Drabble A Day: April 7th
Title: Catharsis, part 1
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.
Warnings: animal transformation; unbeta'ed; crack?
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Sam
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~810
Spoilers: Gen Season Four.
A/N: There was just this image in my head, and I couldn't get rid of it.
At first, Dean doesn't notice him.
The man should be forgiven, though, what with being busy salting and burning a ghost's remains. And it is night.
Quietly, Castiel watches. He's not sure how this happened, but it doesn't really matter. It's easier to watch Dean like this; no questions, no demands, nothing but the freedom to observe.
The boys watch over the fire, the angel watches over the boys. The flames paint out the skull under Dean's skin, reflect in his eyes. There's no death in his gaze, though, unlike in the fires of Hell.
Sam's another case. He's stained, and Castiel suspects if any amount of fire could wash him clean anymore.
It's just easier to watch Dean. Smell the fire burning itself out, the boys scattering the ashes; listen in on them.
A thought is all it takes, and he's in their room. There's a wardrobe, space enough between its top and the ceiling for him to slip into; the heavy dust clings to his whiskers, makes him sneeze.
He hears the boys before he sees them, the key turning in the lock, the low murmur of a conversation he's not privy to.
They enter, glance around as per their habits, and freeze for a broken blink before both draw their guns, point them at Castiel.
Dean flips on the lights without a word; the boys relax after their eyes adjust anew.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel intends to say, but there are no word-forming vocal chords in this form. He's not sure what the boys hear, but apparently it's close enough to normal.
Sam slips his gun away, coos at Castiel.
Dean looks less certain.
"It's just a cat, Dean," Sam says.
Dean shrugs.
"You okay?" Sam again, turning his attention to his brother.
"Just dandy," Dean answers, laying down his weapon, the duffel he's carrying. "You wanna play Dr Doolittle and get her out of here?"
"Sure."
And Sam's focus returns on Castiel.
"Dean," he tries again, watches as the man shivers. Sam's cooing at him again; Dean shakes himself like a wet dog.
Somehow, he knows, he has to get the Winchesters to understand himself. If he cannot tell them what they must do, the world is doomed. But there's comfort in this form, ease between thought and action like he hasn't known for as long as he's been wearing a physical body.
It doesn't even really take a single thought to leap off the wardrobe; curling himself around Dean's leg, the other, making this noise that he can feel deep inside his own chest is like an instinct. There's still graveyard dirt on Dean's jeans, and it's getting on Castiel's fur, but he can't be bothered to care because it's Dean.
Dean, whose hand's on Castiel's neck, grasping, lifting him by the scruff and that's... not exactly a bad feeling. Green, green eyes peer at him.
"What the hell?"
"Dean," Castiel tries again. Dean blinks, tense. The angel tries to do that noise again, feels it vibrate behind his sternum, through his whole body; it feels good to be in Dean's hands.
"Did you hear that, Sam?"
"I hear a cat who seems to be crazy about you, that's all."
Dean shakes him, and that doesn't feel good; Castiel's intended "Stop that" comes out sharp, and Dean drops him.
"Go, scram," he says, shooing at Castiel.
But he can't leave. There was something he was supposed to tell Dean. Something about... something.
"It's just a cat, Dean," Sam says. "Maybe it got lost, or left behind or something. Let's sort it out tomorrow, okay?"
Dean's looking at Castiel now. It's okay that Dean dropped him; Castiel lets the man as much, curling around his leg again, making that noise that's nothing but pleasure.
"If I end up smothered by cat hair, it'll be on your head, Sammy."