Entertaining Angels (18/?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, 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: 2272
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.
Author's Note: Fanart and soundtrack, and now a vid!
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
18
Lost boys seemed to have a way of finding Bobby Singer. Sam and Dean Winchester both at various times-hell, even their daddy John, when he first showed up on Bobby’s porch all full of rage and grief and questions, he’d had that same look about him, too, the bewildered eyes and uncertain stance, looking to Bobby like some kind of redneck guru. Was there some signal Bobby sent out proclaiming that he was a sentimental old softy? He wasn’t doing it on purpose. He hadn’t even had the heart to get another dog since poor Rumsfeld got killed by that demon-girl-he ought to be giving off surly-old-curmudgeon vibes by the dozen.
He was beginning to think that he should just take down all the “No Trespassing” signs around the salvage yard and put up ones that said “Strays Welcome” instead.
And here they were again, Dean with his big sad eyes and scared little voice, Sam instantly jerking in fear and striding over to him, reaching out as if to help him carry that blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. Bobby just stared at them, the two Winchester boys unconsciously huddling over the strange child they’d brought with them, who lay limp against Dean’s chest, flushed and still. He saw the little face, the dark, messy hair and soft features, and could not reconcile it with the figure who had popped all the lights in that barn in Illinois and burst the door without touching it, immune to salt and runes and symbols and even the demon-killing knife.
Angel or not, though, it was definitely a sick little boy, and Sam and Dean were both quietly going nuts with worry over him. That was enough for Bobby to be going on with. A lightning-fast shiver passed over him, maybe from the cold, maybe not.
“Well, come in,” he said gruffly, already pushing back with his hand still on the door knob.
They tumbled inside, and then Dean halted just past the entryway, unsure of where to go, while Sam started vibrating around the room, looking for something to do, picking things up and putting them down, as if one of the demonology books stacked on the side table might have a cure for every childhood illness. Bobby could see that he was going to have to be the sane one in this situation. As usual.
“How long has he been sick?” he asked, reaching out a hand to rest on the boy’s forehead. Damn. That was pretty warm.
“Just today,” Sam said, picking up a random totem and studying it with fierce concentration. “He started sneezing this morning. And then there was coughing. We thought it was just a little cold. I don’t think he even had a fever before we left Missouri’s.” He paused to look at Dean. “Did he have a fever then, did you notice?”
Dean glanced at Sam, shook his head numbly, then returned his pleading gaze to Bobby. He cradled the boy a little closer, shifting the dark head against his neck, splaying a hand across the narrow ribcage. “I can hardly feel him breathing, Bobby. He was coughing so hard earlier, and now I can hardly feel him breathing.”
“Damn it, kid, remember your first aid. His lips aren’t blue and his skin ain’t gray. He’s getting enough oxygen, for now. He’s sick, yeah, but you don’t get pneumonia in just a day-it takes time to build up that kind of infection. It’s probably just the fever, a sudden hard shock to the body like that.”
Dean drew in a shuddering breath, staring down at the child’s face. Slowly, the panic started to bleed out of his eyes, though the worry remained. Bobby relaxed a little in echoed relief. Behind them, he heard Sam’s staccato pacing temper down a bit.
“Now, let’s get him comfortable and see if we can’t wake him up. I’m betting you didn’t really try all that hard before you went all nervous Nellie on us.”
“I tried!” Dean protested, already walking toward the davenport where, not too long ago, Sam had slept the sleep of the exhausted, Dean on the floor nearby, both collapsed pretty much where they stood after another long, hard battle. Fool boy didn’t lay his burden down, though, just sat himself and arranged the little one against him, leaning one elbow on the pile of throw pillows, holding the dark head reclined on his chest to ease the child’s breathing.
Bobby was no doctor. But he knew a little something about almost everything, and more about first aid than most, since those lost boys who kept turning up at his place sometimes came in broken and bleeding. He knew a few tricks. He probably would have made an okay nurse.
After a couple minutes of tapping and rubbing, the boy twitched sluggishly, turning his head to lean harder into Dean. His eyes slid open partway, dark, pupils blown, and a thready moan escaped his lips. Dean hugged him tight for a second, momentarily overwhelmed, before lowering him back down to look in his face, and Sam finally stopped pacing around, coming over to the couch to look down at the kid with wide, relieved eyes.
“Hey, Cas.” Bobby had only heard that tender tone from Dean a very few times, when dealing with a hurt or sick Sam, occasionally with a traumatized victim. “How you feeling, buddy? You gave us a scare.”
The child lethargically raised a hand far enough to grip Dean’s shirt, small fist immediately trembling with the effort. His lips moved, but nothing came out, and his breathing was still shallow, edging on toward erratic, eyes glassy and slightly sunken in his dry, flushed skin. Dean looked back to Bobby, green eyes large and expectant.
Bobby huffed out a breath through his nose. He knew enough to be certain that this kind of stupor and confusion was never good, especially in children. If they were smart, they’d be heading for a hospital right now.
The house shook, a jolt like a single tremor from an earthquake, and Bobby snapped to his feet, instantly alert. Sam had gone still as a hunting dog on point, staring out the front window. Something had hit the wards.
“It’s back,” the younger Winchester murmured. Dean pulled in a sharp, stuttered gasp.
“What now?” Bobby narrowed a look over at Sam, who seemed to have it slightly more together than his brother. His explanations had been interrupted-Bobby had still been struggling to accept “Castiel is a little kid, and oh, yeah, we found out that angels can become human” before Dean rushed to the porch all frantic-like-and apparently Sam hadn’t gotten to the important parts yet.
“Some kind of monster,” Sam said shortly. “It’s after Cas. That’s one reason we were coming to you.”
The fact that Sam was using Dean’s shortened nickname for their heavenly visitor without irony, but rather with something approaching affection, did more to convince Bobby that this boy was actually Castiel than anything else so far. The first few times he’d heard Dean use the term, it had obviously been out of disrespect and sarcasm. Now it was almost…loving.
He humphed. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”
The kid made a low murmuring sound, weary and pained, and all of them looked back to his face as if pulled by strings. His dry, cracked lips smacked soundlessly together, and Dean reached around to stroke his cheek with one thumb, then looked back to Sam and Bobby. “I think he’s dehydrated.”
Sam was already moving toward the door. “I'll get the supplies from the car.”
Bobby scowled. He itched to go check the wards, try to get a glimpse of whatever was attacking his home, but he knew he had time for that. The child needed treatment now. “I’ll get the stuff we need. Try to relax, Dean. Little kids get sick all the time. I know it’s scary, but he’s going to be fine.”
It seemed to be the right thing to say. Dean slumped visibly and gave Bobby a short nod, then turned his attention back to the child in his arms. Bobby headed toward the kitchen, listing necessities in his head. This was going to be a long night.
X
Once again, an angel stood in Bobby’s kitchen, but this presence was much less gentle and wondering than the one who had come before. This was Uriel, dark and powerful, hands spread open not in benediction but in aggression. Dean stood watching him from the living room, unwilling to move closer. This was the one who had threatened to throw him back in Hell and actually meant it.
He couldn’t see Uriel’s face, just a dark silhouette, limned with moonlight at his back. Then the angel spoke, and Dean had never heard this tone from him before. It was still disdainful, yes, still offended at lowering himself even to speak to a creature of dust, but there was a note of low urgency that in anyone else would have sounded imploring.
“Dean Winchester. I ask you to help me find my brother. He is in danger. Help me find him.”
Dean let out an incredulous laugh. “Your brother? You have a brother?”
“All angels are brothers, fool.” Even in the extremity of deigning to ask a human for assistance, Uriel couldn’t seem to help insulting him. “You know the one I speak of. Castiel. He is in danger.”
“What, your heavenly GPS not working for ya?” Dean shrugged, doing his best to radiate indifference. “Haven’t seen him, dude. Maybe try the Yellow Pages?”
Uriel’s spread hands lowered to his sides, and he shook with suppressed anger. Sh’yeah right, angels couldn’t feel emotion. This one seemed to feel plenty. “I knew this was a long shot. But I had hoped that you would care about the divine being who rescued you from Hell. I had hoped that you would understand the need for one brother to look after another.”
“Hey, I understand, man. Don’t get me wrong.” Dean lifted one hand in a casual wave. “I get why you’re worried about Cas, and I hope he turns up okay. But there’s nothing I can do for you, sorry.”
Uriel turned sharply away. “It was a mistake to come here.”
A rush of wind, and everything went gray, amorphous, then gone.
Dean opened his eyes, already turning his head to check on Castiel. He’d fallen asleep sometime after midnight, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, ear only inches from the kid’s mouth so he could listen to his breathing. They had gotten the fever below 103 degrees, eventually, gotten some fluids in him, even a half-dose of the antibiotics Bobby kept around the joint just in case it was bacterial and not viral. The boy still rattled when he breathed, though, still too exhausted to cough and get that stuff out of his lungs.
Something niggled at the back of his mind, perhaps something from what he’d just been dreaming, but the vision was already fading. He only remembered Bobby’s kitchen, the fierce presence waiting in there to speak to him. It was only natural that he would dream about that encounter with Castiel, he supposed, back here where it had first taken place.
Looking back at that now, he was a little ashamed of his knee-jerk belligerence. Now, he could remember the weariness in Castiel’s face and voice, his uncertainty, his cautious attempts to communicate with a human after two thousand years away. Castiel’s unstoppable faith slamming against Dean’s immovable skepticism-it was no wonder they had clashed.
Dean carefully watched the movement of the boy’s chest, the flushed exhaustion in his slack face, idly wondering if little Cas remembered any of that. Probably not-this Castiel would not see that memory as something worth holding onto, not like the memory of Dean saving him from Alastair. That one he had kept with him, all through the confusion and torment of the attack and transformation, all through the long walk to find the Winchesters.
Dean let his aching head lean back against the couch, his gaze roaming over the room. Gray pre-dawn light filtered in the windows, reflecting white off the snow and ice outside. Sam was sacked out on the desk over a pile of books, probably researching ways to take care of the thing outside.
Bobby had gone to bed, Dean dimly remembered, saying he was too old for this sleeping-on-the-floor crap. The older hunter had done plenty before he went, though, what with the bowl of lukewarm water and washcloth to cool Cas down, the ginger tea and various other herbal things, the quick ritual just to make sure it wasn’t a supernatural sickness, the gruff advice and genuine concern in his eyes.
As scared and as worried as Dean still was, and would remain until this threat was vanquished and Cas was well again, it was still good to be at Bobby’s place. Despite everything, he still believed that in this house, with this man, everything could turn out right.
Dean guessed he had some faith after all. Castiel would be so pleased. As soon as the kid woke up, he would tell him.
He craned his head back to look at the boy again. “Hey, you hearing me?” he murmured. “You gotta wake up, buddy. I got something to tell ya.”
Cas slept on, his breath still holding that slight, aching wheeze, but that was okay. Dean knew he would wake up. He was just hoping for sooner rather than later.
Part 19
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, 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: 2272
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.
Author's Note: Fanart and soundtrack, and now a vid!
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
18
Lost boys seemed to have a way of finding Bobby Singer. Sam and Dean Winchester both at various times-hell, even their daddy John, when he first showed up on Bobby’s porch all full of rage and grief and questions, he’d had that same look about him, too, the bewildered eyes and uncertain stance, looking to Bobby like some kind of redneck guru. Was there some signal Bobby sent out proclaiming that he was a sentimental old softy? He wasn’t doing it on purpose. He hadn’t even had the heart to get another dog since poor Rumsfeld got killed by that demon-girl-he ought to be giving off surly-old-curmudgeon vibes by the dozen.
He was beginning to think that he should just take down all the “No Trespassing” signs around the salvage yard and put up ones that said “Strays Welcome” instead.
And here they were again, Dean with his big sad eyes and scared little voice, Sam instantly jerking in fear and striding over to him, reaching out as if to help him carry that blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. Bobby just stared at them, the two Winchester boys unconsciously huddling over the strange child they’d brought with them, who lay limp against Dean’s chest, flushed and still. He saw the little face, the dark, messy hair and soft features, and could not reconcile it with the figure who had popped all the lights in that barn in Illinois and burst the door without touching it, immune to salt and runes and symbols and even the demon-killing knife.
Angel or not, though, it was definitely a sick little boy, and Sam and Dean were both quietly going nuts with worry over him. That was enough for Bobby to be going on with. A lightning-fast shiver passed over him, maybe from the cold, maybe not.
“Well, come in,” he said gruffly, already pushing back with his hand still on the door knob.
They tumbled inside, and then Dean halted just past the entryway, unsure of where to go, while Sam started vibrating around the room, looking for something to do, picking things up and putting them down, as if one of the demonology books stacked on the side table might have a cure for every childhood illness. Bobby could see that he was going to have to be the sane one in this situation. As usual.
“How long has he been sick?” he asked, reaching out a hand to rest on the boy’s forehead. Damn. That was pretty warm.
“Just today,” Sam said, picking up a random totem and studying it with fierce concentration. “He started sneezing this morning. And then there was coughing. We thought it was just a little cold. I don’t think he even had a fever before we left Missouri’s.” He paused to look at Dean. “Did he have a fever then, did you notice?”
Dean glanced at Sam, shook his head numbly, then returned his pleading gaze to Bobby. He cradled the boy a little closer, shifting the dark head against his neck, splaying a hand across the narrow ribcage. “I can hardly feel him breathing, Bobby. He was coughing so hard earlier, and now I can hardly feel him breathing.”
“Damn it, kid, remember your first aid. His lips aren’t blue and his skin ain’t gray. He’s getting enough oxygen, for now. He’s sick, yeah, but you don’t get pneumonia in just a day-it takes time to build up that kind of infection. It’s probably just the fever, a sudden hard shock to the body like that.”
Dean drew in a shuddering breath, staring down at the child’s face. Slowly, the panic started to bleed out of his eyes, though the worry remained. Bobby relaxed a little in echoed relief. Behind them, he heard Sam’s staccato pacing temper down a bit.
“Now, let’s get him comfortable and see if we can’t wake him up. I’m betting you didn’t really try all that hard before you went all nervous Nellie on us.”
“I tried!” Dean protested, already walking toward the davenport where, not too long ago, Sam had slept the sleep of the exhausted, Dean on the floor nearby, both collapsed pretty much where they stood after another long, hard battle. Fool boy didn’t lay his burden down, though, just sat himself and arranged the little one against him, leaning one elbow on the pile of throw pillows, holding the dark head reclined on his chest to ease the child’s breathing.
Bobby was no doctor. But he knew a little something about almost everything, and more about first aid than most, since those lost boys who kept turning up at his place sometimes came in broken and bleeding. He knew a few tricks. He probably would have made an okay nurse.
After a couple minutes of tapping and rubbing, the boy twitched sluggishly, turning his head to lean harder into Dean. His eyes slid open partway, dark, pupils blown, and a thready moan escaped his lips. Dean hugged him tight for a second, momentarily overwhelmed, before lowering him back down to look in his face, and Sam finally stopped pacing around, coming over to the couch to look down at the kid with wide, relieved eyes.
“Hey, Cas.” Bobby had only heard that tender tone from Dean a very few times, when dealing with a hurt or sick Sam, occasionally with a traumatized victim. “How you feeling, buddy? You gave us a scare.”
The child lethargically raised a hand far enough to grip Dean’s shirt, small fist immediately trembling with the effort. His lips moved, but nothing came out, and his breathing was still shallow, edging on toward erratic, eyes glassy and slightly sunken in his dry, flushed skin. Dean looked back to Bobby, green eyes large and expectant.
Bobby huffed out a breath through his nose. He knew enough to be certain that this kind of stupor and confusion was never good, especially in children. If they were smart, they’d be heading for a hospital right now.
The house shook, a jolt like a single tremor from an earthquake, and Bobby snapped to his feet, instantly alert. Sam had gone still as a hunting dog on point, staring out the front window. Something had hit the wards.
“It’s back,” the younger Winchester murmured. Dean pulled in a sharp, stuttered gasp.
“What now?” Bobby narrowed a look over at Sam, who seemed to have it slightly more together than his brother. His explanations had been interrupted-Bobby had still been struggling to accept “Castiel is a little kid, and oh, yeah, we found out that angels can become human” before Dean rushed to the porch all frantic-like-and apparently Sam hadn’t gotten to the important parts yet.
“Some kind of monster,” Sam said shortly. “It’s after Cas. That’s one reason we were coming to you.”
The fact that Sam was using Dean’s shortened nickname for their heavenly visitor without irony, but rather with something approaching affection, did more to convince Bobby that this boy was actually Castiel than anything else so far. The first few times he’d heard Dean use the term, it had obviously been out of disrespect and sarcasm. Now it was almost…loving.
He humphed. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”
The kid made a low murmuring sound, weary and pained, and all of them looked back to his face as if pulled by strings. His dry, cracked lips smacked soundlessly together, and Dean reached around to stroke his cheek with one thumb, then looked back to Sam and Bobby. “I think he’s dehydrated.”
Sam was already moving toward the door. “I'll get the supplies from the car.”
Bobby scowled. He itched to go check the wards, try to get a glimpse of whatever was attacking his home, but he knew he had time for that. The child needed treatment now. “I’ll get the stuff we need. Try to relax, Dean. Little kids get sick all the time. I know it’s scary, but he’s going to be fine.”
It seemed to be the right thing to say. Dean slumped visibly and gave Bobby a short nod, then turned his attention back to the child in his arms. Bobby headed toward the kitchen, listing necessities in his head. This was going to be a long night.
X
Once again, an angel stood in Bobby’s kitchen, but this presence was much less gentle and wondering than the one who had come before. This was Uriel, dark and powerful, hands spread open not in benediction but in aggression. Dean stood watching him from the living room, unwilling to move closer. This was the one who had threatened to throw him back in Hell and actually meant it.
He couldn’t see Uriel’s face, just a dark silhouette, limned with moonlight at his back. Then the angel spoke, and Dean had never heard this tone from him before. It was still disdainful, yes, still offended at lowering himself even to speak to a creature of dust, but there was a note of low urgency that in anyone else would have sounded imploring.
“Dean Winchester. I ask you to help me find my brother. He is in danger. Help me find him.”
Dean let out an incredulous laugh. “Your brother? You have a brother?”
“All angels are brothers, fool.” Even in the extremity of deigning to ask a human for assistance, Uriel couldn’t seem to help insulting him. “You know the one I speak of. Castiel. He is in danger.”
“What, your heavenly GPS not working for ya?” Dean shrugged, doing his best to radiate indifference. “Haven’t seen him, dude. Maybe try the Yellow Pages?”
Uriel’s spread hands lowered to his sides, and he shook with suppressed anger. Sh’yeah right, angels couldn’t feel emotion. This one seemed to feel plenty. “I knew this was a long shot. But I had hoped that you would care about the divine being who rescued you from Hell. I had hoped that you would understand the need for one brother to look after another.”
“Hey, I understand, man. Don’t get me wrong.” Dean lifted one hand in a casual wave. “I get why you’re worried about Cas, and I hope he turns up okay. But there’s nothing I can do for you, sorry.”
Uriel turned sharply away. “It was a mistake to come here.”
A rush of wind, and everything went gray, amorphous, then gone.
Dean opened his eyes, already turning his head to check on Castiel. He’d fallen asleep sometime after midnight, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, ear only inches from the kid’s mouth so he could listen to his breathing. They had gotten the fever below 103 degrees, eventually, gotten some fluids in him, even a half-dose of the antibiotics Bobby kept around the joint just in case it was bacterial and not viral. The boy still rattled when he breathed, though, still too exhausted to cough and get that stuff out of his lungs.
Something niggled at the back of his mind, perhaps something from what he’d just been dreaming, but the vision was already fading. He only remembered Bobby’s kitchen, the fierce presence waiting in there to speak to him. It was only natural that he would dream about that encounter with Castiel, he supposed, back here where it had first taken place.
Looking back at that now, he was a little ashamed of his knee-jerk belligerence. Now, he could remember the weariness in Castiel’s face and voice, his uncertainty, his cautious attempts to communicate with a human after two thousand years away. Castiel’s unstoppable faith slamming against Dean’s immovable skepticism-it was no wonder they had clashed.
Dean carefully watched the movement of the boy’s chest, the flushed exhaustion in his slack face, idly wondering if little Cas remembered any of that. Probably not-this Castiel would not see that memory as something worth holding onto, not like the memory of Dean saving him from Alastair. That one he had kept with him, all through the confusion and torment of the attack and transformation, all through the long walk to find the Winchesters.
Dean let his aching head lean back against the couch, his gaze roaming over the room. Gray pre-dawn light filtered in the windows, reflecting white off the snow and ice outside. Sam was sacked out on the desk over a pile of books, probably researching ways to take care of the thing outside.
Bobby had gone to bed, Dean dimly remembered, saying he was too old for this sleeping-on-the-floor crap. The older hunter had done plenty before he went, though, what with the bowl of lukewarm water and washcloth to cool Cas down, the ginger tea and various other herbal things, the quick ritual just to make sure it wasn’t a supernatural sickness, the gruff advice and genuine concern in his eyes.
As scared and as worried as Dean still was, and would remain until this threat was vanquished and Cas was well again, it was still good to be at Bobby’s place. Despite everything, he still believed that in this house, with this man, everything could turn out right.
Dean guessed he had some faith after all. Castiel would be so pleased. As soon as the kid woke up, he would tell him.
He craned his head back to look at the boy again. “Hey, you hearing me?” he murmured. “You gotta wake up, buddy. I got something to tell ya.”
Cas slept on, his breath still holding that slight, aching wheeze, but that was okay. Dean knew he would wake up. He was just hoping for sooner rather than later.
Part 19