I WANT HIS TENTACLE BABIES
This is pretty much my reaction to the Supernatural season 7 premiere. Loved it, and the tentacles it walked in on.
I lost terribly, tragically, at premiere Bingo. But loki_dip bought me a tentacle egg cup for my birthday and that made up for everything.
Now, to fic.
Long, long ago I signed up for a fic fest over at spn_foxhole. I chose a beautiful prompt, and then I promply (no pun intended) failed to write. And when I did write it became epic. And then everything went wrong. And then the fic was becoming even more epic. And then I finished it.
So, finally, I present the first part of my fic for murron, taking the prompt S6: The war in Heaven is over. Dean and Sam pick up Cas from the battlefield.
I apologise to murron and to dotfic for being utterly useless, and hope the extended length makes up a little for that. The story is complete but the other parts are still in editing, to be posted shortly.
Title: The Demiurge (1/3)
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: 8,463 this part
Summary: Pre-Dean/Cas, Sam. Goes AU after around 6X20, vague spoilers up to that point. H/C.
Thanks to cienna for her usual beta-ing prowess.
After the final battle for Heaven, the Winchesters find Castiel.
.The Demiurge.
One
Castiel is tired.
He's been tired for a long time. Certainly since he chose this own path, since before even that, maybe since he first saw humanity and witnessed its youth and its energy and its life and felt, for the first time, very old.
He feels very old now. Old and worn out and maybe, Castiel thinks, it's time for him to come to an end.
Many times Castiel has heard humans say that when they die, they see their life flash before their eyes. Now, all Castiel sees is eons of mindless servitude, of waiting for nothing at all, of hope and loyalty when both are, in retrospect, pointless. It makes for sad viewing. No matter how many incredible things he has seen; the creation of the Earth, the achievements of mankind, Castiel was never anything more than an observer. None of the achievements were his. In his whole life, Castiel doesn't remember creating anything of his own. He was made to destroy, to kill, a soldier with nothing but memories of brothers and sisters he has slaughtered to his name.
It's strange, Castiel thinks, how little he has changed.
At least it reaffirms Castiel's belief that he chose the right path after all. Father or no Father, he's still sure humans are worth saving, as he's sure his own kind are worthy of independent thought, no matter how anarchic Heaven has become.
Perhaps it will be better now, with Raphael gone.
The archangel's vessel lies close by, eyes still open in surprise, blood still running across the skin of her neck, staining the pale blue rug under her body a dark red. The imprint of Raphael's wings spreads wide across the floor, the shape burned across coffee tables and dressers and cushions. Once, Castiel thought Raphael magnificent. He looked to his brother's wings, great arches of lightning, feathers of rain and cloud, and under them Castiel knew he would be safe.
Once, Castiel had been so very sure. Of himself, of the order of the world, of fate and destiny, and of their Father. Now, Castiel can see that same look in the eyes of the angels that follow him. They see a miracle of their Father's will. They see safety and order but Castiel is none of these things.
It is for this reason that Castiel wonders if it would be best if he died here too. Then there would be no leaders left at all.
Utter and complete freedom, Balthazar had said, and perhaps that is the only thing that will put an end to the war.
Castiel is too tired, too worn down and mangled, to fix himself anyway. He's tried because this life was given to him by his Father and he doesn't want it to end. He wants to see Dean and Sam again. He wishes to see Heaven at peace. He longs to see their Father. There's just no strength left in him though. Castiel used everything he had to end Raphael's life, and the thing that makes Castiel sad, perhaps even angry, is that he never wanted it to end like this. No matter what Raphael has- had- done to him. No matter how stubborn and frustrating and unrelenting Raphael was, Castiel never sought his death.
That does not mean Castiel didn't expect it to end this way.
Many of his brothers call Castiel naive and reckless, but he's not and he never has been- not when it comes to war- and of all the outcomes of a final battle with Raphael, this was always the one he had anticipated. Neither of them would concede nor submit so both of them would die.
And this time, Castiel does not expect to come back, and he can't quite decide if he is glad of it or not.
He has regrets, so many regrets Castiel thinks he could fill Bobby's house with them, his junkyard too. But he is sure he has done everything he could, fought as long and as hard as he was able. Castiel regrets that he could not make Dean and Sam understand that everything he did was for them. For humanity. He wishes very much he could have made peace with the Winchesters because the last time he spoke to Dean it was in anger and Castiel had said things he would take back, now. Castiel prays for them because he might not be there to protect them for much longer and Castiel has never before met any beings that attract so much trouble to themselves.
It's consolation, of a sort, for Castiel to know he will go to nothing. That he can rest. Castiel just wishes that so many of his brothers and sisters, the bodies of their broken vessels still warm around him, torn to pieces, had not had to join him.
There is consolation too in knowing there is hope that this battle will have brought an end to the war in Heaven. It is only hope, because there's still no guarantee, no clear outcome. No one was victorious. No side proved right. None would leave this place, sure of their righteousness, convinced of their dogma. No one would leave this place at all.
Yet, Castiel knows that the other angels watched this fight, and they would have seen Raphael and his followers fall. They would have seen Castiel and his followers fall too. Some called to him, but Castiel did not reply. Some cursed him, but Castiel could understand their hatred.
There is stunned disbelief in Heaven; the realisation that there is no victor, no judgment from God either way. Perhaps that's the whole point. Soon there will be none to lead them, no one to follow, and it is then that the angels will have to decide for themselves what to do and how to live their lives. In what is left of him, Castiel can hear them begging for guidance, begging for orders and instructions, praying for their Father to give them a sign. Castiel sympathises more than they could ever know, but still he will not answer. They are not thinking of destroying the Earth, nor raising Lucifer from Hell, or of killing their brethren. Instead, they are looking to the choices before them.
Castiel hopes they make better choices than he did.
It is out of his hands now, Castiel thinks, and finds the relief so great it's as though a physical weight has been taken from his shoulders and from his chest.
Despite it all- and perhaps it's selfish- but Castiel wishes he were not alone. Each of his deaths in the past happened before he'd even had the chance to feel anything like fear or pain, and Castiel finds this slow bleeding away of awareness an excruciatingly lonely thing. He wishes he could call Dean and Sam to bid them farewell and to wish them well. To at least hear and know that somewhere people he loves are still alive and well. But Castiel doesn't know if Dean's cell phone number is still the same, and he doesn't know if Dean would even answer for him anymore. And anyway, Castiel isn't sure he has the strength to move his arms, so all he can do is look to the ceiling above him, a tangle of lamps and wires and metal and bolts, trying not to pray for help.
He feels pain, in a distant kind of way, his body and his true being mixed and confused so that Castiel can't tell if he is losing blood or his Grace. It's all one and the same, he supposes. The end result certainly will be.
In the silence and in the darkness Castiel lets himself drift. The space is large, the most profane Castiel could find to draw out and fight Raphael, and it's a soulless place to die. It's cold, Castiel thinks, and remembers being cold when he was fallen, mostly human. He didn't like it then and he likes it even less now. He thinks of the blankets Dean had given to him, and the coffee Sam had made him and lets himself sink into the memories because it is better than this place and this pain.
Absurdly, Castiel finds himself hoping the humans that come to this place to work in a few hours, when the sun rises, will not mind too much the bodies of the vessels. The damage they have wrought. So much of the time Castiel finds human reactions unpredictable, against all logic and reason, and he can't even begin to imagine what they will think of the wings seared into walls and floor and furniture. It seems somehow wrong that after thousands of years of life all the power and beauty of an angel comes to nothing more than the shadows of wings, easily covered over, hidden and forgotten. Dust and ash.
It is prideful, Castiel knows, but he wishes he would be remembered. Not as a rebel, nor a traitor, nor even as an angel, but as a brother. As a friend. But Castiel doesn't know if the Winchesters will even care he is dead.
Then, suddenly, Castiel's cell phone rings.
The sound of it is loud in the dead, silent space and Castiel startles. It is a human reaction to jump at an unexpected noise, physical reflex overriding thought, and Castiel is so deeply entombed within his vessel now that he can't stop the way his body jerks. It hurts, pulling at wounds Castiel is not thinking about. Instead, Castiel concentrates on breathing when he doesn't need to breathe and keeping his eyes open, though there is nothing to see. He's fighting to stay alive, Castiel realises, and he isn't even sure why.
Once the pain has subsided, once Castiel can concentrate again on something other than not losing consciousness, Castiel wonders at who could be calling him. Only Dean, Sam and Bobby have this number, and never in the past year had they done anything but pray to him. It must be some trick. Some trap. Perhaps Crowley, not yet realising Castiel was out of the picture. The demon has so many contacts, so many schemes, that Castiel doesn't doubt he'd be capable of finding his cell phone number if he chose to. It's a strange thing though because Castiel had almost forgotten he still carried that phone. It should have been destroyed when he was blown apart by Michael, but here it is, ringing and ringing and Castiel doesn't have the strength to reach for it.
Even the grey concrete ceiling above him seems dimmed now, washed out and removed. He should be able to see beyond it, to Heaven, or at least to the sky and the atmosphere and the life there. But Castiel can't reach beyond the confines of his failing vessel. He imagines, though, that it's Dean calling him. He imagines that Dean still cares and is surprised when it eases his pain and his isolation, no matter how false. No matter how much it's just wishful thinking. Imagination. Lies. All things that Castiel knew nothing about before he met Dean.
The cell phone rings and rings and rings, and it's the last thing Castiel hears.
***
A long time ago, not very long ago at all, when Castiel was more or less human and had to sleep, he dreamt of Hell. He loathed it; the powerlessness, the reminder of a humanity he'd never wanted, being subsumed by his own memories and the inventions of his own mind. Castiel would stay awake until either he passed out or until Dean or Sam forced him to close his eyes.
Castiel finds himself in those long-forgotten, familiar dreams now and thinks that perhaps there will be no peace for him, that he has been judged by their Father and that this is Hell. For an angel to be sent to perdition is not without precedent, and Castiel is in agreement that he has done enough to deserve such a punishment. He has disobeyed, and he has disobeyed again. He has done all of the things that angels were not supposed to do and the worst of it is that he regrets very few of them.
So in his dream- or in Hell, and it doesn't really matter which it is- when the sharp claws of demons dig into his flesh and into his wings, trying to taste his blood and his Grace, Castiel does not fight them. It is better to concentrate on the pain than to remember.
After a time, or maybe after no time at all, Castiel hears Dean's voice calling him, and Sam's too, and thinks that this must be some demon trick, or else he is hallucinating. Perhaps he's gone mad. The voices are insistent, and Castiel wants to tell them to be quiet; to leave him alone, but he can't move because the demons have their hands in his chest, ripping out his heart and his lungs for the hundredth or thousandth time so that he has no breath. They tell him to wake up, and they tell him to live, and Castiel wants to argue that they are too late, and that he is awake, and that they are annoying.
Unless, and then Castiel panics, unless Dean and Sam are here in Hell with him and that is the one thing that Castiel couldn't stand. He's taken them from here before and he would raise them a hundred times more if he had to. It's too full of darkness and regret to see, but Castiel can sense them both close by and he forgets that this is- might be- isn't- a dream and struggles against the weight of demons and the pull of their knives. Castiel will not leave the brothers to rot here, so he fights and it hurts but Dean and Sam's voices are insistent and Castiel is determined, incensed, because this is the one place they don't deserve to be.
Castiel fights until he can hear their voices clearly and Dean is saying, "Wake the fuck up," and, "Open your damn eyes, Cas," and Sam is saying, "Dean." Castiel fights until he comes to realise that it's Dean's hand clamped around his arm that is holding him down, and Sam's hands pressing down against his stomach that hurts so much.
Sam says, "He's not healing," and then there's more pressure and Castiel opens his eyes and he's gasping and he's possibly not as dead as he thought because there is light and it's bright in a way that Hell could never be.
Castiel can't think what's happening. His thoughts are disordered and make no sense. He can't remember where he is, but when the brightness dims and Castiel can see again, there is Dean, hovering above him and saying, "Shit, Cas. Shit." Castiel can feel hands gripping at his shoulders, pulling at him. "We're getting you out of here," Dean says. "Hang on, man."
"I'm dead," Castiel tells him. It's strange to Castiel that this is something Dean hasn't noticed, but he feels it's something Dean needs to know.
"No, you're not," Dean insists.
The agony as Dean and Sam pull him to his feet makes Castiel very much wish he were. In his dreams, or in Hell, he doesn't remember it being this visceral, like his insides are tearing apart. There is a ringing in his ears, a rushing sound, that which is angel trying to claw its way out of a body it has become embedded within, but not remembering how to get out. His eyes burn, his mouth tastes of smoke and ash and it's hard to make out for all the noise, but Castiel thinks he can hear Sam repeating, "Shit, shit, shit," and Dean ordering, "You stop that right the fuck now, Cas."
He's splitting in two, Castiel realises; both this body and his Grace dying and not knowing how to do it together.
It's then that Castiel remembers with a strange, distant clarity what is happening and where he is and why he should not survive. Castiel wants to tell them to leave him, and how did Sam and Dean even find him anyway? Though, Castiel supposes, this final battle would have been a loud, bright thing no matter how much Castiel has tried to keep it hidden. Castiel would try to tell Dean that he was supposed to die here, but Castiel can feel Dean's hand pressed against his mouth and he's shouting, "You stay in there, Cas. Don't you even think about leaving." There is anger and frustration in his voice, and it's true that Castiel has not often been able to deny Dean anything. When Dean's hand moves to Castiel's eyes, Castiel realises that Dean is trying to keep his angel-self inside this vessel and Castiel doesn't want to burn him, or blind him, so he holds on to his Grace, concentrates on remaining alive. Castiel ignores the voices of his brothers, and the weight of his broken wings, and concentrates instead on Dean and Sam's voices. They are arguing.
"We should take him to a hospital," Sam says.
Dean sounds disbelieving when he replies, "He's glowing, Sam."
Castiel thinks, he is not glowing. He is not a firefly.
"We patch him up. He's tough," Dean continues, and Castiel thinks he might be pleased by the compliment. "Look at him. If he were human he'd be dead."
"Then we should try and call some other angel, because I sure as hell don't know how to patch him up," Sam retorts.
That's the last thing Castiel wants, and he tries to wake up, open his eyes, speak, anything, but he can't. He realises he's not on his feet; the Winchesters must be carrying him and he can barely discern it between the cuts and the tears and the aching.
He's relieved, then, when Dean argues back, "Fuck, no. Angels did this. I wouldn't trust any of them to come anywhere near him right now. Or ever." Sam makes no reply and Castiel wishes he could see them, but too much light still fills his eyes even though he knows it's barely dawn. Maybe he's unravelling, trapped inside this body. It's difficult to remember what it was like to be without a vessel, what it was like before. Before Hell and Dean and choice. The weight of his physical form is a constant now, with him even in Heaven and Castiel isn't sure he remembers how he's supposed to be without it. He wonders if he's hiding in this human form. It will always be a reminder of the time, not so long ago, when Castiel was human; a small, vulnerable physical thing. With his Grace seeping away, and his wings in ruins, Castiel wonders if he'll become that way again. Perhaps this will be his punishment.
Somewhere close by, out in the world, Dean is telling Sam to open the damn door, and Sam is telling Dean to calm the fuck down, and Castiel realises he is losing time somewhere. Missing things, because the next thing Castiel knows the familiar smell of the Impala- leather and oil and Dean and Sam- surrounds him and he doesn't remember getting inside the car. Or getting to the car. Or why Sam is asking, "Did he stop breathing again?" and he sounds worried.
"No." Dean's voice, from somewhere above him. "No, he's still there."
Under his back, Castiel can feel the grooves of the backseat of Dean's car. He remembers sleeping on them, when he was human, and how he could never decide if he hated them or not. If they were supposed to be comfortable. Now he concentrates on the way the leather creaks and how he can feel warmth on his face that might be the rising sun refracted through the window glass. It's better than thinking of the pain. Distracting.
"Cas," Dean calls, speaking quietly. He sounds tired. "Man. Can you open your eyes? Jesus. Can you even hear me?"
There's a long screeching noise which Cas thinks is the trunk being opened, and then the car shudders. Castiel remembers this too; things being thrown inside in a hurry, needing to get out of somewhere before they get caught.
Dean calls his name again, and this time Castiel understands the words and what they mean and that Dean is asking something of him. Castiel tries to comply, tries to open his eyes and look at Dean. He would, Castiel realises, like to see Dean. And Sam too, but it's never been this difficult before to manipulate the muscles of his eyelids. They have never felt this heavy, not even when he was human.
The trunk slams shut, and Castiel hears Sam say, "Come on, Dean. We've gotta get out of here."
There are the sounds of rustling and Castiel fights to see what is happening. He manages to pry his eyes open, just a little, and in the red-orange light of dawn Castiel can see his shirt, stained and torn.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says and he's shaking thick dust out an old blanket, laying it over Castiel. It's heavy and too warm and smells musty and unpleasant.
"Dean-" Castiel tries to complain, to tell him to take the blanket away because Castiel doesn't have the strength even to push it off. It comes out slurred, barely recognisable as a word and Castiel frowns, frustrated and annoyed and helpless.
In an instant, though, Dean's hand is on his shoulder and he's looking down at Castiel, smiling. It's an uneven, humourless thing, but there is relief there. "Cas. Thank fuck. Hang on, man. We'll fix this."
Castiel had wanted to let himself fade away. He'd thought he'd never see Dean or Sam again. After everything that has happened he would have expected them to leave him there. But Castiel never told them where he would be. He never told the Winchesters what he meant to do, and he wondered how they had found him. Why they had even bothered. Yet here is Dean, telling him to live, and Castiel has never been able to deny Dean anything. Castiel nods and it hurts his head, makes him dizzy and sick, but Dean's smile becomes more of a real thing so Castiel doesn't mind the pain at all.
***
The rumble of the Impala's engine is oddly comforting. When Castiel can he listens to the way the sounds change; different roads, different speeds. There's no music which Castiel thinks is strange. Instead, Dean and Sam talk in low voices in the front of the car and Castiel can't make out what they're saying.
They don't stop for a long time, or at least it feels like a long time for Castiel because he can feel every movement, every jolt, every change rattle through his human body and it hurts. It's all Castiel can do to remain silent and still and to keep breathing. He preferred it when he was not awake. Everything is too close and too much, like all of his human senses have been amplified a thousand fold, and every angel sense has been dampened so that the world sounds hollow, his brothers' voices nothing more than an echo in the back of his mind. If he concentrates, focuses on something other than the layers and depth of pain, Castiel can still sense Dean and Sam's thoughts; hurried, anxious, angry, fragile things. They too are a comfort, and Castiel clings to their familiarity and their warm presence, even though he knows he should be concentrating on fixing his vessel and his Grace.
The sun is high and warm against Castiel's face when Castiel feels the surface under the tyres of the Impala change again, this time to something much more uneven and rough and it jolts Castiel out of the half-conscious state he'd been languishing in. He must make a sound because he hears Dean say, "Shit. Sorry, Cas," then the car comes to a sudden stop, the engine cutting off.
"You think this is far enough?" Sam asks. Castiel hears doors opening, feels the sway of the car as the brothers get out, and Dean replies, "It's gotta be."
Now that they are no longer moving, there is little to distract Castiel from his discomfort. He's bent into a space not long enough for his vessel, let alone what is left of his angel form. There is no air, too hot without the feel of the breeze coming in through Sam's open window and why, in this heat, Dean thought it a good idea to cover him with a scratchy, thick blanket Castiel can't imagine.
Between the heat and the way the outside world continues to slip away from him when he's not paying attention, Castiel catches only words and phrases of what Dean and Sam say, "We've got to," and, "wake him up," and, "next we'll," and, "Cas." He can only guess at what they're doing and why they've stopped until the doors open either side of him and Sam is leaning over him, a bleary, unfocused, upside-down image that confuses Castiel for a long moment before he remembers he's lying down.
"Hey," Sam greets, smiling sympathetically. "We're gonna take a look at you. Sorry if this hurts, man."
Castiel blinks, and then Sam hooks his arms under Castiel's back and pulls him into a sitting position and it's all Castiel can do to not struggle and call out because he might be half-dead but he thinks he could still do the brothers some damage through his voice and to do them harm is the last thing he wants.
"That's it," he hears Dean encourage, can feel Dean's hands on his legs, then on his shoulders, pulling at the material and it takes a disturbingly long time for Castiel to realise that Dean is trying to take off his coat.
"Stop," Castiel manages. "What are you-?"
The hands on him still, and Dean says, "Cas, we need to-"
"No," Castiel cuts in, shaking his head. He was much happier lying down and moving forward and not having the Winchesters helping him when they should have left him behind. "I'm fine," he tries, because it always seems to work for the brothers, but Dean just scoffs, "Like hell you are. You're still freaking bleeding. All over my upholstery."
"I'm-" Castiel starts to deny, but then he looks down at himself and sees the blood on the blanket. His shirt is saturated, there are stains across the arms of his coat and Castiel wonders at how much blood a human body can hold.
"Yeah. That's what I thought," Dean says and returns to stripping off Cas's coat. "Let us handle this." Dean makes it sound like an order and Castiel is too tired to argue.
They work in silence, peeling away layers of clothes that Castiel has not removed in many months, revealing cuts, slashes and burns. Castiel watches as Dean's frown deepens. Castiel can see questions twisting through his thoughts, and finally he asks, "What the hell happened?"
"I fought," Castiel tells him, because it's the easiest way to explain.
"I get that, but..." Dean trails off, holding Castiel's arm lightly, studying a wound that is flesh cut through to the bone just below his elbow.
"Raphael and his followers were powerful," Castiel tries.
"Cas." Sam, on his other side, is looking at him like he doesn't know where to begin. "Do we need to stitch these up? Can you heal them?"
He doesn't ask why Castiel hasn't already.
"We don't have enough to stitch up this mess. Jesus, I don't think a hospital would have enough to stitch all this." Dean hasn't taken his eyes from Castiel's arm and Castiel wishes he would look up so he could see him properly. It's been a long time since they just looked at each other.
"They will heal," Castiel assures the brothers and hopes it's the truth.
Dean threatens, "They fucking better, Cas. You are not dying on us, you hear me?" He does look at him then and Castiel has hope that maybe they aren't as lost and broken and unreconsilable as he'd thought.
Castiel remembers his brothers and sisters lying dead and he thinks of all the angels he's killed and wonders why he always, somehow, impossibly, manages to continue living.
"You hear me, Cas?" Dean repeats. He's grinding his teeth, angry and impatient.
"Yes, Dean," Castiel says. "I can hear you."
He has made no promises, but it is apparently enough for Dean because he nods and goes back to prodding and poking at Castiel's vessel.
For the first time, Castiel concentrates on knitting his body back together again, on setting bones and stopping blood and cleaning out infection, and Castiel tells himself that he only does it to get Dean and Sam to leave him alone.
***
"Maybe we should buy a tent," Sam suggests after two nights sleeping in the Impala and Dean has made no move to look for a motel as evening moves into night for a third day, and night moves into late. The car, Castiel thinks, is beginning to smell strange. Like socks.
"I hate camping," Dean says dismissively. He's driving. They're always driving.
"Yeah, because sleeping in the car is so much better." Sam has been unhappy for some time, and Castiel can understand because every time Sam gets out of the car now he's limping, grimacing where his knees ache.
"Enough with the whining," Dean complains. "We're not stopping."
Sam grumbles and shifts about uncomfortably in his seat but remains silent for so long that Castiel thinks he has resigned himself to another night of immobility and poor sleep. To Castiel it makes very little difference, but this can't, he thinks, be good for either of the brothers. Over the past two days Castiel has learnt that he can barely walk, let alone fly. He has learnt that Dean is obsessed with trying to get him to like coffee and that Sam is not as subtle at asking questions as he would like to think. Being so dependent on the Winchesters is frustrating, the feeling of helplessness overwhelming, and Castiel cannot fathom how Dean and Sam have not yet killed each other because they bicker and fight and sometimes they are irritating enough that Castiel wishes he could return to his own brothers. His own silent, hateful, confused brothers.
In those few times when it is quiet, when there is no music in the car and Dean and Sam are not arguing but wrapped up in their own thoughts, in driving, or late at night when they are both asleep, then Castiel can hear the other angels’ voices, loud and close. They know he's alive, and some of them search for him. Some of them seek guidance, answers to questions Castiel can't answer. Some seek his blood. Revenge. They blame him for the chaos and disorder which grips Heaven and Castiel supposes they have every right to. He was once like them and he knows how they think. He knows all too well what it's like to have the security and certainty of orders and hierarchy pulled out from under you.
Castiel has said nothing of this to Dean and Sam, and yet still he gets the impression they have guessed some of it. It seems likely this is the reason Dean refuses to stop moving and Castiel does not have the heart to tell him movement across the Earth means very little to an angel. It is entirely possible Dean already knows this anyway. For Castiel too the motion- the act of driving forward- gives the illusion of heading toward something, as though they have some idea of where they're going. This is another kind of security that can't last, but for now Castiel is not willing to let it go. He is particularly unwilling to force all of them to face a past where they were at odds, and a future that is unclear.
Still, despite all of Dean's love and adoration for his car the fact remains that humans are not, Castiel is certain, meant to live in vehicles. This too Castiel has learnt.
After many many miles and a small town with three churches and a bar advertising cut price beer Sam tries again. "You can still sleep in the car. Cas and I can get a room, maybe some food that isn't from a gas station and five years out of date." He scrunches up his nose. "Maybe a shower."
"We are quite pungent," Castiel agrees and Castiel can see Dean glaring at him in the mirror.
"You hardly say a word for two freaking days, and when you do talk it's to tell us we reek?" Dean accuses. "And to agree with Sam?"
"It's the truth," Castiel says.
Beside Dean, Sam is grinning at his brother. "Seriously man," he says. "I need a shower. You need a shower. I can feel sand in places I don't want to be feeling sand."
Dean grimaces, "TMI, Sam," but he might be wavering because Sam pushes, "I don't know what you have against stopping, Dean, but we can't keep this up forever."
Castiel doesn't miss the way Dean glances back at him in the mirror.
"Dean," Sam presses. "It's not-"
"I get it, Sam," Dean interrupts sharply. It's not the first time Dean has cut Sam off like this when he's trying to get Dean to talk to him about what they're doing, or where they're going. It has been the same for Castiel whenever he suggests that they don't have to do this. That they don't need to look after him. He can take care of himself. Possibly.
There is a tense silence in the car and Castiel can't think of anything helpful to say so he leans back against the door, the press of the door handle against the small of his back a familiar discomfort now. He picks up Dean's most recent copy of Busty Asian Beauties, because Sam had been unable to find anything else to read in the trunk of the car and Castiel has learnt that long hours spent driving can be very dull with nothing to occupy your mind. Left to his own devices he finds himself thinking of all the things he has done wrong, and thinking of his brothers and sisters who he has killed, and imagining all the ways he could have- should have- done things differently. Castiel knows it's a pointless exercise but he finds himself returning to it again and again. He would rather read about Melanie, whose hobbies are exercising and going out with her friends, and her recent discovery of online dating.
"It's bad for your eyes, you know," Dean says, too loudly for the quiet in the car, like he is trying to make up for it. Usually he would turn on the radio. "To read in the dark like that. I don't know how you can see anything." Dean leers, but it's half-hearted and unconvincing at best. "Unless you're looking at the pictures."
"Dean," Sam admonishes.
Castiel had forgotten it was dark. "I can read in this," he tells them. He can see too well. There is still betrayal and reticence written in the way Dean holds himself apart from Castiel, in the way he speaks to him and watches him like he just doesn't trust him. Not really. It's not as obvious with Sam, but the distrust is still there.
They still smile though, and tut and hum over the slowly healing wounds they have bound and wrapped and insist need to be changed and cleaned on a regular basis. Castiel lets them and can't decide if it's for their sake or his own. If Castiel is honest with himself, it is impossible to deny that he likes the attention.
"I never knew there were articles and shit in there," Dean says and Sam laughs.
"You've been buying that crap for as long as I can remember and you've never once even glanced at the words?"
"That isn't a magazine for reading, Sam." Dean gives his brother a look Castiel is going to ignore.
"And you bitch at me for too much information," Sam throws back in disgust.
They argue and Castiel reads that Melanie has been on seventeen dates, two of which ended in sex.
"Next gas station we stop at, I am buying him a book," he hears Sam say, and Dean responds, "You buy him any of that chick lit shit I know you like I will hurt you."
They speak as though Castiel is not right there, in the back seat, listening to every word they say even when he's reading, or trying not to think about what he's going to do when he finally heals, or trying to ignore the calls of his brothers, or just watching the world go past as they drive and drive and drive. Most times Castiel doesn't much mind being ignored in this way because he never has anything to add anyway and he understands that Dean and Sam are used to it being the two of them alone. There are times when Castiel feels like an intruder and still he can't understand why they came for him. Neither has given him any reason, nor any explanation of how they found him. Up until now they have barely spoken of those last few days at all.
"He might like it," Sam argues. "Maybe angels like romance novels."
"Dude, no." Dean groans like he's in pain. "Now I have a mental image of, like, Zachariah reading Harlequin books. It's freaking me out."
Castiel has to admit the idea is disturbing. In the article, Melanie says that she is still available and continuing her search for the right man and that she can be found on the Busty Asian Beauty internet dating pages.
"I think I'd like to meet Melanie," Castiel says in a brief pause in the brothers' argument. "She seems kind."
There is a strange silence and when Castiel looks up he sees that both Sam and Dean are staring at him.
"I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that," Dean says slowly, seriously, but he's half-smiling as he returns his eyes to the road.
"Nearest gas station, Dean," Sam urges. "I'm buying him anything," and Dean nods in agreement.
***
Sam sometimes joins Castiel in the backseat and teaches him to play cards. He doesn't have a real set of cards, he says, because Dean lost them in a game of poker months ago along with two hundred dollars and his jacket. They only have Uno cards- colourful things- and they play the simple game over and over and Sam wins sometimes. He seems to enjoy it, and the game is oddly distracting so Castiel doesn't mind the hours they spend playing. It's always Dean who brings their games to an end, angry, calling it dumb and childish and stupid, and Sam tells Castiel that it's because Dean has never won a game of Uno in his life and he's bitter.
If he ever plays with Dean, Castiel decides, he might let Dean win.
Might.
Sitting in the back now they are playing Snap and Sam is taking it so seriously that Dean keeps laughing at them, telling Sam to calm the fuck down.
"Best of fifteen?" Sam asks when they reach seven to four games and in the front seat Dean sounds like he's choking he's laughing so hard.
"Just admit it, Sam," Dean somehow manages between gasps for breath. "You suck at this."
"Not as much as you suck at Uno," Sam snaps. Dean's grin widens and Castiel knows this argument could go on for a very long time, so he intercedes, "I am tired," because it has worked at other times to silence the Winchesters. It also happens to be true.
It works again this time.
"Oh," Sam says, putting the cards down. "Sorry, Cas. You need anything?"
Castiel shakes his head, leans sideways so that he is resting his weight against the seat and almost wishes he was able to sleep. Nothing seems to help him shake the lethargy he feels so much of the time. "I'm alright," he assures Sam who looks unconvinced but smiles and asks Castiel, "Re-match later though, right?"
"Of course, Sam," Castiel says. Today they've already had seven re-matches and Castiel has come to think that Sam is trying to distract himself from their current situation, from thinking of anything other than the here and now, as much as he's trying to distract Castiel. Not once has Dean told them where he's headed, or even if he knows, but it's been four days and they have yet to stop for anything more than three or four hours.
Dean teases, "Cards are tiring, man. I get that."
"You are tiring, Dean," Castiel responds, because he has learnt that Dean enjoys it when Castiel argues back. It's also the truth.
Dean snorts but says nothing more so Castiel lets his mind wander. They are three thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles south of the highest point of the Earth and the sky is dark with heavy rain clouds. Castiel can smell the coming storm and hidden behind them the cold, distant presence of angels. They are omens; this is neither the place nor the season for heavy rainfall. Castiel knows that Dean and Sam realise this weather isn't natural because they speak on the phone to Bobby asking his opinion. They don't talk of it to Castiel. He can't tell if they're trying to shield him from the news of floods and droughts, of snow and heat waves, or they don't trust him to answer truthfully about the phenomena. They suspect it's angels, and they're right, but Castiel can't bring himself to say anything because it's his fault. All this is his fault because he should go back to Heaven, take charge, stop the other angels treating Earth like somewhere they can take out their frustrations without consequence. They are children pulling the wings off of butterflies because they can and Castiel no longer has the will or the strength to stop them.
And Castiel is selfish, too.
He doesn't want these endless, pointless card games with Sam to end. He wants to finish the appalling crime novel Dean chose for him three gas stations ago.
Castiel has been reading it as a human would, word following word and page following page and it is slow and strange but oddly fascinating because the writer doesn't seem to follow the standard rules of grammar as Castiel knows them, nor does he feel constrained by definitions of words. When Castiel asked Sam if this was usual in literature, because Chuck's writing had been like this too, Sam laughed and told him that no, they were just terrible writers.
When they are driving and it is quiet and the sun has almost set so that the car is filled with long jagged shadows Castiel watches. He watches shadows slide across the seats and across his hands and across Sam's legs where he is sitting, unmoving, staring out the window at the miles and miles of nothing they pass. He watches Dean tapping the steering wheel. This has become his world.
It starts to rain.
At first, it's just singular drops streaking across the windows as they speed along and Castiel turns his head so he can see them better. Then, suddenly, it's as though something breaks and the droplets turn to sheets of water, the world outside reduced to a greyness that Castiel can see nothing beyond with his human eyes. There wasn't much to look at anyway, he knows, but occasionally there was a sign or a building or another car. Now it's just the three of them, enclosed, and for the first time Castiel feels claustrophobic and restless.
"Son of a bitch." Dean curses and reduces his speed, leaning forward in his seat as though it might help him see through the wall of rain surrounding them.
Dean looks at Castiel in the rear-view mirror. "Did you do this?" he asks. "Is this, like, the least subtle hint ever that we need a shower?"
Castiel can't decide if Dean is being serious or not. "I can't make it rain," he tells him, then pauses because now that he considers it, Castiel has never actually tried. "I don't think I can make it rain," he amends and Dean raises an eyebrow at him.
Outside, the rain is loud, hissing and beating against the car roof and windows and Castiel closes his eyes and tries to ignore it.
In front of him, Dean is grumbling now about angels and little brothers breathing too much and steaming up the freaking windows so Castiel stops.
It's almost a relief not to have to breathe.
Two days ago, maybe even yesterday, Castiel doesn't think he'd have been able to do this; to keep his vessel alive using his Grace alone, without the aid of air and a respiratory system, then without circulation or a heartbeat. Slowly, as the wounds in his vessel and his true self heal, his strength is returning and Castiel isn't sure if he is glad for it or not.
By letting what is angel take over what is human, Castiel can remove himself from the world, from all worlds. He can hide inside himself, remembering the calm contentedness he once felt, long ago, in The Garden. He always liked Joshua's voice, and would listen to his brother for hours as he talked of his flowers and his trees and of Earth. Back then Castiel thought Earth had to be an incredible place from the way his brothers spoke of it and for all the strife it caused. Somewhere exotic and beyond his reach. Sometimes Castiel looks back on his younger self and wonders at how he could ever have been so stupid and naive.
Still, it's a good memory, and Castiel has very few of those from Heaven.
The next thing he knows Sam is shouting in his ear, shaking him. There's a tear along his bicep where Raphael tried to slice off his arm. It's not fully healed yet and Sam has his hands gripped so tightly around Castiel's arms that it stings, as Dean would say, like a bitch. The pain forces himself out of his memories, back into his current reality of humid, fetid air and too-loud torrential rain.
Castiel lurches head first into the seat in front of him as Dean veers dangerously off of the road, breaking recklessly. The tyres skid and Castiel is lucky that Sam catches hold of him before he can slam into anything.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam says in disgust and as Castiel blinks his eyes open he can see that Sam is glaring at his brother and Dean is turning in his seat to glare right back.
"Then don't tell me Cas is not freaking breathing," Dean throws back between clenched teeth, and in the next second both brothers are looking down at him where he is half-lying across Sam's legs and half-fallen into the foot well behind Dean's seat. It is not comfortable, but then Castiel doesn't think he's known anything to be comfortable for a very long while.
Sam's eyes widen. "Cas! You're alive!"
Castiel frowns, because he hadn't been aware there was any doubt about that.
"I am," he confirms. Sam is looking at him like he can't quite believe it. "You are hurting my arm, Sam," Castiel adds. He would like to sit up, but is oddly balanced in the small space and fears what would happen if he tries to move himself.
"Right- I. Right," Sam stutters. "Sorry, man." He gentles his hold on Castiel's arm and Castiel sighs in relief as Sam pulls him upright again.
When he turns to Dean, though, his expression is furious and he's looking between Sam and Castiel like he can't decide who to be furious at.
"You said he wasn't-" Dean starts, stops, starts again, "What the hell, Sam? He looks like he's breathing fine to me."
"He'd stopped, I swear!" Sam defends, and narrows his eyes at Castiel accusingly. "What was that?" he demands.
"I was resting," Castiel explains. He pushes himself back into what has become his corner of the car and wishes Sam would move away too. There is not enough space. He wants to stretch his wings. He wants to fly. He wants to not be followed and hounded and have people shouting at him at every damn turn.
Sam says, "Without breathing. Or, you know, having a heartbeat."
"Yes," Castiel snaps. Joshua always used to say he had too little patience with people. He knows he should be grateful for their help, and he is, but Castiel has fought hard for freedom and it would be nice to experience it for himself for once. Just for once. "Without those things," he says, "Because I don't need them."
He clenches his jaw and doesn't care that it's an extremely human thing to do. He also doesn't care that Dean's furious glare is now fully turned on him.
"Well excuse us," Dean says coldly, "For giving a crap when we thought you'd fucking died on us."
Dean turns away, starts up the engine again, and Castiel can see that his hands are so tightly wrapped around the steering wheel that his knuckles are white.
Sam looks disappointed.
Castiel thinks he should apologise because he hadn't even thought about how it might look for a human to find his vessel that way- with no breath and no heartbeat- but for the past year he feels as though that's all he's been doing; apologising for his brothers, for all the questionable things he's done, he's had to do. For trying to keep them all alive. Beneath the old, familiar camaraderie, beneath the brothers' care and concern there is still lingering resentment and mistrust. It's only a matter of time before it comes to the fore. The Winchesters have never been known for their reserve and Castiel can see it sometimes when they look at him, as though he's a stranger and they can't be sure of how he'll react to anything they do. And sometimes, like they're not even sure what they're doing taking Castiel around with them.
Whatever balance, whatever friendship they've managed to resurrect and rebuild in the past four days Castiel knows it will neither negate nor overcome everything that's happened in the past year.
Because if there is one thing Castiel has learnt it's that everything good always comes to nothing.
Part Two >>
As ever, comments and concrit most welcome and adored.
I lost terribly, tragically, at premiere Bingo. But loki_dip bought me a tentacle egg cup for my birthday and that made up for everything.
Now, to fic.
Long, long ago I signed up for a fic fest over at spn_foxhole. I chose a beautiful prompt, and then I promply (no pun intended) failed to write. And when I did write it became epic. And then everything went wrong. And then the fic was becoming even more epic. And then I finished it.
So, finally, I present the first part of my fic for murron, taking the prompt S6: The war in Heaven is over. Dean and Sam pick up Cas from the battlefield.
I apologise to murron and to dotfic for being utterly useless, and hope the extended length makes up a little for that. The story is complete but the other parts are still in editing, to be posted shortly.
Title: The Demiurge (1/3)
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: 8,463 this part
Summary: Pre-Dean/Cas, Sam. Goes AU after around 6X20, vague spoilers up to that point. H/C.
Thanks to cienna for her usual beta-ing prowess.
After the final battle for Heaven, the Winchesters find Castiel.
.The Demiurge.
One
Castiel is tired.
He's been tired for a long time. Certainly since he chose this own path, since before even that, maybe since he first saw humanity and witnessed its youth and its energy and its life and felt, for the first time, very old.
He feels very old now. Old and worn out and maybe, Castiel thinks, it's time for him to come to an end.
Many times Castiel has heard humans say that when they die, they see their life flash before their eyes. Now, all Castiel sees is eons of mindless servitude, of waiting for nothing at all, of hope and loyalty when both are, in retrospect, pointless. It makes for sad viewing. No matter how many incredible things he has seen; the creation of the Earth, the achievements of mankind, Castiel was never anything more than an observer. None of the achievements were his. In his whole life, Castiel doesn't remember creating anything of his own. He was made to destroy, to kill, a soldier with nothing but memories of brothers and sisters he has slaughtered to his name.
It's strange, Castiel thinks, how little he has changed.
At least it reaffirms Castiel's belief that he chose the right path after all. Father or no Father, he's still sure humans are worth saving, as he's sure his own kind are worthy of independent thought, no matter how anarchic Heaven has become.
Perhaps it will be better now, with Raphael gone.
The archangel's vessel lies close by, eyes still open in surprise, blood still running across the skin of her neck, staining the pale blue rug under her body a dark red. The imprint of Raphael's wings spreads wide across the floor, the shape burned across coffee tables and dressers and cushions. Once, Castiel thought Raphael magnificent. He looked to his brother's wings, great arches of lightning, feathers of rain and cloud, and under them Castiel knew he would be safe.
Once, Castiel had been so very sure. Of himself, of the order of the world, of fate and destiny, and of their Father. Now, Castiel can see that same look in the eyes of the angels that follow him. They see a miracle of their Father's will. They see safety and order but Castiel is none of these things.
It is for this reason that Castiel wonders if it would be best if he died here too. Then there would be no leaders left at all.
Utter and complete freedom, Balthazar had said, and perhaps that is the only thing that will put an end to the war.
Castiel is too tired, too worn down and mangled, to fix himself anyway. He's tried because this life was given to him by his Father and he doesn't want it to end. He wants to see Dean and Sam again. He wishes to see Heaven at peace. He longs to see their Father. There's just no strength left in him though. Castiel used everything he had to end Raphael's life, and the thing that makes Castiel sad, perhaps even angry, is that he never wanted it to end like this. No matter what Raphael has- had- done to him. No matter how stubborn and frustrating and unrelenting Raphael was, Castiel never sought his death.
That does not mean Castiel didn't expect it to end this way.
Many of his brothers call Castiel naive and reckless, but he's not and he never has been- not when it comes to war- and of all the outcomes of a final battle with Raphael, this was always the one he had anticipated. Neither of them would concede nor submit so both of them would die.
And this time, Castiel does not expect to come back, and he can't quite decide if he is glad of it or not.
He has regrets, so many regrets Castiel thinks he could fill Bobby's house with them, his junkyard too. But he is sure he has done everything he could, fought as long and as hard as he was able. Castiel regrets that he could not make Dean and Sam understand that everything he did was for them. For humanity. He wishes very much he could have made peace with the Winchesters because the last time he spoke to Dean it was in anger and Castiel had said things he would take back, now. Castiel prays for them because he might not be there to protect them for much longer and Castiel has never before met any beings that attract so much trouble to themselves.
It's consolation, of a sort, for Castiel to know he will go to nothing. That he can rest. Castiel just wishes that so many of his brothers and sisters, the bodies of their broken vessels still warm around him, torn to pieces, had not had to join him.
There is consolation too in knowing there is hope that this battle will have brought an end to the war in Heaven. It is only hope, because there's still no guarantee, no clear outcome. No one was victorious. No side proved right. None would leave this place, sure of their righteousness, convinced of their dogma. No one would leave this place at all.
Yet, Castiel knows that the other angels watched this fight, and they would have seen Raphael and his followers fall. They would have seen Castiel and his followers fall too. Some called to him, but Castiel did not reply. Some cursed him, but Castiel could understand their hatred.
There is stunned disbelief in Heaven; the realisation that there is no victor, no judgment from God either way. Perhaps that's the whole point. Soon there will be none to lead them, no one to follow, and it is then that the angels will have to decide for themselves what to do and how to live their lives. In what is left of him, Castiel can hear them begging for guidance, begging for orders and instructions, praying for their Father to give them a sign. Castiel sympathises more than they could ever know, but still he will not answer. They are not thinking of destroying the Earth, nor raising Lucifer from Hell, or of killing their brethren. Instead, they are looking to the choices before them.
Castiel hopes they make better choices than he did.
It is out of his hands now, Castiel thinks, and finds the relief so great it's as though a physical weight has been taken from his shoulders and from his chest.
Despite it all- and perhaps it's selfish- but Castiel wishes he were not alone. Each of his deaths in the past happened before he'd even had the chance to feel anything like fear or pain, and Castiel finds this slow bleeding away of awareness an excruciatingly lonely thing. He wishes he could call Dean and Sam to bid them farewell and to wish them well. To at least hear and know that somewhere people he loves are still alive and well. But Castiel doesn't know if Dean's cell phone number is still the same, and he doesn't know if Dean would even answer for him anymore. And anyway, Castiel isn't sure he has the strength to move his arms, so all he can do is look to the ceiling above him, a tangle of lamps and wires and metal and bolts, trying not to pray for help.
He feels pain, in a distant kind of way, his body and his true being mixed and confused so that Castiel can't tell if he is losing blood or his Grace. It's all one and the same, he supposes. The end result certainly will be.
In the silence and in the darkness Castiel lets himself drift. The space is large, the most profane Castiel could find to draw out and fight Raphael, and it's a soulless place to die. It's cold, Castiel thinks, and remembers being cold when he was fallen, mostly human. He didn't like it then and he likes it even less now. He thinks of the blankets Dean had given to him, and the coffee Sam had made him and lets himself sink into the memories because it is better than this place and this pain.
Absurdly, Castiel finds himself hoping the humans that come to this place to work in a few hours, when the sun rises, will not mind too much the bodies of the vessels. The damage they have wrought. So much of the time Castiel finds human reactions unpredictable, against all logic and reason, and he can't even begin to imagine what they will think of the wings seared into walls and floor and furniture. It seems somehow wrong that after thousands of years of life all the power and beauty of an angel comes to nothing more than the shadows of wings, easily covered over, hidden and forgotten. Dust and ash.
It is prideful, Castiel knows, but he wishes he would be remembered. Not as a rebel, nor a traitor, nor even as an angel, but as a brother. As a friend. But Castiel doesn't know if the Winchesters will even care he is dead.
Then, suddenly, Castiel's cell phone rings.
The sound of it is loud in the dead, silent space and Castiel startles. It is a human reaction to jump at an unexpected noise, physical reflex overriding thought, and Castiel is so deeply entombed within his vessel now that he can't stop the way his body jerks. It hurts, pulling at wounds Castiel is not thinking about. Instead, Castiel concentrates on breathing when he doesn't need to breathe and keeping his eyes open, though there is nothing to see. He's fighting to stay alive, Castiel realises, and he isn't even sure why.
Once the pain has subsided, once Castiel can concentrate again on something other than not losing consciousness, Castiel wonders at who could be calling him. Only Dean, Sam and Bobby have this number, and never in the past year had they done anything but pray to him. It must be some trick. Some trap. Perhaps Crowley, not yet realising Castiel was out of the picture. The demon has so many contacts, so many schemes, that Castiel doesn't doubt he'd be capable of finding his cell phone number if he chose to. It's a strange thing though because Castiel had almost forgotten he still carried that phone. It should have been destroyed when he was blown apart by Michael, but here it is, ringing and ringing and Castiel doesn't have the strength to reach for it.
Even the grey concrete ceiling above him seems dimmed now, washed out and removed. He should be able to see beyond it, to Heaven, or at least to the sky and the atmosphere and the life there. But Castiel can't reach beyond the confines of his failing vessel. He imagines, though, that it's Dean calling him. He imagines that Dean still cares and is surprised when it eases his pain and his isolation, no matter how false. No matter how much it's just wishful thinking. Imagination. Lies. All things that Castiel knew nothing about before he met Dean.
The cell phone rings and rings and rings, and it's the last thing Castiel hears.
***
A long time ago, not very long ago at all, when Castiel was more or less human and had to sleep, he dreamt of Hell. He loathed it; the powerlessness, the reminder of a humanity he'd never wanted, being subsumed by his own memories and the inventions of his own mind. Castiel would stay awake until either he passed out or until Dean or Sam forced him to close his eyes.
Castiel finds himself in those long-forgotten, familiar dreams now and thinks that perhaps there will be no peace for him, that he has been judged by their Father and that this is Hell. For an angel to be sent to perdition is not without precedent, and Castiel is in agreement that he has done enough to deserve such a punishment. He has disobeyed, and he has disobeyed again. He has done all of the things that angels were not supposed to do and the worst of it is that he regrets very few of them.
So in his dream- or in Hell, and it doesn't really matter which it is- when the sharp claws of demons dig into his flesh and into his wings, trying to taste his blood and his Grace, Castiel does not fight them. It is better to concentrate on the pain than to remember.
After a time, or maybe after no time at all, Castiel hears Dean's voice calling him, and Sam's too, and thinks that this must be some demon trick, or else he is hallucinating. Perhaps he's gone mad. The voices are insistent, and Castiel wants to tell them to be quiet; to leave him alone, but he can't move because the demons have their hands in his chest, ripping out his heart and his lungs for the hundredth or thousandth time so that he has no breath. They tell him to wake up, and they tell him to live, and Castiel wants to argue that they are too late, and that he is awake, and that they are annoying.
Unless, and then Castiel panics, unless Dean and Sam are here in Hell with him and that is the one thing that Castiel couldn't stand. He's taken them from here before and he would raise them a hundred times more if he had to. It's too full of darkness and regret to see, but Castiel can sense them both close by and he forgets that this is- might be- isn't- a dream and struggles against the weight of demons and the pull of their knives. Castiel will not leave the brothers to rot here, so he fights and it hurts but Dean and Sam's voices are insistent and Castiel is determined, incensed, because this is the one place they don't deserve to be.
Castiel fights until he can hear their voices clearly and Dean is saying, "Wake the fuck up," and, "Open your damn eyes, Cas," and Sam is saying, "Dean." Castiel fights until he comes to realise that it's Dean's hand clamped around his arm that is holding him down, and Sam's hands pressing down against his stomach that hurts so much.
Sam says, "He's not healing," and then there's more pressure and Castiel opens his eyes and he's gasping and he's possibly not as dead as he thought because there is light and it's bright in a way that Hell could never be.
Castiel can't think what's happening. His thoughts are disordered and make no sense. He can't remember where he is, but when the brightness dims and Castiel can see again, there is Dean, hovering above him and saying, "Shit, Cas. Shit." Castiel can feel hands gripping at his shoulders, pulling at him. "We're getting you out of here," Dean says. "Hang on, man."
"I'm dead," Castiel tells him. It's strange to Castiel that this is something Dean hasn't noticed, but he feels it's something Dean needs to know.
"No, you're not," Dean insists.
The agony as Dean and Sam pull him to his feet makes Castiel very much wish he were. In his dreams, or in Hell, he doesn't remember it being this visceral, like his insides are tearing apart. There is a ringing in his ears, a rushing sound, that which is angel trying to claw its way out of a body it has become embedded within, but not remembering how to get out. His eyes burn, his mouth tastes of smoke and ash and it's hard to make out for all the noise, but Castiel thinks he can hear Sam repeating, "Shit, shit, shit," and Dean ordering, "You stop that right the fuck now, Cas."
He's splitting in two, Castiel realises; both this body and his Grace dying and not knowing how to do it together.
It's then that Castiel remembers with a strange, distant clarity what is happening and where he is and why he should not survive. Castiel wants to tell them to leave him, and how did Sam and Dean even find him anyway? Though, Castiel supposes, this final battle would have been a loud, bright thing no matter how much Castiel has tried to keep it hidden. Castiel would try to tell Dean that he was supposed to die here, but Castiel can feel Dean's hand pressed against his mouth and he's shouting, "You stay in there, Cas. Don't you even think about leaving." There is anger and frustration in his voice, and it's true that Castiel has not often been able to deny Dean anything. When Dean's hand moves to Castiel's eyes, Castiel realises that Dean is trying to keep his angel-self inside this vessel and Castiel doesn't want to burn him, or blind him, so he holds on to his Grace, concentrates on remaining alive. Castiel ignores the voices of his brothers, and the weight of his broken wings, and concentrates instead on Dean and Sam's voices. They are arguing.
"We should take him to a hospital," Sam says.
Dean sounds disbelieving when he replies, "He's glowing, Sam."
Castiel thinks, he is not glowing. He is not a firefly.
"We patch him up. He's tough," Dean continues, and Castiel thinks he might be pleased by the compliment. "Look at him. If he were human he'd be dead."
"Then we should try and call some other angel, because I sure as hell don't know how to patch him up," Sam retorts.
That's the last thing Castiel wants, and he tries to wake up, open his eyes, speak, anything, but he can't. He realises he's not on his feet; the Winchesters must be carrying him and he can barely discern it between the cuts and the tears and the aching.
He's relieved, then, when Dean argues back, "Fuck, no. Angels did this. I wouldn't trust any of them to come anywhere near him right now. Or ever." Sam makes no reply and Castiel wishes he could see them, but too much light still fills his eyes even though he knows it's barely dawn. Maybe he's unravelling, trapped inside this body. It's difficult to remember what it was like to be without a vessel, what it was like before. Before Hell and Dean and choice. The weight of his physical form is a constant now, with him even in Heaven and Castiel isn't sure he remembers how he's supposed to be without it. He wonders if he's hiding in this human form. It will always be a reminder of the time, not so long ago, when Castiel was human; a small, vulnerable physical thing. With his Grace seeping away, and his wings in ruins, Castiel wonders if he'll become that way again. Perhaps this will be his punishment.
Somewhere close by, out in the world, Dean is telling Sam to open the damn door, and Sam is telling Dean to calm the fuck down, and Castiel realises he is losing time somewhere. Missing things, because the next thing Castiel knows the familiar smell of the Impala- leather and oil and Dean and Sam- surrounds him and he doesn't remember getting inside the car. Or getting to the car. Or why Sam is asking, "Did he stop breathing again?" and he sounds worried.
"No." Dean's voice, from somewhere above him. "No, he's still there."
Under his back, Castiel can feel the grooves of the backseat of Dean's car. He remembers sleeping on them, when he was human, and how he could never decide if he hated them or not. If they were supposed to be comfortable. Now he concentrates on the way the leather creaks and how he can feel warmth on his face that might be the rising sun refracted through the window glass. It's better than thinking of the pain. Distracting.
"Cas," Dean calls, speaking quietly. He sounds tired. "Man. Can you open your eyes? Jesus. Can you even hear me?"
There's a long screeching noise which Cas thinks is the trunk being opened, and then the car shudders. Castiel remembers this too; things being thrown inside in a hurry, needing to get out of somewhere before they get caught.
Dean calls his name again, and this time Castiel understands the words and what they mean and that Dean is asking something of him. Castiel tries to comply, tries to open his eyes and look at Dean. He would, Castiel realises, like to see Dean. And Sam too, but it's never been this difficult before to manipulate the muscles of his eyelids. They have never felt this heavy, not even when he was human.
The trunk slams shut, and Castiel hears Sam say, "Come on, Dean. We've gotta get out of here."
There are the sounds of rustling and Castiel fights to see what is happening. He manages to pry his eyes open, just a little, and in the red-orange light of dawn Castiel can see his shirt, stained and torn.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says and he's shaking thick dust out an old blanket, laying it over Castiel. It's heavy and too warm and smells musty and unpleasant.
"Dean-" Castiel tries to complain, to tell him to take the blanket away because Castiel doesn't have the strength even to push it off. It comes out slurred, barely recognisable as a word and Castiel frowns, frustrated and annoyed and helpless.
In an instant, though, Dean's hand is on his shoulder and he's looking down at Castiel, smiling. It's an uneven, humourless thing, but there is relief there. "Cas. Thank fuck. Hang on, man. We'll fix this."
Castiel had wanted to let himself fade away. He'd thought he'd never see Dean or Sam again. After everything that has happened he would have expected them to leave him there. But Castiel never told them where he would be. He never told the Winchesters what he meant to do, and he wondered how they had found him. Why they had even bothered. Yet here is Dean, telling him to live, and Castiel has never been able to deny Dean anything. Castiel nods and it hurts his head, makes him dizzy and sick, but Dean's smile becomes more of a real thing so Castiel doesn't mind the pain at all.
***
The rumble of the Impala's engine is oddly comforting. When Castiel can he listens to the way the sounds change; different roads, different speeds. There's no music which Castiel thinks is strange. Instead, Dean and Sam talk in low voices in the front of the car and Castiel can't make out what they're saying.
They don't stop for a long time, or at least it feels like a long time for Castiel because he can feel every movement, every jolt, every change rattle through his human body and it hurts. It's all Castiel can do to remain silent and still and to keep breathing. He preferred it when he was not awake. Everything is too close and too much, like all of his human senses have been amplified a thousand fold, and every angel sense has been dampened so that the world sounds hollow, his brothers' voices nothing more than an echo in the back of his mind. If he concentrates, focuses on something other than the layers and depth of pain, Castiel can still sense Dean and Sam's thoughts; hurried, anxious, angry, fragile things. They too are a comfort, and Castiel clings to their familiarity and their warm presence, even though he knows he should be concentrating on fixing his vessel and his Grace.
The sun is high and warm against Castiel's face when Castiel feels the surface under the tyres of the Impala change again, this time to something much more uneven and rough and it jolts Castiel out of the half-conscious state he'd been languishing in. He must make a sound because he hears Dean say, "Shit. Sorry, Cas," then the car comes to a sudden stop, the engine cutting off.
"You think this is far enough?" Sam asks. Castiel hears doors opening, feels the sway of the car as the brothers get out, and Dean replies, "It's gotta be."
Now that they are no longer moving, there is little to distract Castiel from his discomfort. He's bent into a space not long enough for his vessel, let alone what is left of his angel form. There is no air, too hot without the feel of the breeze coming in through Sam's open window and why, in this heat, Dean thought it a good idea to cover him with a scratchy, thick blanket Castiel can't imagine.
Between the heat and the way the outside world continues to slip away from him when he's not paying attention, Castiel catches only words and phrases of what Dean and Sam say, "We've got to," and, "wake him up," and, "next we'll," and, "Cas." He can only guess at what they're doing and why they've stopped until the doors open either side of him and Sam is leaning over him, a bleary, unfocused, upside-down image that confuses Castiel for a long moment before he remembers he's lying down.
"Hey," Sam greets, smiling sympathetically. "We're gonna take a look at you. Sorry if this hurts, man."
Castiel blinks, and then Sam hooks his arms under Castiel's back and pulls him into a sitting position and it's all Castiel can do to not struggle and call out because he might be half-dead but he thinks he could still do the brothers some damage through his voice and to do them harm is the last thing he wants.
"That's it," he hears Dean encourage, can feel Dean's hands on his legs, then on his shoulders, pulling at the material and it takes a disturbingly long time for Castiel to realise that Dean is trying to take off his coat.
"Stop," Castiel manages. "What are you-?"
The hands on him still, and Dean says, "Cas, we need to-"
"No," Castiel cuts in, shaking his head. He was much happier lying down and moving forward and not having the Winchesters helping him when they should have left him behind. "I'm fine," he tries, because it always seems to work for the brothers, but Dean just scoffs, "Like hell you are. You're still freaking bleeding. All over my upholstery."
"I'm-" Castiel starts to deny, but then he looks down at himself and sees the blood on the blanket. His shirt is saturated, there are stains across the arms of his coat and Castiel wonders at how much blood a human body can hold.
"Yeah. That's what I thought," Dean says and returns to stripping off Cas's coat. "Let us handle this." Dean makes it sound like an order and Castiel is too tired to argue.
They work in silence, peeling away layers of clothes that Castiel has not removed in many months, revealing cuts, slashes and burns. Castiel watches as Dean's frown deepens. Castiel can see questions twisting through his thoughts, and finally he asks, "What the hell happened?"
"I fought," Castiel tells him, because it's the easiest way to explain.
"I get that, but..." Dean trails off, holding Castiel's arm lightly, studying a wound that is flesh cut through to the bone just below his elbow.
"Raphael and his followers were powerful," Castiel tries.
"Cas." Sam, on his other side, is looking at him like he doesn't know where to begin. "Do we need to stitch these up? Can you heal them?"
He doesn't ask why Castiel hasn't already.
"We don't have enough to stitch up this mess. Jesus, I don't think a hospital would have enough to stitch all this." Dean hasn't taken his eyes from Castiel's arm and Castiel wishes he would look up so he could see him properly. It's been a long time since they just looked at each other.
"They will heal," Castiel assures the brothers and hopes it's the truth.
Dean threatens, "They fucking better, Cas. You are not dying on us, you hear me?" He does look at him then and Castiel has hope that maybe they aren't as lost and broken and unreconsilable as he'd thought.
Castiel remembers his brothers and sisters lying dead and he thinks of all the angels he's killed and wonders why he always, somehow, impossibly, manages to continue living.
"You hear me, Cas?" Dean repeats. He's grinding his teeth, angry and impatient.
"Yes, Dean," Castiel says. "I can hear you."
He has made no promises, but it is apparently enough for Dean because he nods and goes back to prodding and poking at Castiel's vessel.
For the first time, Castiel concentrates on knitting his body back together again, on setting bones and stopping blood and cleaning out infection, and Castiel tells himself that he only does it to get Dean and Sam to leave him alone.
***
"Maybe we should buy a tent," Sam suggests after two nights sleeping in the Impala and Dean has made no move to look for a motel as evening moves into night for a third day, and night moves into late. The car, Castiel thinks, is beginning to smell strange. Like socks.
"I hate camping," Dean says dismissively. He's driving. They're always driving.
"Yeah, because sleeping in the car is so much better." Sam has been unhappy for some time, and Castiel can understand because every time Sam gets out of the car now he's limping, grimacing where his knees ache.
"Enough with the whining," Dean complains. "We're not stopping."
Sam grumbles and shifts about uncomfortably in his seat but remains silent for so long that Castiel thinks he has resigned himself to another night of immobility and poor sleep. To Castiel it makes very little difference, but this can't, he thinks, be good for either of the brothers. Over the past two days Castiel has learnt that he can barely walk, let alone fly. He has learnt that Dean is obsessed with trying to get him to like coffee and that Sam is not as subtle at asking questions as he would like to think. Being so dependent on the Winchesters is frustrating, the feeling of helplessness overwhelming, and Castiel cannot fathom how Dean and Sam have not yet killed each other because they bicker and fight and sometimes they are irritating enough that Castiel wishes he could return to his own brothers. His own silent, hateful, confused brothers.
In those few times when it is quiet, when there is no music in the car and Dean and Sam are not arguing but wrapped up in their own thoughts, in driving, or late at night when they are both asleep, then Castiel can hear the other angels’ voices, loud and close. They know he's alive, and some of them search for him. Some of them seek guidance, answers to questions Castiel can't answer. Some seek his blood. Revenge. They blame him for the chaos and disorder which grips Heaven and Castiel supposes they have every right to. He was once like them and he knows how they think. He knows all too well what it's like to have the security and certainty of orders and hierarchy pulled out from under you.
Castiel has said nothing of this to Dean and Sam, and yet still he gets the impression they have guessed some of it. It seems likely this is the reason Dean refuses to stop moving and Castiel does not have the heart to tell him movement across the Earth means very little to an angel. It is entirely possible Dean already knows this anyway. For Castiel too the motion- the act of driving forward- gives the illusion of heading toward something, as though they have some idea of where they're going. This is another kind of security that can't last, but for now Castiel is not willing to let it go. He is particularly unwilling to force all of them to face a past where they were at odds, and a future that is unclear.
Still, despite all of Dean's love and adoration for his car the fact remains that humans are not, Castiel is certain, meant to live in vehicles. This too Castiel has learnt.
After many many miles and a small town with three churches and a bar advertising cut price beer Sam tries again. "You can still sleep in the car. Cas and I can get a room, maybe some food that isn't from a gas station and five years out of date." He scrunches up his nose. "Maybe a shower."
"We are quite pungent," Castiel agrees and Castiel can see Dean glaring at him in the mirror.
"You hardly say a word for two freaking days, and when you do talk it's to tell us we reek?" Dean accuses. "And to agree with Sam?"
"It's the truth," Castiel says.
Beside Dean, Sam is grinning at his brother. "Seriously man," he says. "I need a shower. You need a shower. I can feel sand in places I don't want to be feeling sand."
Dean grimaces, "TMI, Sam," but he might be wavering because Sam pushes, "I don't know what you have against stopping, Dean, but we can't keep this up forever."
Castiel doesn't miss the way Dean glances back at him in the mirror.
"Dean," Sam presses. "It's not-"
"I get it, Sam," Dean interrupts sharply. It's not the first time Dean has cut Sam off like this when he's trying to get Dean to talk to him about what they're doing, or where they're going. It has been the same for Castiel whenever he suggests that they don't have to do this. That they don't need to look after him. He can take care of himself. Possibly.
There is a tense silence in the car and Castiel can't think of anything helpful to say so he leans back against the door, the press of the door handle against the small of his back a familiar discomfort now. He picks up Dean's most recent copy of Busty Asian Beauties, because Sam had been unable to find anything else to read in the trunk of the car and Castiel has learnt that long hours spent driving can be very dull with nothing to occupy your mind. Left to his own devices he finds himself thinking of all the things he has done wrong, and thinking of his brothers and sisters who he has killed, and imagining all the ways he could have- should have- done things differently. Castiel knows it's a pointless exercise but he finds himself returning to it again and again. He would rather read about Melanie, whose hobbies are exercising and going out with her friends, and her recent discovery of online dating.
"It's bad for your eyes, you know," Dean says, too loudly for the quiet in the car, like he is trying to make up for it. Usually he would turn on the radio. "To read in the dark like that. I don't know how you can see anything." Dean leers, but it's half-hearted and unconvincing at best. "Unless you're looking at the pictures."
"Dean," Sam admonishes.
Castiel had forgotten it was dark. "I can read in this," he tells them. He can see too well. There is still betrayal and reticence written in the way Dean holds himself apart from Castiel, in the way he speaks to him and watches him like he just doesn't trust him. Not really. It's not as obvious with Sam, but the distrust is still there.
They still smile though, and tut and hum over the slowly healing wounds they have bound and wrapped and insist need to be changed and cleaned on a regular basis. Castiel lets them and can't decide if it's for their sake or his own. If Castiel is honest with himself, it is impossible to deny that he likes the attention.
"I never knew there were articles and shit in there," Dean says and Sam laughs.
"You've been buying that crap for as long as I can remember and you've never once even glanced at the words?"
"That isn't a magazine for reading, Sam." Dean gives his brother a look Castiel is going to ignore.
"And you bitch at me for too much information," Sam throws back in disgust.
They argue and Castiel reads that Melanie has been on seventeen dates, two of which ended in sex.
"Next gas station we stop at, I am buying him a book," he hears Sam say, and Dean responds, "You buy him any of that chick lit shit I know you like I will hurt you."
They speak as though Castiel is not right there, in the back seat, listening to every word they say even when he's reading, or trying not to think about what he's going to do when he finally heals, or trying to ignore the calls of his brothers, or just watching the world go past as they drive and drive and drive. Most times Castiel doesn't much mind being ignored in this way because he never has anything to add anyway and he understands that Dean and Sam are used to it being the two of them alone. There are times when Castiel feels like an intruder and still he can't understand why they came for him. Neither has given him any reason, nor any explanation of how they found him. Up until now they have barely spoken of those last few days at all.
"He might like it," Sam argues. "Maybe angels like romance novels."
"Dude, no." Dean groans like he's in pain. "Now I have a mental image of, like, Zachariah reading Harlequin books. It's freaking me out."
Castiel has to admit the idea is disturbing. In the article, Melanie says that she is still available and continuing her search for the right man and that she can be found on the Busty Asian Beauty internet dating pages.
"I think I'd like to meet Melanie," Castiel says in a brief pause in the brothers' argument. "She seems kind."
There is a strange silence and when Castiel looks up he sees that both Sam and Dean are staring at him.
"I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that," Dean says slowly, seriously, but he's half-smiling as he returns his eyes to the road.
"Nearest gas station, Dean," Sam urges. "I'm buying him anything," and Dean nods in agreement.
***
Sam sometimes joins Castiel in the backseat and teaches him to play cards. He doesn't have a real set of cards, he says, because Dean lost them in a game of poker months ago along with two hundred dollars and his jacket. They only have Uno cards- colourful things- and they play the simple game over and over and Sam wins sometimes. He seems to enjoy it, and the game is oddly distracting so Castiel doesn't mind the hours they spend playing. It's always Dean who brings their games to an end, angry, calling it dumb and childish and stupid, and Sam tells Castiel that it's because Dean has never won a game of Uno in his life and he's bitter.
If he ever plays with Dean, Castiel decides, he might let Dean win.
Might.
Sitting in the back now they are playing Snap and Sam is taking it so seriously that Dean keeps laughing at them, telling Sam to calm the fuck down.
"Best of fifteen?" Sam asks when they reach seven to four games and in the front seat Dean sounds like he's choking he's laughing so hard.
"Just admit it, Sam," Dean somehow manages between gasps for breath. "You suck at this."
"Not as much as you suck at Uno," Sam snaps. Dean's grin widens and Castiel knows this argument could go on for a very long time, so he intercedes, "I am tired," because it has worked at other times to silence the Winchesters. It also happens to be true.
It works again this time.
"Oh," Sam says, putting the cards down. "Sorry, Cas. You need anything?"
Castiel shakes his head, leans sideways so that he is resting his weight against the seat and almost wishes he was able to sleep. Nothing seems to help him shake the lethargy he feels so much of the time. "I'm alright," he assures Sam who looks unconvinced but smiles and asks Castiel, "Re-match later though, right?"
"Of course, Sam," Castiel says. Today they've already had seven re-matches and Castiel has come to think that Sam is trying to distract himself from their current situation, from thinking of anything other than the here and now, as much as he's trying to distract Castiel. Not once has Dean told them where he's headed, or even if he knows, but it's been four days and they have yet to stop for anything more than three or four hours.
Dean teases, "Cards are tiring, man. I get that."
"You are tiring, Dean," Castiel responds, because he has learnt that Dean enjoys it when Castiel argues back. It's also the truth.
Dean snorts but says nothing more so Castiel lets his mind wander. They are three thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles south of the highest point of the Earth and the sky is dark with heavy rain clouds. Castiel can smell the coming storm and hidden behind them the cold, distant presence of angels. They are omens; this is neither the place nor the season for heavy rainfall. Castiel knows that Dean and Sam realise this weather isn't natural because they speak on the phone to Bobby asking his opinion. They don't talk of it to Castiel. He can't tell if they're trying to shield him from the news of floods and droughts, of snow and heat waves, or they don't trust him to answer truthfully about the phenomena. They suspect it's angels, and they're right, but Castiel can't bring himself to say anything because it's his fault. All this is his fault because he should go back to Heaven, take charge, stop the other angels treating Earth like somewhere they can take out their frustrations without consequence. They are children pulling the wings off of butterflies because they can and Castiel no longer has the will or the strength to stop them.
And Castiel is selfish, too.
He doesn't want these endless, pointless card games with Sam to end. He wants to finish the appalling crime novel Dean chose for him three gas stations ago.
Castiel has been reading it as a human would, word following word and page following page and it is slow and strange but oddly fascinating because the writer doesn't seem to follow the standard rules of grammar as Castiel knows them, nor does he feel constrained by definitions of words. When Castiel asked Sam if this was usual in literature, because Chuck's writing had been like this too, Sam laughed and told him that no, they were just terrible writers.
When they are driving and it is quiet and the sun has almost set so that the car is filled with long jagged shadows Castiel watches. He watches shadows slide across the seats and across his hands and across Sam's legs where he is sitting, unmoving, staring out the window at the miles and miles of nothing they pass. He watches Dean tapping the steering wheel. This has become his world.
It starts to rain.
At first, it's just singular drops streaking across the windows as they speed along and Castiel turns his head so he can see them better. Then, suddenly, it's as though something breaks and the droplets turn to sheets of water, the world outside reduced to a greyness that Castiel can see nothing beyond with his human eyes. There wasn't much to look at anyway, he knows, but occasionally there was a sign or a building or another car. Now it's just the three of them, enclosed, and for the first time Castiel feels claustrophobic and restless.
"Son of a bitch." Dean curses and reduces his speed, leaning forward in his seat as though it might help him see through the wall of rain surrounding them.
Dean looks at Castiel in the rear-view mirror. "Did you do this?" he asks. "Is this, like, the least subtle hint ever that we need a shower?"
Castiel can't decide if Dean is being serious or not. "I can't make it rain," he tells him, then pauses because now that he considers it, Castiel has never actually tried. "I don't think I can make it rain," he amends and Dean raises an eyebrow at him.
Outside, the rain is loud, hissing and beating against the car roof and windows and Castiel closes his eyes and tries to ignore it.
In front of him, Dean is grumbling now about angels and little brothers breathing too much and steaming up the freaking windows so Castiel stops.
It's almost a relief not to have to breathe.
Two days ago, maybe even yesterday, Castiel doesn't think he'd have been able to do this; to keep his vessel alive using his Grace alone, without the aid of air and a respiratory system, then without circulation or a heartbeat. Slowly, as the wounds in his vessel and his true self heal, his strength is returning and Castiel isn't sure if he is glad for it or not.
By letting what is angel take over what is human, Castiel can remove himself from the world, from all worlds. He can hide inside himself, remembering the calm contentedness he once felt, long ago, in The Garden. He always liked Joshua's voice, and would listen to his brother for hours as he talked of his flowers and his trees and of Earth. Back then Castiel thought Earth had to be an incredible place from the way his brothers spoke of it and for all the strife it caused. Somewhere exotic and beyond his reach. Sometimes Castiel looks back on his younger self and wonders at how he could ever have been so stupid and naive.
Still, it's a good memory, and Castiel has very few of those from Heaven.
The next thing he knows Sam is shouting in his ear, shaking him. There's a tear along his bicep where Raphael tried to slice off his arm. It's not fully healed yet and Sam has his hands gripped so tightly around Castiel's arms that it stings, as Dean would say, like a bitch. The pain forces himself out of his memories, back into his current reality of humid, fetid air and too-loud torrential rain.
Castiel lurches head first into the seat in front of him as Dean veers dangerously off of the road, breaking recklessly. The tyres skid and Castiel is lucky that Sam catches hold of him before he can slam into anything.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam says in disgust and as Castiel blinks his eyes open he can see that Sam is glaring at his brother and Dean is turning in his seat to glare right back.
"Then don't tell me Cas is not freaking breathing," Dean throws back between clenched teeth, and in the next second both brothers are looking down at him where he is half-lying across Sam's legs and half-fallen into the foot well behind Dean's seat. It is not comfortable, but then Castiel doesn't think he's known anything to be comfortable for a very long while.
Sam's eyes widen. "Cas! You're alive!"
Castiel frowns, because he hadn't been aware there was any doubt about that.
"I am," he confirms. Sam is looking at him like he can't quite believe it. "You are hurting my arm, Sam," Castiel adds. He would like to sit up, but is oddly balanced in the small space and fears what would happen if he tries to move himself.
"Right- I. Right," Sam stutters. "Sorry, man." He gentles his hold on Castiel's arm and Castiel sighs in relief as Sam pulls him upright again.
When he turns to Dean, though, his expression is furious and he's looking between Sam and Castiel like he can't decide who to be furious at.
"You said he wasn't-" Dean starts, stops, starts again, "What the hell, Sam? He looks like he's breathing fine to me."
"He'd stopped, I swear!" Sam defends, and narrows his eyes at Castiel accusingly. "What was that?" he demands.
"I was resting," Castiel explains. He pushes himself back into what has become his corner of the car and wishes Sam would move away too. There is not enough space. He wants to stretch his wings. He wants to fly. He wants to not be followed and hounded and have people shouting at him at every damn turn.
Sam says, "Without breathing. Or, you know, having a heartbeat."
"Yes," Castiel snaps. Joshua always used to say he had too little patience with people. He knows he should be grateful for their help, and he is, but Castiel has fought hard for freedom and it would be nice to experience it for himself for once. Just for once. "Without those things," he says, "Because I don't need them."
He clenches his jaw and doesn't care that it's an extremely human thing to do. He also doesn't care that Dean's furious glare is now fully turned on him.
"Well excuse us," Dean says coldly, "For giving a crap when we thought you'd fucking died on us."
Dean turns away, starts up the engine again, and Castiel can see that his hands are so tightly wrapped around the steering wheel that his knuckles are white.
Sam looks disappointed.
Castiel thinks he should apologise because he hadn't even thought about how it might look for a human to find his vessel that way- with no breath and no heartbeat- but for the past year he feels as though that's all he's been doing; apologising for his brothers, for all the questionable things he's done, he's had to do. For trying to keep them all alive. Beneath the old, familiar camaraderie, beneath the brothers' care and concern there is still lingering resentment and mistrust. It's only a matter of time before it comes to the fore. The Winchesters have never been known for their reserve and Castiel can see it sometimes when they look at him, as though he's a stranger and they can't be sure of how he'll react to anything they do. And sometimes, like they're not even sure what they're doing taking Castiel around with them.
Whatever balance, whatever friendship they've managed to resurrect and rebuild in the past four days Castiel knows it will neither negate nor overcome everything that's happened in the past year.
Because if there is one thing Castiel has learnt it's that everything good always comes to nothing.
Part Two >>
As ever, comments and concrit most welcome and adored.