Fic: Soul Food
Title: Soul Food
Author: extraonions
Recipient: miss_nevermore
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, spoilers through 4.22 Lucifer Rising
Author's Notes: For miss_nevermore, who asked for Dean & Sam introduce Cas to the glories of food (and possibly beer). I worked a little hurt Sam in there too.
Summary: As far as apocalypses go, Dean figures they are off to a pretty good start.
Soul Food
- 1 -
Ilchester, Maryland
So Lucifer was rising, big flash of fucking light, and what was Dean Winchester doing? He was holding onto his little brother's shirt like a goddamn pussy, and wasn't that just the thing for the End of Days? Then there was a voice in his head - maybe Dad's, maybe Bobby's - hell, maybe it was even Alistair's, telling him to man up (get off that rack) and damn well survive before the convent came down around their ears, never mind whatever Lucifer might have in store for the two poor shmucks who let him out of his cage.
Winchesters weren't made for running, they were made for standing their ground, but there was standing your ground and then there was (facing down an Archangel) fucking suicide.
Sam gripped him just as tight while the floor shook apart beneath their boots and Dean heard something - no, felt something - shaking through his bones. Blood trickled down his upper lip, the sharp, familiar tang of it spilling past his lips, and then Dean realized.
Gas station.
Motel.
This was the sound of Lucifer's voice.
"S-sam," Dean choked out. "Sammy!" He tugged a little on Sam's shirt, fingers half numb from curling up so tight against the coarse fabric, and he brought his other arm up around Sam's shoulders to turn him. "C'mon, let's go!" Blood streamed down Sam's face, and Dean felt a fresh warm trickle from his ear.
It took everything in them to stumble outside, where the sky was brushed over in rich gold and orange and yet had nothing on the brightness that surrounded Lucifer's prison. Dean had no time to appreciate what could be his last sunrise. Sam stumbled and Dean followed him down to the dry earth, instinctively trying to cover Sam's larger frame with his own.
Behind them, the defiled convent exploded and rained dirt and bits of rock and shrapnel down. After an eternity of that fresh Hell, all was silent. Lucifer was free, but against all expectation, they were still alive. Dean eyed Ruby's (dead, you bitch, finally) Mustang parked several yards away. It was his job to make sure they stayed that way.
- 2 -
Sam was bundled up in the backseat with Dean's jacket tucked over his chest. He wasn't talking; just sitting there with this dazed, broken look on his face that Dean hadn't seen the likes of since that first week after Jessica.
Dean was too tired and edgy to talk himself. He hadn’t slept for what seemed like days; hadn't eaten (hamburger, Cas, shhhh, trust me) a bite since Bobby's. He was running on sheer adrenaline. Dean watched his little brother in the rear view mirror but didn't speak, not even when Sam nodded off and then jerked awake again, looking sick and too small for his body.
Goddamnit. Or, you know, whatever.
Dean almost felt better, hearing that God wasn't around. Yeah, it sucked major ass to have the Man Upstairs AWOL, but the more Dean thought about it, the more it made every crazy rotten thing down on Earth make sense. Dean had never been able to reconcile himself to a God that let people suffer the way his family had.
God, taking lessons from John Winchester. The very thought made Dean snort. Dean hoped He was off smiting some sons of bitches, anyway.
His hands shook on the steering wheel, and Dean was sure even if Sam was talking he wouldn't be able to hear him because his ears were still ringing. It felt like he was on the verge of passing out or hallucinating. The mile markers passed in a blur, and several times he found himself nodding off, only to jerk upright and focus blearily on the road again. He rolled the windows down, hoping the passing air would help wake him up. The road was eerily empty, even for such early morning hours. This close to D.C., there should have been more traffic.
Dean was afraid to think about what that might mean.
Dean wanted the Impala so badly he could almost taste it. He wanted to settle Sam next to him in the passenger seat and blast the radio, loud enough he could feel the music even past the soothing rumble of his baby's engine thrumming through his body. The Mustang was a classic; Dean can't fault Ruby for taste; but it wasn't home.
They needed to stop and find a place to hole up (How can you hide from the Devil?), but everything in Dean screamed to get away from the site of Lucifer's erstwhile prison as fast as they possibly could. He almost ran them off the road twice, fucking Christ, weaving messily on I-295. He was so tired he could easily crash them into a ditch and he didn't have the energy left to care. A messy highway death would probably be better than whatever Lucifer and the demons and Hell, even the angels had in store for them.
Damned if he was going to die in that traitorous Hell bitch's car, though.
Dean took the first exit, then another, and eventually found himself on MD-210. He didn't know where he was going. By rights he should have been trying to get back to Bobby's and the relative (dubious) safety of the panic room, but something was pulling him north instead.
It wasn't until he almost ran Castiel over that Dean realized why he was on this particular stretch of godforsaken (heh, literally) highway.
The angel stood in the middle of the lane, just waiting. He looked quite a bit the worse for wear than when Dean last saw him: bloodied and with his left arm hanging limp at his side. Dean hit the brakes, cursing and swerving, and even Sam looked up from his funk to take notice and scrabble for a weapon.
"S'okay, Sammy," Dean murmured. He rested his head on the steering wheel as Castiel limped towards them, almost overwhelmed by emotion and exhaustion. Dean truly hadn't expected to see Castiel again, not the way he had left things at Chuck's place.
One less soul on his guilty conscience.
"Cas sent me to you, man," Dean continued. He sensed, rather than saw, the way Sam tensed up at his words. "Sent me to save you."
"D-dean . . ." Sam breathed out. Sam dropped the gun down beside him in the seat, and leaned forward to rest his head on the back of the driver's headrest. "Dean, I am so - ".
"Shh, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "Later. We'll figure it all out later, OK?" Sam nodded against the headrest, wearily. Dean closed his eyes, listening to the crunch-slide of gravel beneath Castiel's approaching feet, until his hand dropped down on the window frame of the car.
"Dean."
"Cas. Hey, Cas," Dean said, talking into the steering wheel. "You have no idea how glad we are to see you." In the backseat, Sam started laughing weakly and didn't stop.
- 3 -
Dean pressed up against the cool of the passenger side window and closed his eyes. It was a measure of how tired he was that he couldn't summon up the appropriate level of terror that the thought of Castiel, Angel of the Lord, driving down the highway should bring.
All things considered, it was a miracle any of them were still alive. Cas was pretty stoic about it, but the archangel obviously ripped him a new one before Castiel got away, or the archangel got bored, or . . . whatever happened. He hadn't said. But Castiel was almost covered in tacky blood and nasty looking contusions, and since the wounds hadn't healed up yet, it said a lot about just how badly hurt he was.
Dean figured Heaven was feeling a little tight-fisted on passing out the miracles at the moment, so maybe it was more like Winchester luck that saw them all here. The kind of luck that turned on a dime and would get them all fucked six ways to Sunday the next time Dean blinked, most likely.
Or sideswiped by a demon-driven sixteen wheeler.
The thought of that was almost enough to make Dean sit up and demand control of the wheel again, but one look at Castiel's grim face peering out at the road ahead, fingers wrapped tight on the wheel, made Dean reconsider. Pushy goddamn angels, threatening to whammy people asleep if they didn't slide over and rest.
Hell with it. Castiel could plunge them all off a cliff so long as Dean got some shut eye first. Yawning, he stole a glance at Sam - asleep, thank you very much - who was snoring softly on account of Cas actually having laid the mojo on him when they couldn't get him to stop with the hysterical laughter. Goddamn it.
- 4 -
Nanjemoy, Maryland
It couldn't have been more than a half an hour before Dean startled awake at Castiel's light touch.
The house was small and out of the way. Dean was pretty sure there couldn’t be any neighbors closer than an hour out, and that was exactly what they needed until they could get their bearings and Sammy back on his feet.
He worried about the owners coming back to find them, but Castiel assured him that wouldn't be the case.
"How the fuck do you know?" Dean exploded, irritated with Castiel's too-trusting equanimity until he got a better look at Castiel's face, or rather, what he was looking at past the edge of the house.
Oh. The corpses were fresh, and there were dirty smears of sulfur on the woman's lips and her husband's fingertips.
Dean swallowed back bile and murmured a quiet apology.
Tired as he was, Dean picked the locks as easy as breathing, and Cas helped him drag Sam up the stairs and into the bedroom. They settled him on the bed. Dean was about to ask Castiel to help him dispose of the bodies when he swayed, grabbing at the headboard to keep his balance.
"Shit, Cas!" Dean exclaimed, dropping the boot he just finished working off Sam's foot. "What's wrong?" He guided Castiel down to the bed and patted him down carefully. His (Jimmy's?) left shoulder was badly dislocated.
"I'll be fine," Castiel got out, although he looked a little pasty. "Don't concern yourself, Dean."
"Like Hell, I won't," Dean responded. "Look, your shoulder is fucked, man. You want me to pop it back into place?" Dean doesn't even want to know how the angel drove with it like that.
Castiel nodded tightly, and Dean grimaced.
- 5 -
Dean spent the next few hours taking care of the bodies, and fortifying the house. He consoled himself with the thought that there were no children, either in the house or in the few photographs scattered on furniture and the cluttered mantle.
Castiel made himself scarce, although Dean saw him tracing invisible patterns on the windows earlier. Dean carved a few here or there himself, on the doorframes and walls, in between lining everything with thick piles of salt. After a moment of hesitation, he settled some of Ruby's hex bags at the cardinal points too.
Sam eventually woke up calmer, but with the mother of all migraines. Half-dead on his feet, Dean drew the blinds shut and brought Sam an icepack of frozen peas stolen from of Mrs. Joe Normal's freezer.
"You hungry, Sammy?" Dean asked, desperate for something to do, some way to help. Sam nodded around the sharp lines of pain on his face, little boy lost, and Dean tightened his grip around Sam's wrist and told him to keep still and he'd be back, right back with some food.
- 6 -
Sam didn't eat.
He took one look at the bowl of soup Dean made and bolted for the bathroom, where he spent the next forty-five minutes tossing up his guts, alternately apologizing and dry heaving while shivering miserably. Dean sighed and parked his ass on the cold tile floor next to his brother. He kept up a steady litany of soothing nonsense words while he rubbed Sam's shoulders and wiped his forehead with a cold wet cloth. Before long everything reeked of vomit and stale blood and bile, and all Dean could think was that it felt like he was finally home.
Later, he shoved Sam into the shower. There were towels stacked up on the john and a pair of sweats for Sam to change into on the edge of the sink. Dean shut the door softly and waited outside.
Castiel was sitting on the bed, eating Sam's cold soup and toast. He had stripped down to a pair of boxers, and Dean was not sure what was weirder - seeing Castiel sitting there half naked, or seeing him sitting there half naked cradling a bowl of soup on his lap and eating.
There were fucking huge bruises all along the angel's torso, and Dean noticed he was still favoring his left arm. The blood was gone, however, and Dean counted that a blessing.
"This is . . . good," Castiel said, setting the spoon down to rest in the bowl.
"It's better while it's still hot," Dean muttered, frowning as Castiel bit into a piece of toast and closed his eyes in obvious enjoyment. It reminded him of Jimmy, chowing down on his first burger in months.
Dean blinked that image away and sighed. He was too tired to eat himself. "Hey, Cas, can you do me a favor?" Dean asked.
"Anything," Castiel looked up at Dean expectantly. Dean doesn't know what to do with that kind of rapt attention, not really. He was all too aware that Castiel had given up everything (I'll hold him off. I'll hold them all off!) for him sake, his and Sammy's.
"Would you watch Sam for me? I gotta crash, man," Dean admitted. "Just need to know he's safe, and not, you know, gonna sneak out and do some noble and self-sacrificing shit, OK?"
"Of course," Castiel said, but that was all Dean needed. Somehow or another he'd come to trust Castiel as he trusted few others. There was a flash of something like guilt across Castiel's face, gone too quickly for Dean to be sure. Then Castiel was placidly chewing cold toast again, and Dean was left to wonder if he imagined it.
Dean shook his head and pounded on the bathroom door. Whatever. Sam's emo manpain was about all Dean could handle right now, he would figure out Castiel's malfunction later.
"Sammy, I'm going to bed. Don't drown or I'll kick your ass, you hear me?" The muffled affirmative was enough for Dean, who kicked off his boots and settled on the opposite side of the bed from where Castiel was dropping crumbs into the sheets. "More soup in the kitchen," he slurred, eyes already closing as the soft, soft pillow enveloped him with a light floral scent.
The last thing he heard before drifting off was a quiet, "Sleep well."
- 7 -
The first day after the end of the world started was surprisingly, well, peaceful. Dean heard birds chirping outside the window, and for one long incongruous moment he thought the whole thing - damn, everything since Castiel handed him a note on a fucking fishing pier - had all been one long endless nightmare.
Jimmy Novak, and demon blood smeared messily across Sam's face.
(If you walk through that door . . . .)
Zachariah, Lilith, Ruby.
Lucifer.
No such luck, it really was Apocalypse Now. Dean sighed and rolled over. He took in the empty bed next to him - Sam, where was Sam? No, no, no - and panicked. Up and moving in an instant, Dean ignored the protest of aching limbs in his hurry to get downstairs.
He skidded to a stop in the front room, seeing Castiel standing near the window. "Cas! Sam's gone!"
Castiel wore a sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of dress pants that looked slightly too short for him. Dean guessed he must have found them in Mr. Joe Normal's closet. Normally, Dean would be a lot more interested in the angel's new sartorial choices, but right now all he could think about was finding his brother. "You said you'd watch him." Dean knew there was accusation coloring his tone, but Castiel took no offense.
"Sam's outside," Castiel said, pointing through the window. Dean sighed in relief and moved over to stand next to him. Sure enough, Sam was sitting outside on the porch, knees drawn tightly to his chest.
"How long?" Dean asked.
"Sam woke several hours ago. He asked that I not wake you; that you needed the rest." Dean could see from Castiel's expression that he thought Dean still needed to rest.
Dean waved that off impatiently. "And he's been out there ever since? What's he doing, anyway?"
Castiel turned to regard Dean thoughtfully. "I believe he is praying."
- 8 -
The kitchen was well stocked and homey, decorated with blue floral wallpaper that had seen better days and a heckuva lot of cows. Dean had not taken much time to investigate the previous evening when he warmed up the carton of soup for Sam, but he did so now, checking out the supplies in the refrigerator.
He planned on them staying a few days, just laying low and getting a handle on everything before they saw what happened next. Between his efforts and Castiel's on warding the house, Dean hoped they could stay off Lucifer's radar for a bit - and Heaven's, if it came down to it.
Dean put a pot of coffee on and then stood in front of the open refrigerator, trying to decide what to woo Sam's temperamental palate with. Eggs would probably be best.
It didn't take long. Dean cracked the eggs right into the pan with a slab of butter and tossed the shells into the sink. It took him a minute to master the stove, which had lots of buttons and a distinct lack of familiar metal burners, but only a minute. Before long, he was sliding two eggs, over well, onto a cheerful daisy plate.
He added two slices of toast, sliced diagonally and lightly buttered, just the way Sam always liked it. After a quick delay while Dean prepped a mug of disgustingly sweet coffee and grabbed a fork, he was on the porch, setting the eggs and coffee down next to Sam.
Sam made no move to take the plate, and wouldn't look at him. Dean signed and dropped down to sit beside him. "You need to eat, Sam."
"Not hungry," Sam mumbled.
Dean cuffed him gently on the back of the head. Sam jerked and looked sideways at Dean, although he focused on the hand shaped bruises decorating Dean's neck instead of meeting his eyes.
Dean patted Sam on the leg. "Didn't ask if you were hungry. Seriously, dude. Eat the damn eggs." Dean levered himself up and turned to go in.
"Dean . . . ."
"I'll give you an hour. Then we're going to take a run, and you're going to do about a million pushups. And maybe we'll work on your hand-to-hand."
Dean didn't wait to see Sam's reaction, just went on back inside.
Castiel was in the kitchen looking at the loaf of bread uncertainly.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, frowning. "What's wrong?"
"My vessel requires sustenance," Castiel replied. While Dean watched, Castiel managed to drop two slices of bread in the toaster, albeit hesitatingly. When it became obvious that Castiel intended to toast the bread with the power of his expectant gaze, rather than turn the toaster on, Dean stepped in.
"Sit down, I'll make you some eggs to go with that." Dean gave Castiel a half-shove towards the small dinette in the corner of the room and then pushed the lever down on the toaster.
Castiel began to protest, but Dean silenced him with a cocky grin he summoned up from somewhere and a pointed spatula. "Don't be stupid, Cas. I gotta cook more for me anyway, and man - or angel, I guess - cannot survive on bread alone."
Castiel cocked his head, like he was trying to figure out whether Dean was full of shit or not, but he sat down at the table anyway. Dean slapped a mug of coffee down next to him, along with the sugar, the milk, and a spoon. "Coffee," he announced. "Taste it first, and if you don't like it plain try adding some of this stuff."
"My vessel enjoyed a cup of coffee in the morning," Castiel started, but Dean cut him off.
"Jimmy. He has a name, Cas."
Castiel bowed his head momentarily before meeting Dean's eyes. "Very well. Jimmy." He took a sip and then looked at the cup pensively. "I was under the impression that this beverage is addictive."
Dean snorted. "Caffeine, yeah, it is." Seeing the mild alarm on Castiel's face, he hastened to reassure him. "Not, like, bad addictive, though. Not like - " Dean couldn't bring himself to say it.
"Not like the blood of demons, as your brother currently suffers," Castiel finished softly. He looked sympathetic.
"Yeah." Dean turned away and busied himself with getting the eggs out and cracked, aware of Castiel's fascinated gaze. He cooked them sunny side up this time, splashing a little bit of the butter up on the edges until the whites turned opaque. He put more toast in the toaster, and poured a mug of coffee for himself.
When the eggs were done he plated them up, half for Cas and half for himself, and piled the slices of toast on the side. Dean grabbed two more forks from the drawer and stepped over to the table.
"I thought angels didn’t eat," Dean commented, shoving one of the plates at said angel before sitting across from him.
"Typically, that's true. We can usually keep our vessels healthy without food, drink, or rest in the physical sense," Castiel replied. "After the battle," Castiel cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Although I survived the Archangel's fury, I was sorely wounded. I am not yet fully healed." Castiel carefully used his fork to lift the edge of the egg, examining it.
"Until then, I'll need to keep Jimmy's body healthy as humans do."
Dean shook off the instinctive guilt that Castiel got hurt helping him when Dean hadn't managed to deliver the goods - Lucifer had still gotten loose, after all. He took a huge bite of eggs and waved his fork at Castiel. "Well, on the upside, at least you get to taste my awesome cooking," he said around a mouthful.
Castiel poked his fork into one of the yokes and looked dismayed when it burst, oozing yellow around the edges of the plate.
"They're called soppin' eggs, Cas," Dean continued, breaking off a piece of his toast and using it to split the surface of one of his yolks. "Best way to eat 'em. See, you use the bread to soak up all the runny parts."
The look Castiel shot towards Dean was maybe a little dubious, but still trusting. Dean took a bite to demonstrate and smiled in encouragement.
Castiel followed suit, a pleased sound slipping past his lips after the first bite. Soon he was digging away at his breakfast almost as eagerly as Dean.
As far as the first day of the End of Days went; Dean figured they were off to a pretty good start.
Later, after Dean finished eaating and chanced a look out the window, he saw that Sam's plate was empty.
- 9 -
"Go run it off, bitch," Dean ordered and swatted at Sam with the dishrag. He was so damned relieved that Sammy had gotten his appetite back, which he proved just now by demolishing the plate of sandwiches Dean made. Hey, they were good sandwiches. Dean had a gift.
Sam rolled his eyes and muttered, "Jerk," but Dean could still see the gratitude and love lurking in his brother's eyes. It helped, especially when Dean contemplated the yellow-green bruises circling his throat in the bathroom mirror.
Sam had dark bags under his eyes and a certain gaunt hollowness to his cheeks, testament to several days' worth of poor eating, broken sleep, and nightmares. Dean's sharp eyes still caught the occasional tremor in Sam's hands, but . . . he wanted to believe the worst was behind them.
Well, worst when you were talking about drinking fucking demon blood, not worst like impending doom and the Apocalypse that he and Sammy have brought on between them.
Dean knew he needed to sit down with Sam and tell him just how he broke the first seal, and what the angels planned. Now there was a conversation Dean would like to avoid, until, oh, Kingdom Come. Unfortunately, it might just come to that unless he confessed soon.
Physical exertion - endless pushups, sit ups and laps - was the best medicine Dean could offer his brother. And himself. When Dean worked himself to the point of exhaustion he didn't always dream, even without drinking himself into a stupor.
Sam wasn't the only one trying to kick a bad habit.
They had been running a stretch of the nearby river mornings and afternoons ever since that first day in this house.
Castiel didn't join them. In fact, the angel appeared to be avoiding Sam's presence as much as humanly (Heh. Angelically?) possible. For his part, Sam seemed to be just as glad to avoid Castiel, exiting rooms abruptly anytime Castiel appeared.
Castiel chose that moment to wander in, and Dean raised an eyebrow.
"What the Hell happened to you?" Dean demanded, taking in the bits of leaves and grass in Castiel's hair and smudges of dirt on his borrowed cut offs and legs. It was the weirdest thing ever, seeing Cas in a pair of Sam's hand-me-down shorts. He wasn't used to thinking about angels with knees, much less freshly scraped ones. Dean was already reaching for a knife, anything as a weapon, since it seemed Castiel's had just come back from a fight despite the lack of urgency in his demeanor.
"I climbed a tree," Castiel said.
"You got beat up by a tree? Was it an evil tree?" Dean asked. He pointed at the fresh cuts and scrapes before setting the knife back down, waiting.
Castiel looked down at himself, surprised. "This? No, this is from falling out of the tree." The cuts were sluggishly healing before Dean's eyes, and Dean wondered what else had to heal before Castiel came back to the house.
Right. Falling from a tree. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and purposefully did not think about a still-healing dumbass angel breaking his fool neck to climb a fucking tree. Christ. Dean took a deep breath, and gave it up as a lost cause.
"You hungry?" he asked instead, gesturing at the sandwich fixings that were still spread out on the counter.
Castiel smiled.
- 10 -
Dean jogged downhill to join Sam for his afternoon run by the lake - running seemed to have helped burn off the demon blood cravings better than anything he and Bobby thought to try when Sam was locked up in the panic room - when he noticed Sam and Castiel standing close together in a hushed, tense looking conversation in the clearing below. He slowed, not sure whether or not he should interrupt.
Sam gestured impatiently with his hands and showed Castiel his cell. Dean was too far away to hear what either of them said. Frowning, he leaned back against the rough bark of a sugar maple to watch and wait.
Castiel listened to whatever Sam was ranting about gravely, then spoke urgently to him. He reached out to touch the phone, and Sam stilled for a long, long moment. Dean couldn't see Sam's face, but he could see well enough the way his whole body just crumpled in on itself. Sam dropped to the ground, sobbing, and Dean jerked upright, driven to comfort Sam by pure instinct.
Castiel looked up and pinned Dean with a warning glance. A slight shake of the angel's head kept Dean rooted to the spot. Then Castiel squatted down beside Sam and set a comforting hand on his brother's heaving back.
Dean let out the breath he hadn't know he was holding.
- 11 -
Dean didn't run with Sam that afternoon. He turned around and returned to the house with its little kitchen of peeling blue wallpaper. There wasn't a lot of food left in the 'fridge, but Dean rummaged around in the freezer until he found some hot dogs and a bag of frozen corn.
Sam had his coping methods; so did Dean.
The hot dogs were thrown into the microwave on low to thaw. He chopped up an onion and a shriveled looking red bell pepper and dumped them in a large fry pan on the stove with some oil. He turned up the heat, and man, those fancy new flat top stoves were sweet. Dean stared pensively at the sizzling pan for a moment before opening the door to the pantry. Garlic powder, yeah, and some pepper. Salt. A can of chopped green chilies caught his eye and he grabbed that too.
By the time he added the chilies and the spices, the microwave was beeping insistently. Dean diced the hot dogs neatly and then popped an end into his mouth. Huh. It wasn't a hot dog, or at least it didn't taste like one. More like a sausage. Dean shrugged and added the meat to the hot pan. The corn went in next, and Dean gave it another shot of oil and some sugar before turning it all around and around, giving everything a good stir.
He remembered Sam used to like it when he fixed fried corn, growing up, throwing whatever leftovers and canned veggies they had in a pot and trying not to burn it. When Dean reached back far enough in his memory, he could sort of remember when his dad used to fix it with Mom, kissing her lightly over the swell of Sammy in her belly.
It wasn't the same as what they used to make, Dean knew, but it was the closest he could come to capturing that memory for his brother. Happier times.
Safe ones.
He spared a moment to think of Jimmy Novak, and wondered what things his daughter would remember of her father. He hoped Amelia could manage. In the meantime, Dean had an angel to look after too. Imagine that.
He stirred the corn for a bit, covered it, and turned the heat down low to let it sweat. While it finished cooking, Dean gathered up supplies and makeshift weapons from the house: silver knives nicked from the fancy cutlery, herbs to make fresh hex bags, bandages and peroxide and enough toiletries to keep Sam in girly shampoo for a month. He found a spare gas canister and a rope and two smallish shovels in the garage and carted it all out to the Mustang. Dean couldn't wait to get back to Bobby's and his fully locked and loaded baby, but he refused to be unprepared in the meantime.
When Sam came back later, Castiel silently trailing his heels, Dean put him on laundry detail.
Sam looked cried out, and all the better for it.
He took the duffle of clothes Dean threw at him without complaint, looking pathetically grateful to avoid a 'Talk'. Dean had already liberated and packed a few things from Mr. Joe Normal's closet that he and Castiel could wear, at least until Cas could mojo his own drawers clean.
And Dean wasn't going to think about that again, ever.
"You," Dean said, snapping his fingers to get Castiel's attention, who looked uncommonly fascinated by the minutia of laundry detergent and fabric softener. "Set the table," Dean ordered, shoving a small bundle of forks and crumpled paper napkins at Castiel. He took the bundle without comment and turned to obey. Dean stared at him for a minute with his hands shoved low into the pockets of his jeans.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, soft enough that Sam won't hear. "Thanks."
Castiel looked over his shoulder at Dean. "You don't have to thank me, Dean."
Neither of them was talking about silverware and place settings.
- 12 -
"Dean has been teaching me about human food," Castiel explained. "I like coffee. And eggs. And also the white fluid from bovine mammary glands."
"It's called milk, Cas!" Dean barked, setting the fry pan of corn down in the center of the table on top of a folded up dishrag. He manfully ignored the slight twitch to Castiel's lips. Uriel was the funniest angel in the garrison, Dean's ass.
They had to leave tomorrow, get back in touch with Bobby, and see exactly what kind of destruction Lucifer had wrought. They needed to figure out their own plan of attack, 'cause Dean would be a damned dead fool before he did whatever that jackass Zachariah told him.
"Yeah?" Sam asked, smiling tentatively at Castiel. "Wait 'till you've tried beer, then." He brandished the six-pack dangling from his left hand.
"I look forward to it," Castiel replied. Sam popped the tab and handed one to Castiel, who took it without pause. Sam opened his own and tapped the cans lightly together.
"Cheers," Sam said and took a healthy swig. Castiel, who looked only slightly bemused, followed Sam's lead.
Watching Sam stand there drinking lukewarm beer with an angel, tall and comfortable in his own skin in a way he hadn't been since that fucking mess at Halloween (the boy with the demon blood . . . . angels are dicks, man) was the best thing Dean had seen in a goddamn long time.
So far as respites go, this was the most Dean could ask for. There was something swelling in his chest, something he almost dared to call hope.
Stop the Apocalypse and find a way to kick the Devil's ass. It was a tall order, but somehow Dean knew he had what (who) he needed to do it.
Heaven could wait.
Dean was going to have a beer first.
- END -
End Notes: Many thanks to those who held my hand and beta'd. You know who you are.
Author: extraonions
Recipient: miss_nevermore
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, spoilers through 4.22 Lucifer Rising
Author's Notes: For miss_nevermore, who asked for Dean & Sam introduce Cas to the glories of food (and possibly beer). I worked a little hurt Sam in there too.
Summary: As far as apocalypses go, Dean figures they are off to a pretty good start.
Soul Food
- 1 -
Ilchester, Maryland
So Lucifer was rising, big flash of fucking light, and what was Dean Winchester doing? He was holding onto his little brother's shirt like a goddamn pussy, and wasn't that just the thing for the End of Days? Then there was a voice in his head - maybe Dad's, maybe Bobby's - hell, maybe it was even Alistair's, telling him to man up (get off that rack) and damn well survive before the convent came down around their ears, never mind whatever Lucifer might have in store for the two poor shmucks who let him out of his cage.
Winchesters weren't made for running, they were made for standing their ground, but there was standing your ground and then there was (facing down an Archangel) fucking suicide.
Sam gripped him just as tight while the floor shook apart beneath their boots and Dean heard something - no, felt something - shaking through his bones. Blood trickled down his upper lip, the sharp, familiar tang of it spilling past his lips, and then Dean realized.
Gas station.
Motel.
This was the sound of Lucifer's voice.
"S-sam," Dean choked out. "Sammy!" He tugged a little on Sam's shirt, fingers half numb from curling up so tight against the coarse fabric, and he brought his other arm up around Sam's shoulders to turn him. "C'mon, let's go!" Blood streamed down Sam's face, and Dean felt a fresh warm trickle from his ear.
It took everything in them to stumble outside, where the sky was brushed over in rich gold and orange and yet had nothing on the brightness that surrounded Lucifer's prison. Dean had no time to appreciate what could be his last sunrise. Sam stumbled and Dean followed him down to the dry earth, instinctively trying to cover Sam's larger frame with his own.
Behind them, the defiled convent exploded and rained dirt and bits of rock and shrapnel down. After an eternity of that fresh Hell, all was silent. Lucifer was free, but against all expectation, they were still alive. Dean eyed Ruby's (dead, you bitch, finally) Mustang parked several yards away. It was his job to make sure they stayed that way.
- 2 -
Sam was bundled up in the backseat with Dean's jacket tucked over his chest. He wasn't talking; just sitting there with this dazed, broken look on his face that Dean hadn't seen the likes of since that first week after Jessica.
Dean was too tired and edgy to talk himself. He hadn’t slept for what seemed like days; hadn't eaten (hamburger, Cas, shhhh, trust me) a bite since Bobby's. He was running on sheer adrenaline. Dean watched his little brother in the rear view mirror but didn't speak, not even when Sam nodded off and then jerked awake again, looking sick and too small for his body.
Goddamnit. Or, you know, whatever.
Dean almost felt better, hearing that God wasn't around. Yeah, it sucked major ass to have the Man Upstairs AWOL, but the more Dean thought about it, the more it made every crazy rotten thing down on Earth make sense. Dean had never been able to reconcile himself to a God that let people suffer the way his family had.
God, taking lessons from John Winchester. The very thought made Dean snort. Dean hoped He was off smiting some sons of bitches, anyway.
His hands shook on the steering wheel, and Dean was sure even if Sam was talking he wouldn't be able to hear him because his ears were still ringing. It felt like he was on the verge of passing out or hallucinating. The mile markers passed in a blur, and several times he found himself nodding off, only to jerk upright and focus blearily on the road again. He rolled the windows down, hoping the passing air would help wake him up. The road was eerily empty, even for such early morning hours. This close to D.C., there should have been more traffic.
Dean was afraid to think about what that might mean.
Dean wanted the Impala so badly he could almost taste it. He wanted to settle Sam next to him in the passenger seat and blast the radio, loud enough he could feel the music even past the soothing rumble of his baby's engine thrumming through his body. The Mustang was a classic; Dean can't fault Ruby for taste; but it wasn't home.
They needed to stop and find a place to hole up (How can you hide from the Devil?), but everything in Dean screamed to get away from the site of Lucifer's erstwhile prison as fast as they possibly could. He almost ran them off the road twice, fucking Christ, weaving messily on I-295. He was so tired he could easily crash them into a ditch and he didn't have the energy left to care. A messy highway death would probably be better than whatever Lucifer and the demons and Hell, even the angels had in store for them.
Damned if he was going to die in that traitorous Hell bitch's car, though.
Dean took the first exit, then another, and eventually found himself on MD-210. He didn't know where he was going. By rights he should have been trying to get back to Bobby's and the relative (dubious) safety of the panic room, but something was pulling him north instead.
It wasn't until he almost ran Castiel over that Dean realized why he was on this particular stretch of godforsaken (heh, literally) highway.
The angel stood in the middle of the lane, just waiting. He looked quite a bit the worse for wear than when Dean last saw him: bloodied and with his left arm hanging limp at his side. Dean hit the brakes, cursing and swerving, and even Sam looked up from his funk to take notice and scrabble for a weapon.
"S'okay, Sammy," Dean murmured. He rested his head on the steering wheel as Castiel limped towards them, almost overwhelmed by emotion and exhaustion. Dean truly hadn't expected to see Castiel again, not the way he had left things at Chuck's place.
One less soul on his guilty conscience.
"Cas sent me to you, man," Dean continued. He sensed, rather than saw, the way Sam tensed up at his words. "Sent me to save you."
"D-dean . . ." Sam breathed out. Sam dropped the gun down beside him in the seat, and leaned forward to rest his head on the back of the driver's headrest. "Dean, I am so - ".
"Shh, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "Later. We'll figure it all out later, OK?" Sam nodded against the headrest, wearily. Dean closed his eyes, listening to the crunch-slide of gravel beneath Castiel's approaching feet, until his hand dropped down on the window frame of the car.
"Dean."
"Cas. Hey, Cas," Dean said, talking into the steering wheel. "You have no idea how glad we are to see you." In the backseat, Sam started laughing weakly and didn't stop.
- 3 -
Dean pressed up against the cool of the passenger side window and closed his eyes. It was a measure of how tired he was that he couldn't summon up the appropriate level of terror that the thought of Castiel, Angel of the Lord, driving down the highway should bring.
All things considered, it was a miracle any of them were still alive. Cas was pretty stoic about it, but the archangel obviously ripped him a new one before Castiel got away, or the archangel got bored, or . . . whatever happened. He hadn't said. But Castiel was almost covered in tacky blood and nasty looking contusions, and since the wounds hadn't healed up yet, it said a lot about just how badly hurt he was.
Dean figured Heaven was feeling a little tight-fisted on passing out the miracles at the moment, so maybe it was more like Winchester luck that saw them all here. The kind of luck that turned on a dime and would get them all fucked six ways to Sunday the next time Dean blinked, most likely.
Or sideswiped by a demon-driven sixteen wheeler.
The thought of that was almost enough to make Dean sit up and demand control of the wheel again, but one look at Castiel's grim face peering out at the road ahead, fingers wrapped tight on the wheel, made Dean reconsider. Pushy goddamn angels, threatening to whammy people asleep if they didn't slide over and rest.
Hell with it. Castiel could plunge them all off a cliff so long as Dean got some shut eye first. Yawning, he stole a glance at Sam - asleep, thank you very much - who was snoring softly on account of Cas actually having laid the mojo on him when they couldn't get him to stop with the hysterical laughter. Goddamn it.
- 4 -
Nanjemoy, Maryland
It couldn't have been more than a half an hour before Dean startled awake at Castiel's light touch.
The house was small and out of the way. Dean was pretty sure there couldn’t be any neighbors closer than an hour out, and that was exactly what they needed until they could get their bearings and Sammy back on his feet.
He worried about the owners coming back to find them, but Castiel assured him that wouldn't be the case.
"How the fuck do you know?" Dean exploded, irritated with Castiel's too-trusting equanimity until he got a better look at Castiel's face, or rather, what he was looking at past the edge of the house.
Oh. The corpses were fresh, and there were dirty smears of sulfur on the woman's lips and her husband's fingertips.
Dean swallowed back bile and murmured a quiet apology.
Tired as he was, Dean picked the locks as easy as breathing, and Cas helped him drag Sam up the stairs and into the bedroom. They settled him on the bed. Dean was about to ask Castiel to help him dispose of the bodies when he swayed, grabbing at the headboard to keep his balance.
"Shit, Cas!" Dean exclaimed, dropping the boot he just finished working off Sam's foot. "What's wrong?" He guided Castiel down to the bed and patted him down carefully. His (Jimmy's?) left shoulder was badly dislocated.
"I'll be fine," Castiel got out, although he looked a little pasty. "Don't concern yourself, Dean."
"Like Hell, I won't," Dean responded. "Look, your shoulder is fucked, man. You want me to pop it back into place?" Dean doesn't even want to know how the angel drove with it like that.
Castiel nodded tightly, and Dean grimaced.
- 5 -
Dean spent the next few hours taking care of the bodies, and fortifying the house. He consoled himself with the thought that there were no children, either in the house or in the few photographs scattered on furniture and the cluttered mantle.
Castiel made himself scarce, although Dean saw him tracing invisible patterns on the windows earlier. Dean carved a few here or there himself, on the doorframes and walls, in between lining everything with thick piles of salt. After a moment of hesitation, he settled some of Ruby's hex bags at the cardinal points too.
Sam eventually woke up calmer, but with the mother of all migraines. Half-dead on his feet, Dean drew the blinds shut and brought Sam an icepack of frozen peas stolen from of Mrs. Joe Normal's freezer.
"You hungry, Sammy?" Dean asked, desperate for something to do, some way to help. Sam nodded around the sharp lines of pain on his face, little boy lost, and Dean tightened his grip around Sam's wrist and told him to keep still and he'd be back, right back with some food.
- 6 -
Sam didn't eat.
He took one look at the bowl of soup Dean made and bolted for the bathroom, where he spent the next forty-five minutes tossing up his guts, alternately apologizing and dry heaving while shivering miserably. Dean sighed and parked his ass on the cold tile floor next to his brother. He kept up a steady litany of soothing nonsense words while he rubbed Sam's shoulders and wiped his forehead with a cold wet cloth. Before long everything reeked of vomit and stale blood and bile, and all Dean could think was that it felt like he was finally home.
Later, he shoved Sam into the shower. There were towels stacked up on the john and a pair of sweats for Sam to change into on the edge of the sink. Dean shut the door softly and waited outside.
Castiel was sitting on the bed, eating Sam's cold soup and toast. He had stripped down to a pair of boxers, and Dean was not sure what was weirder - seeing Castiel sitting there half naked, or seeing him sitting there half naked cradling a bowl of soup on his lap and eating.
There were fucking huge bruises all along the angel's torso, and Dean noticed he was still favoring his left arm. The blood was gone, however, and Dean counted that a blessing.
"This is . . . good," Castiel said, setting the spoon down to rest in the bowl.
"It's better while it's still hot," Dean muttered, frowning as Castiel bit into a piece of toast and closed his eyes in obvious enjoyment. It reminded him of Jimmy, chowing down on his first burger in months.
Dean blinked that image away and sighed. He was too tired to eat himself. "Hey, Cas, can you do me a favor?" Dean asked.
"Anything," Castiel looked up at Dean expectantly. Dean doesn't know what to do with that kind of rapt attention, not really. He was all too aware that Castiel had given up everything (I'll hold him off. I'll hold them all off!) for him sake, his and Sammy's.
"Would you watch Sam for me? I gotta crash, man," Dean admitted. "Just need to know he's safe, and not, you know, gonna sneak out and do some noble and self-sacrificing shit, OK?"
"Of course," Castiel said, but that was all Dean needed. Somehow or another he'd come to trust Castiel as he trusted few others. There was a flash of something like guilt across Castiel's face, gone too quickly for Dean to be sure. Then Castiel was placidly chewing cold toast again, and Dean was left to wonder if he imagined it.
Dean shook his head and pounded on the bathroom door. Whatever. Sam's emo manpain was about all Dean could handle right now, he would figure out Castiel's malfunction later.
"Sammy, I'm going to bed. Don't drown or I'll kick your ass, you hear me?" The muffled affirmative was enough for Dean, who kicked off his boots and settled on the opposite side of the bed from where Castiel was dropping crumbs into the sheets. "More soup in the kitchen," he slurred, eyes already closing as the soft, soft pillow enveloped him with a light floral scent.
The last thing he heard before drifting off was a quiet, "Sleep well."
- 7 -
The first day after the end of the world started was surprisingly, well, peaceful. Dean heard birds chirping outside the window, and for one long incongruous moment he thought the whole thing - damn, everything since Castiel handed him a note on a fucking fishing pier - had all been one long endless nightmare.
Jimmy Novak, and demon blood smeared messily across Sam's face.
(If you walk through that door . . . .)
Zachariah, Lilith, Ruby.
Lucifer.
No such luck, it really was Apocalypse Now. Dean sighed and rolled over. He took in the empty bed next to him - Sam, where was Sam? No, no, no - and panicked. Up and moving in an instant, Dean ignored the protest of aching limbs in his hurry to get downstairs.
He skidded to a stop in the front room, seeing Castiel standing near the window. "Cas! Sam's gone!"
Castiel wore a sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of dress pants that looked slightly too short for him. Dean guessed he must have found them in Mr. Joe Normal's closet. Normally, Dean would be a lot more interested in the angel's new sartorial choices, but right now all he could think about was finding his brother. "You said you'd watch him." Dean knew there was accusation coloring his tone, but Castiel took no offense.
"Sam's outside," Castiel said, pointing through the window. Dean sighed in relief and moved over to stand next to him. Sure enough, Sam was sitting outside on the porch, knees drawn tightly to his chest.
"How long?" Dean asked.
"Sam woke several hours ago. He asked that I not wake you; that you needed the rest." Dean could see from Castiel's expression that he thought Dean still needed to rest.
Dean waved that off impatiently. "And he's been out there ever since? What's he doing, anyway?"
Castiel turned to regard Dean thoughtfully. "I believe he is praying."
- 8 -
The kitchen was well stocked and homey, decorated with blue floral wallpaper that had seen better days and a heckuva lot of cows. Dean had not taken much time to investigate the previous evening when he warmed up the carton of soup for Sam, but he did so now, checking out the supplies in the refrigerator.
He planned on them staying a few days, just laying low and getting a handle on everything before they saw what happened next. Between his efforts and Castiel's on warding the house, Dean hoped they could stay off Lucifer's radar for a bit - and Heaven's, if it came down to it.
Dean put a pot of coffee on and then stood in front of the open refrigerator, trying to decide what to woo Sam's temperamental palate with. Eggs would probably be best.
It didn't take long. Dean cracked the eggs right into the pan with a slab of butter and tossed the shells into the sink. It took him a minute to master the stove, which had lots of buttons and a distinct lack of familiar metal burners, but only a minute. Before long, he was sliding two eggs, over well, onto a cheerful daisy plate.
He added two slices of toast, sliced diagonally and lightly buttered, just the way Sam always liked it. After a quick delay while Dean prepped a mug of disgustingly sweet coffee and grabbed a fork, he was on the porch, setting the eggs and coffee down next to Sam.
Sam made no move to take the plate, and wouldn't look at him. Dean signed and dropped down to sit beside him. "You need to eat, Sam."
"Not hungry," Sam mumbled.
Dean cuffed him gently on the back of the head. Sam jerked and looked sideways at Dean, although he focused on the hand shaped bruises decorating Dean's neck instead of meeting his eyes.
Dean patted Sam on the leg. "Didn't ask if you were hungry. Seriously, dude. Eat the damn eggs." Dean levered himself up and turned to go in.
"Dean . . . ."
"I'll give you an hour. Then we're going to take a run, and you're going to do about a million pushups. And maybe we'll work on your hand-to-hand."
Dean didn't wait to see Sam's reaction, just went on back inside.
Castiel was in the kitchen looking at the loaf of bread uncertainly.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, frowning. "What's wrong?"
"My vessel requires sustenance," Castiel replied. While Dean watched, Castiel managed to drop two slices of bread in the toaster, albeit hesitatingly. When it became obvious that Castiel intended to toast the bread with the power of his expectant gaze, rather than turn the toaster on, Dean stepped in.
"Sit down, I'll make you some eggs to go with that." Dean gave Castiel a half-shove towards the small dinette in the corner of the room and then pushed the lever down on the toaster.
Castiel began to protest, but Dean silenced him with a cocky grin he summoned up from somewhere and a pointed spatula. "Don't be stupid, Cas. I gotta cook more for me anyway, and man - or angel, I guess - cannot survive on bread alone."
Castiel cocked his head, like he was trying to figure out whether Dean was full of shit or not, but he sat down at the table anyway. Dean slapped a mug of coffee down next to him, along with the sugar, the milk, and a spoon. "Coffee," he announced. "Taste it first, and if you don't like it plain try adding some of this stuff."
"My vessel enjoyed a cup of coffee in the morning," Castiel started, but Dean cut him off.
"Jimmy. He has a name, Cas."
Castiel bowed his head momentarily before meeting Dean's eyes. "Very well. Jimmy." He took a sip and then looked at the cup pensively. "I was under the impression that this beverage is addictive."
Dean snorted. "Caffeine, yeah, it is." Seeing the mild alarm on Castiel's face, he hastened to reassure him. "Not, like, bad addictive, though. Not like - " Dean couldn't bring himself to say it.
"Not like the blood of demons, as your brother currently suffers," Castiel finished softly. He looked sympathetic.
"Yeah." Dean turned away and busied himself with getting the eggs out and cracked, aware of Castiel's fascinated gaze. He cooked them sunny side up this time, splashing a little bit of the butter up on the edges until the whites turned opaque. He put more toast in the toaster, and poured a mug of coffee for himself.
When the eggs were done he plated them up, half for Cas and half for himself, and piled the slices of toast on the side. Dean grabbed two more forks from the drawer and stepped over to the table.
"I thought angels didn’t eat," Dean commented, shoving one of the plates at said angel before sitting across from him.
"Typically, that's true. We can usually keep our vessels healthy without food, drink, or rest in the physical sense," Castiel replied. "After the battle," Castiel cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Although I survived the Archangel's fury, I was sorely wounded. I am not yet fully healed." Castiel carefully used his fork to lift the edge of the egg, examining it.
"Until then, I'll need to keep Jimmy's body healthy as humans do."
Dean shook off the instinctive guilt that Castiel got hurt helping him when Dean hadn't managed to deliver the goods - Lucifer had still gotten loose, after all. He took a huge bite of eggs and waved his fork at Castiel. "Well, on the upside, at least you get to taste my awesome cooking," he said around a mouthful.
Castiel poked his fork into one of the yokes and looked dismayed when it burst, oozing yellow around the edges of the plate.
"They're called soppin' eggs, Cas," Dean continued, breaking off a piece of his toast and using it to split the surface of one of his yolks. "Best way to eat 'em. See, you use the bread to soak up all the runny parts."
The look Castiel shot towards Dean was maybe a little dubious, but still trusting. Dean took a bite to demonstrate and smiled in encouragement.
Castiel followed suit, a pleased sound slipping past his lips after the first bite. Soon he was digging away at his breakfast almost as eagerly as Dean.
As far as the first day of the End of Days went; Dean figured they were off to a pretty good start.
Later, after Dean finished eaating and chanced a look out the window, he saw that Sam's plate was empty.
- 9 -
"Go run it off, bitch," Dean ordered and swatted at Sam with the dishrag. He was so damned relieved that Sammy had gotten his appetite back, which he proved just now by demolishing the plate of sandwiches Dean made. Hey, they were good sandwiches. Dean had a gift.
Sam rolled his eyes and muttered, "Jerk," but Dean could still see the gratitude and love lurking in his brother's eyes. It helped, especially when Dean contemplated the yellow-green bruises circling his throat in the bathroom mirror.
Sam had dark bags under his eyes and a certain gaunt hollowness to his cheeks, testament to several days' worth of poor eating, broken sleep, and nightmares. Dean's sharp eyes still caught the occasional tremor in Sam's hands, but . . . he wanted to believe the worst was behind them.
Well, worst when you were talking about drinking fucking demon blood, not worst like impending doom and the Apocalypse that he and Sammy have brought on between them.
Dean knew he needed to sit down with Sam and tell him just how he broke the first seal, and what the angels planned. Now there was a conversation Dean would like to avoid, until, oh, Kingdom Come. Unfortunately, it might just come to that unless he confessed soon.
Physical exertion - endless pushups, sit ups and laps - was the best medicine Dean could offer his brother. And himself. When Dean worked himself to the point of exhaustion he didn't always dream, even without drinking himself into a stupor.
Sam wasn't the only one trying to kick a bad habit.
They had been running a stretch of the nearby river mornings and afternoons ever since that first day in this house.
Castiel didn't join them. In fact, the angel appeared to be avoiding Sam's presence as much as humanly (Heh. Angelically?) possible. For his part, Sam seemed to be just as glad to avoid Castiel, exiting rooms abruptly anytime Castiel appeared.
Castiel chose that moment to wander in, and Dean raised an eyebrow.
"What the Hell happened to you?" Dean demanded, taking in the bits of leaves and grass in Castiel's hair and smudges of dirt on his borrowed cut offs and legs. It was the weirdest thing ever, seeing Cas in a pair of Sam's hand-me-down shorts. He wasn't used to thinking about angels with knees, much less freshly scraped ones. Dean was already reaching for a knife, anything as a weapon, since it seemed Castiel's had just come back from a fight despite the lack of urgency in his demeanor.
"I climbed a tree," Castiel said.
"You got beat up by a tree? Was it an evil tree?" Dean asked. He pointed at the fresh cuts and scrapes before setting the knife back down, waiting.
Castiel looked down at himself, surprised. "This? No, this is from falling out of the tree." The cuts were sluggishly healing before Dean's eyes, and Dean wondered what else had to heal before Castiel came back to the house.
Right. Falling from a tree. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and purposefully did not think about a still-healing dumbass angel breaking his fool neck to climb a fucking tree. Christ. Dean took a deep breath, and gave it up as a lost cause.
"You hungry?" he asked instead, gesturing at the sandwich fixings that were still spread out on the counter.
Castiel smiled.
- 10 -
Dean jogged downhill to join Sam for his afternoon run by the lake - running seemed to have helped burn off the demon blood cravings better than anything he and Bobby thought to try when Sam was locked up in the panic room - when he noticed Sam and Castiel standing close together in a hushed, tense looking conversation in the clearing below. He slowed, not sure whether or not he should interrupt.
Sam gestured impatiently with his hands and showed Castiel his cell. Dean was too far away to hear what either of them said. Frowning, he leaned back against the rough bark of a sugar maple to watch and wait.
Castiel listened to whatever Sam was ranting about gravely, then spoke urgently to him. He reached out to touch the phone, and Sam stilled for a long, long moment. Dean couldn't see Sam's face, but he could see well enough the way his whole body just crumpled in on itself. Sam dropped to the ground, sobbing, and Dean jerked upright, driven to comfort Sam by pure instinct.
Castiel looked up and pinned Dean with a warning glance. A slight shake of the angel's head kept Dean rooted to the spot. Then Castiel squatted down beside Sam and set a comforting hand on his brother's heaving back.
Dean let out the breath he hadn't know he was holding.
- 11 -
Dean didn't run with Sam that afternoon. He turned around and returned to the house with its little kitchen of peeling blue wallpaper. There wasn't a lot of food left in the 'fridge, but Dean rummaged around in the freezer until he found some hot dogs and a bag of frozen corn.
Sam had his coping methods; so did Dean.
The hot dogs were thrown into the microwave on low to thaw. He chopped up an onion and a shriveled looking red bell pepper and dumped them in a large fry pan on the stove with some oil. He turned up the heat, and man, those fancy new flat top stoves were sweet. Dean stared pensively at the sizzling pan for a moment before opening the door to the pantry. Garlic powder, yeah, and some pepper. Salt. A can of chopped green chilies caught his eye and he grabbed that too.
By the time he added the chilies and the spices, the microwave was beeping insistently. Dean diced the hot dogs neatly and then popped an end into his mouth. Huh. It wasn't a hot dog, or at least it didn't taste like one. More like a sausage. Dean shrugged and added the meat to the hot pan. The corn went in next, and Dean gave it another shot of oil and some sugar before turning it all around and around, giving everything a good stir.
He remembered Sam used to like it when he fixed fried corn, growing up, throwing whatever leftovers and canned veggies they had in a pot and trying not to burn it. When Dean reached back far enough in his memory, he could sort of remember when his dad used to fix it with Mom, kissing her lightly over the swell of Sammy in her belly.
It wasn't the same as what they used to make, Dean knew, but it was the closest he could come to capturing that memory for his brother. Happier times.
Safe ones.
He spared a moment to think of Jimmy Novak, and wondered what things his daughter would remember of her father. He hoped Amelia could manage. In the meantime, Dean had an angel to look after too. Imagine that.
He stirred the corn for a bit, covered it, and turned the heat down low to let it sweat. While it finished cooking, Dean gathered up supplies and makeshift weapons from the house: silver knives nicked from the fancy cutlery, herbs to make fresh hex bags, bandages and peroxide and enough toiletries to keep Sam in girly shampoo for a month. He found a spare gas canister and a rope and two smallish shovels in the garage and carted it all out to the Mustang. Dean couldn't wait to get back to Bobby's and his fully locked and loaded baby, but he refused to be unprepared in the meantime.
When Sam came back later, Castiel silently trailing his heels, Dean put him on laundry detail.
Sam looked cried out, and all the better for it.
He took the duffle of clothes Dean threw at him without complaint, looking pathetically grateful to avoid a 'Talk'. Dean had already liberated and packed a few things from Mr. Joe Normal's closet that he and Castiel could wear, at least until Cas could mojo his own drawers clean.
And Dean wasn't going to think about that again, ever.
"You," Dean said, snapping his fingers to get Castiel's attention, who looked uncommonly fascinated by the minutia of laundry detergent and fabric softener. "Set the table," Dean ordered, shoving a small bundle of forks and crumpled paper napkins at Castiel. He took the bundle without comment and turned to obey. Dean stared at him for a minute with his hands shoved low into the pockets of his jeans.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, soft enough that Sam won't hear. "Thanks."
Castiel looked over his shoulder at Dean. "You don't have to thank me, Dean."
Neither of them was talking about silverware and place settings.
- 12 -
"Dean has been teaching me about human food," Castiel explained. "I like coffee. And eggs. And also the white fluid from bovine mammary glands."
"It's called milk, Cas!" Dean barked, setting the fry pan of corn down in the center of the table on top of a folded up dishrag. He manfully ignored the slight twitch to Castiel's lips. Uriel was the funniest angel in the garrison, Dean's ass.
They had to leave tomorrow, get back in touch with Bobby, and see exactly what kind of destruction Lucifer had wrought. They needed to figure out their own plan of attack, 'cause Dean would be a damned dead fool before he did whatever that jackass Zachariah told him.
"Yeah?" Sam asked, smiling tentatively at Castiel. "Wait 'till you've tried beer, then." He brandished the six-pack dangling from his left hand.
"I look forward to it," Castiel replied. Sam popped the tab and handed one to Castiel, who took it without pause. Sam opened his own and tapped the cans lightly together.
"Cheers," Sam said and took a healthy swig. Castiel, who looked only slightly bemused, followed Sam's lead.
Watching Sam stand there drinking lukewarm beer with an angel, tall and comfortable in his own skin in a way he hadn't been since that fucking mess at Halloween (the boy with the demon blood . . . . angels are dicks, man) was the best thing Dean had seen in a goddamn long time.
So far as respites go, this was the most Dean could ask for. There was something swelling in his chest, something he almost dared to call hope.
Stop the Apocalypse and find a way to kick the Devil's ass. It was a tall order, but somehow Dean knew he had what (who) he needed to do it.
Heaven could wait.
Dean was going to have a beer first.
- END -
End Notes: Many thanks to those who held my hand and beta'd. You know who you are.