He paused, looking more carefully into Dean’s face. The irritation slid away. “Oh.”
“What?” Dean asked again, stupidly. He realized that he wasn’t quite following the conversation.
“Did you get much sleep last night? Like, at all?”
Dean turned away to toss his empty bowl in the trash. “I slept. I’m fine.”
Truth was, the soft knocking on the motel door had woken him during one of his few stretches of decent rest. Even when the dreams held off, his sleep was still usually pretty shallow and restless. It had been like this for a long time, though. No big deal. He’d catch a nap later and be fine.
Sam sighed. “You can rest, man. Castiel doesn’t need anything at the moment, and I’ll figure out our next move. There’s no reason for you not to get some sleep now, if you can.”
Dean stood by the trashcan, blinking at his brother. All of that seemed to make perfect sense, on the surface, but something itched at him, deep down. I’ll figure out our next move, Sam had said. Wasn’t that usually Dean’s job? Wasn’t it supposed to be Dean’s job? He couldn’t remember when that had changed.
Sam chuckled softly. “Seriously. Go take a nap. You look like you’re about to fall over.” He flicked his fingers toward the beds. “Or at least, you know, go sit next to Castiel. Make sure he doesn’t have any more nightmares. He trusts you.”
Okay, well, that Dean could do. That made sense. Look out for the kid; make sure he’s okay. That could be Dean’s job. Part of him was aware that this logic was a little screwy, but he was too tired to figure it all out right now. Sam sat straight-backed at the table, loaded gun resting on the chair nearby, and he was between the door and the beds. Sammy could handle anything that happened-he’d been handling everything that happened to him for a while now.
It made Dean kinda sad, but it was the way it was.
At last, he nodded, accepting. “Okay. I’ll look after Cas. Thanks, Sammy.”
Standing between the beds, Dean hesitated, looking first at the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. A little buzz would help. A little buzz always helped. Not enough, not near enough, but a little, and sometimes a little help was all Dean could ask for or expect. Even taking the slightest edge off the blades that continually cut through him was a good thing.
But there was Castiel’s soft, young face, peaceful on Dean’s pillow, so sweet and trusting, so God-damn innocent that it brought an ache rising in Dean’s chest, pure and undeniable. For some unfathomable reason, this strange, lovely kid trusted Dean, trusted him absolutely. He couldn’t betray that, not in the smallest way.
He gave the whiskey a regretful look, saying farewell for the time being. Later the dreams and memories might get to be too much, and the drink would not be merely a slight assistance but an utter necessity. For now, though, he would handle it. For Castiel’s sake.
The next question to consider was the one of beds. This one bothered Dean a little more. Because Castiel was in his bed, which was fine, of course, the kid deserved to sleep in a bed. But Dean couldn’t sleep on the couch, because that was too far away. And if he slept on Sam’s bed, where would Sam go? No way the Sasquatch would fit on that couch. It had barely been comfortable for a little kid. It might even have contributed to Cas’s nightmare-the thing looked pretty torturous.
Again, part of him was aware that this logic was completely whack, but he was tired, dammit. And he needed a nap. And he just needed to figure out where to do it.
Well, Castiel was little now, and Dean’s bed was a queen. There was plenty of room for two. Pleased with his reasoning, Dean moved to the other side and plumped up the remaining pillow, then flopped down on his back, eyes already drooping. He was heavy enough to make a dip in the mattress, and Cas made a little noise in his sleep and rolled toward Dean, surrendering to gravity, small dark head landing on Dean’s shoulder with a tiny, painless thump.
Dean wrapped an arm around the kid and pulled the blanket over to share-it was only fair-yawned one more time, and was out. No nightmares this time. He would make sure of it.
Part 6
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: 1555
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Warning: the cuteness quotient in this story is now at near-lethal levels. I swear I’m not doing this on purpose, and I’m not quite sure how it keeps happening.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4
5
“God, Dean, if you don’t want oatmeal, walk down to the diner and get some pancakes or something. Just stop bitching about it to me. Please.”
Sam didn’t even look up from his work, bent over the complimentary pad of motel paper with a pencil in one hand, scattered sheets discarded around him on the table. Dean had been searching through the groceries in the cupboard one more time in a vain hope that his brother’s choices would have changed since the last time he checked, that there would be a miraculous box of Pop-Tarts or a bag of mini powdered donettes or just, well, anything but healthy grain stuff and organic apples. No such luck.
“Are you writing a grocery list for next time?” he asked. “’Cause if you are, I got some suggestions. Cross off ‘bananas’ or whatever and write bee, ee, ay, ar, cee, ell, ay…”
This time Sam did look up, just long enough to glare. “If you want a bear claw that bad, go and get one. It’s not my job to make sure you have your daily allowance of saturated fat and refined sugar.”
Dean could not prevent his eyes from betraying him-they slipped over to his bed, where Castiel slept curled up on Dean’s pillow, covered with a spare blanket from the closet. After that awful-looking flashback, which had sent Dean’s heart into his throat and had Sam, too, gasping in unexpected empathy, the little guy had pretty much collapsed. He was probably still worn out from the long walk to get here, too. In a few hours they would wake him up so he could eat again, keep getting his body used to food.
But in the meantime, Dean couldn’t bring himself to leave the room.
Sam followed Dean’s gaze, and his eyes softened suddenly in understanding. Before he could do more than open his mouth, though, Dean grumbled and turned sharply away, moving back over to the two-burner stove and the pot still resting on low heat there. “Fine, fine, I’ll eat the stupid oatmeal. At least you got sugar, so I can fix it up some. Smarty-pants killjoy, enemy of all that is tasty and delicious and remotely worth eating.” He continued muttering vague insults and imprecations as he fetched a Styrofoam bowl and scooped oatmeal, adding spoonful after spoonful from the bag of brown sugar Sam had bought.
He stuck a spoon straight up in the middle of the gluey mess, like planting a little flag, and moved to the table to spy over Sam’s shoulder, stifling a yawn as he went. “What’re you working on, anyway?”
Sam didn’t try to hide it, but leaned back so Dean could look at his little pile of sketches. Looked like a bunch of different kinds of herbs and berries, and a few other, less natural things. Dean recognized a bunch of them, but others were new. He pushed a finger through the pile of half-drawn discards on the side, and finally got it.
“You’re trying to remember what all was in that super-special mojo bag Ruby made to hide us from the angels and demons, right? Shoulda known you’d pick the thing apart before burning it.”
Sam shrugged, unrepentant. “More knowledge is never bad. And I was right, wasn’t I? We need one again.”
“Ruby was a witch, dude. The kind who sells her soul to the Pit for more power. There’s probably a ritual or spell that goes along with making those things, too. I doubt that a special blend of herbs and spices is gonna cut it.”
“It can’t hurt, though.” Sam looked up at his brother, a wrinkle of concentration between his eyes. “At least until we know exactly what’s going on, it’s better if no one can track us down.”
Dean had to nod at that, though he pressed the heel of one hand against his forehead, already feeling a headache coming on. No idea if they needed to be hiding from angels or demons or both or neither, and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to find out. Something bad had happened to little Castiel, that was clear, whether before or after he’d been…changed.
He stood there and choked down his oatmeal, watching his brother sketch. Sam had always been good at the visual-recall thing, and it had helped them more than once. The sketches were rudimentary, but clear, and it was kind of cool watching pictures shape gradually under seemingly-random strokes from Sam’s pencil.
Sam looked sharply up at him. “Dude, if it’s that boring, go somewhere else and quit bugging me.”
“What?” Dean blinked, completely nonplussed.
“Dean, you’ve been yawning every few seconds for the last, I dunno, ten minutes or so. It’s annoying, and you’re throwing off my concentration.” He paused, looking more carefully into Dean’s face. The irritation slid away. “Oh.”
“What?” Dean asked again, stupidly. He realized that he wasn’t quite following the conversation.
“Did you get much sleep last night? Like, at all?”
Dean turned away to toss his empty bowl in the trash. “I slept. I’m fine.”
Truth was, the soft knocking on the motel door had woken him during one of his few stretches of decent rest. Even when the dreams held off, his sleep was still usually pretty shallow and restless. It had been like this for a long time, though. No big deal. He’d catch a nap later and be fine.
Sam sighed. “You can rest, man. Castiel doesn’t need anything at the moment, and I’ll figure out our next move. There’s no reason for you not to get some sleep now, if you can.”
Dean stood by the trashcan, blinking at his brother. All of that seemed to make perfect sense, on the surface, but something itched at him, deep down. I’ll figure out our next move, Sam had said. Wasn’t that usually Dean’s job? Wasn’t it supposed to be Dean’s job? He couldn’t remember when that had changed.
Sam chuckled softly. “Seriously. Go take a nap. You look like you’re about to fall over.” He flicked his fingers toward the beds. “Or at least, you know, go sit next to Castiel. Make sure he doesn’t have any more nightmares. He trusts you.”
Okay, well, that Dean could do. That made sense. Look out for the kid; make sure he’s okay. That could be Dean’s job. Part of him was aware that this logic was a little screwy, but he was too tired to figure it all out right now. Sam sat straight-backed at the table, loaded gun resting on the chair nearby, and he was between the door and the beds. Sammy could handle anything that happened-he’d been handling everything that happened to him for a while now.
It made Dean kinda sad, but it was the way it was.
At last, he nodded, accepting. “Okay. I’ll look after Cas. Thanks, Sammy.”
Standing between the beds, Dean hesitated, looking first at the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. A little buzz would help. A little buzz always helped. Not enough, not near enough, but a little, and sometimes a little help was all Dean could ask for or expect. Even taking the slightest edge off the blades that continually cut through him was a good thing.
But there was Castiel’s soft, young face, peaceful on Dean’s pillow, so sweet and trusting, so God-damn innocent that it brought an ache rising in Dean’s chest, pure and undeniable. For some unfathomable reason, this strange, lovely kid trusted Dean, trusted him absolutely. He couldn’t betray that, not in the smallest way.
He gave the whiskey a regretful look, saying farewell for the time being. Later the dreams and memories might get to be too much, and the drink would not be merely a slight assistance but an utter necessity. For now, though, he would handle it. For Castiel’s sake.
The next question to consider was the one of beds. This one bothered Dean a little more. Because Castiel was in his bed, which was fine, of course, the kid deserved to sleep in a bed. But Dean couldn’t sleep on the couch, because that was too far away. And if he slept on Sam’s bed, where would Sam go? No way the Sasquatch would fit on that couch. It had barely been comfortable for a little kid. It might even have contributed to Cas’s nightmare-the thing looked pretty torturous.
Again, part of him was aware that this logic was completely whack, but he was tired, dammit. And he needed a nap. And he just needed to figure out where to do it.
Well, Castiel was little now, and Dean’s bed was a queen. There was plenty of room for two. Pleased with his reasoning, Dean moved to the other side and plumped up the remaining pillow, then flopped down on his back, eyes already drooping. He was heavy enough to make a dip in the mattress, and Cas made a little noise in his sleep and rolled toward Dean, surrendering to gravity, small dark head landing on Dean’s shoulder with a tiny, painless thump.
Dean wrapped an arm around the kid and pulled the blanket over to share-it was only fair-yawned one more time, and was out. No nightmares this time. He would make sure of it.
Part 6