blue_bells (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blue_bells) wrote2010-03-01 01:22 am
blue_bells) wrote2010-03-01 01:22 am
Supernatural += The Littlest Hunter (2/7, Winchesters and wee!Castiel, 2331w)
» Title: The Littlest Hunter (2/7)
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: De-ageing!
» Pairing(s)/Characters: wee!Castiel, Winchesters
» Summary: As punishment for disobeying, Castiel is sent back in time in the form of a young child - only to be unofficially adopted by John Winchester.
» A/N: Written originally for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
merry_gentry in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic. Kudos if you can spot The Prophecy reference!
PREVIOUS: Part 1
“Sam – Sammy, are you watching this?”
From his perch on the far bed, six-year-old Sam glances from his book to the television where green humanoid turtles leap and flip through a dark alley, whooping in triumph.
Dean grins, pointing. “Mutant ninja turtles!”
Sam considers the show through his heavy, dark fringe. “Why are they mutated?”
“Because they wanted to be ninjas, duh!”
A heavy knock sounds at the door of their motel room.
Sam stills, knuckles whitening on his book cover as Dean flies for the television, flipping the volume down while his other hand reaches for the sawn-off shotgun at the foot of the bed. Heart thudding in his chest, Dean issues an order with a jerk of his head and Sam nods, sliding to the floor out of sight with his book tucked to his chest.
It’s too early, their Dad had only left four hours ago and Dean can’t remember the last time he had returned in the same night when he advised that he’d be away for days. Shotgun to his shoulder, Dean quickly tiptoes to the door’s side and waits. The gun is still a bit too big for him, but his Dad had tried to find one that Dean could steady his grip on and the first shots he had fired to test proved that Dean managed it just fine.
Breathing sharply through his nose, Dean leans his ear to the wall and listens.
“Dean –“ Sam whispers, but his brother cuts him off with a finger to his lips.
The knock comes again, two quickly, then four and Dean’s shoulders release some of their tension. A key jostles in the doorknob and Dean steps back before the door swings open.
The icy chill cuts through the warmth of the motel room like a slap in the face, but Dean tightens his jaw when his Dad steps in, narrowed eyes scanning the room.
“Dad, what happened?” Dean frowns because his Dad’s still on guard, but then Sam’s there wrapped around their Dad’s leg, oblivious and glad.
“Dad!” Sam beams, arms hooked around John’s knee.
John looks as though he’d been about to answer Dean’s question, but huffs the breath out with a grim smile, cradling the back of Sam's head.
“It’s taken care of,” John says eventually.
Dean stiffens at the sight of motion at his Dad’s back. The shotgun is up in an instant.
“Sammy, get down!”
In an ordinary situation, Sam would react without thinking, but with his arms around his Dad all those trained instincts seem to desert him. Sam blinks in confusion, hoots a stupefied sort of noise and Dean waits less than a second before shoving a small hand past his family, taking aim.
The thing in the car park yelps in panic when Dean cocks the shotgun, there’s a crash of glass bottles against the gravel but then John is yanking the shotgun out of his hands.
Dean jumps in shock, glares between the car park and his Dad.
“What the hell, Dad? Something followed you, hurry up and –“
John’s firm hand settles heavily on his shoulder and Dean stops.
What happened to ‘shoot first, ask questions later’?
He shakes his head, not understanding and looks back into the car park seeing only the Impala and the other parked cars of the motel residents. He swears to himself, thinking whatever it was had escaped.
“Castiel,” John barks and Dean squints through the poor light of the overhead streetlamps. “It’s all right. Come on out.”
Dean’s eyes widen and he looks into his father’s face. “Dad?”
“Dean.”
John squeezes his shoulder, eyes serious and Dean forces the thudding in his chest to slow down. It’s a physical ache to calm the adrenalin, the muscles in his chest and arms straining as he pulls back, but he’s learned not to argue with that voice.
“Trust me,” John says, softer this time, “It’s all right.”
Dean stares as a small child, younger than Sammy, shuffles into the light. Brown messy hair, blue eyes and dirty, he looks like his parents had dressed him for church in a small but ill-fitted suit with a cream overcoat thrown on as an afterthought. That must have been a long time ago. His clothes are stained in mud and blood.
Dean feels an awful dread settle in the pit of his stomach that he can’t explain, but this kid… this kid….
He shakes his head, knowing that this is a bad idea. “Dad….?”
But John isn’t looking at his son anymore. John jerks his head towards the open motel doorway.
“Hurry up and get inside, boys.”
Castiel’s wary gaze flits between John and his son and he quickens his shuffle to an awkward run. Dean backs into the room before him. Glancing inside, he sees Sam hovering by the television where their Dad had swept him before stepping out to intervene and he quickly steps into Castiel’s path.
Castiel barely comes up to Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s prepared for when the boy slams into him head-on with a stunned ‘mmph!’. Dean catches him before he can fall backwards.
“Take your coat off,” Dean mutters, conscious of Sam who was probably peering around to see what’s going on.
Castiel pouts in confusion, brows furrowed and Dean glances at his Dad for permission.
John understands, nodding and Castiel whines in complaint when Dean shoves the coat off of his shoulders, rolls the bloody garment up under his arm and is thankful to see there’s only mud visible on the rest of him.
“All right, come on,” Dean says reluctantly and steps aside.
Looking severely put upon, Castiel trundles inside and John takes the bloody overcoat from Dean when he follows. Dean casts one last look into the car park and locks the door behind them.
He’s surprised when he reaches for his shotgun, but his Dad stows it under the pillow of the third unused bed instead. He slides Castiel’s soiled overcoat into his duffel bag out of sight. John’s eyes are stern and Dean snorts a breath of frustration, hands fisting at his sides, he glares at their visitor instead.
Inside the considerably warmer motel room, Castiel is standing in the middle of the carpet, arms in their overlong-sleeves softly bouncing against his sides. He keeps looking between all his company and Dean thinks he sees the beginnings of a small, tentative smile.
It pisses him off.
“Dad,” Sam pipes up and Dean puffs up with a smirk because he knows that tone, he knows that face on his brother that’s so carefully, pointedly blank as he looks expectantly from Castiel to their father. That’s the face before the tantrum, the face that would normally sweep Dean into damage control, but today he thinks he’s going to let Sammy introduce himself.
Sam points outright at Castiel. “Who’s this?”
John looks between the three boys in the motel room, but Dean notices with some chagrin that his Dad is focusing on him.
“Boys, this is Castiel.”
Castiel’s lips don’t quite make it into that smile Dean can see brimming, but he looks hopefully between the brothers. Dean’s eyes narrow when Castiel’s gaze lingers on him and those blue eyes are quickly averted.
“Castiel, this is Sam and Dean,” John’s voice is level and Dean just wants him to spit out the order he knows is coming.
“What’s he doing here, Dad?” Dean interrupts when Castiel opens his mouth and quickly shuts it.
John’s look is not approving. “Castiel needs our help, boys. We’re going to help him get back to his family.”
“You sure you’re not an orphan?” Dean quips, gleeful at the dark look his father turns on him out of the corner of his eye. He can already feel the hit that’ll eventually find the back of his head, but, whatever. He can pay for it later.
Dean’s taken aback when Castiel’s face falls and he looks at his feet. “I think I am.”
“Why?” John asks.
Castiel can’t quite hold John’s gaze. “It – my brother told me father was dead.”
“What?” Sam blurts and Dean thinks that this is probably one of those conversations where he should cover Sam’s ears.
“So… you’ve got a brother,” Dean says loudly, intent to muffle Sam’s quiet horror, “That means you’ve still got family.”
Castiel’s fumbling with his sleeves, twisting the cuffs over and over in his tiny hands held almost to his chin. “But -- m-my brothers are no longer my brothers.”
“Brothers?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the new plural, wondering why this kid speaks so weirdly, but his father gives him no cues and then there’s an uncomfortable, familiar hiccupping whimper and he realises that Castiel is sniffling against his sleeves.
“O-oh, come on,” Sam startles and quickly goes to Castiel’s side. Sam’s not much taller than Castiel and he hovers awkwardly as the smaller boy hides his face in his dirty suit sleeves. When the whimper becomes a keen, Sam holds Castiel’s shoulder and clumsily pats the patch between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Dean deflates: Sammy, you traitor.
Feeling like he’s having an out-of-body experience, Dean recognises that’s how he comforts Sam after a nightmare, but Sam doesn’t look quite prepared to hug this stranger yet. Sam also appears to be wondering it isn’t working as effectively as it should.
There’s something very strange happening to Dean’s family at this moment and he can’t stop it.
He bites the inside of his cheek and meets his father’s careful look of question. If he was fooling himself he’d think he actually had a choice in the matter.
“Yes, Sir,” Dean says, quietly.
He watches as his father nods and goes to kneel in front of Castiel, laying a hand on his shoulder. Sam looks relieved for the support, but he doesn’t stop rubbing Castiel’s back, now murmuring comforting noise rather than words.
“Castiel,” John says and waits until the boy lowers his sleeves from his face. Castiel’s eyes are shining and wet and his face looks impossibly dirtier than before. “You’ve got choices. There’s a cathedral three blocks from here –“
“No,” Castiel shakes his head vehemently and Dean credits the kid with some sense.
John nods, continuing, “Well, first thing come morning I’m taking you down to the police station. If your family have reported you missing we’ll find out where you came from.”
Castiel’s lower lip trembles. “They won’t let me come home.”
He sounds so miserably certain that it makes Dean stop and take notice. He doesn’t like the sound of that and he wonders just how much his Dad asked this kid before he brought him in.
“It’s okay,” Sam chimes helpfully. “You can stay here tonight.”
Because it was pretty clear that decision had been made when John took the shotgun out of Dean’s hands.
Castiel sniffs and wipes his face roughly. When he looks up, his eyes go straight to Dean who’s still hanging back, still unsure of everything except the anxiety coiling in his stomach.
He steps up on his Dad’s other side, hands in his jean pockets and he knows his Dad can tell he’s there because he doesn’t look over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to.
“We’ll need to hose you down,” Dean says and, okay, it’s not the perfect welcome, but it’s all Dean’s got at that moment.
Before his Dad can predictably wither him with a growl or mere look, Castiel slams into him for the second time that night. Dean grunts, most of the air knocked from his chest. He squirms under his family’s bemused expressions when Castiel’s tiny arms wrap around his waist and Dean quickly pries them off.
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel cries, relieved, and Dean really hopes he’s not going to make this a habit.
“Geez, personal space, dude,” Dean pushes him back towards his father and John receives him with a hand at his back. When John rises to his feet, Castiel blinks up at him, waiting. The hand at the back of his neck ruffles his hair and by the look on John’s face, Dean doesn’t think his Dad even realises what he’s doing.
Dean feels like glaring some more, so he does.
“You can borrow some of Sam’s clothes,” John decides and if it was possible Dean likes Castiel even less.
“I have a second pillow,” Sam offers and Castiel does smile then. Dean wonders at Sam’s traitorous readiness to welcome this stranger as Sam adds, “I’m six.”
“Six what?”
“I’m six-years-old! How old are you?”
Castiel frowns gently, considering it for a long moment until John says, “He’s five.”
“I’m five,” Castiel echoes quietly, but it lacks any conviction.
Sam bubbles on, asking more questions and John seems satisfied for the moment to let the two entertain each other.
Dean follows his Dad to their suitcases as John starts looking for something to put aside for Castiel. John doesn’t look at him as he searches through Sam’s clothes and Dean returns the favour.
“Dad, he talks kind of funny for a five-year-old,” Dean says, keeping his voice careful, not critical because his Dad needs to know that Dean’s only doing his job like he was taught to.
“He’s been through a lot, Dean,” John says and pulls out a clean sweatshirt, grey and plain. “I need him to tell me about it.”
And suddenly Dean understands.
This is a job. Castiel was a witness. Castiel has information. Once his Dad knew what he needed, they could find Castiel’s family and Castiel would go away.
“I’ll help,” Dean promises and John looks at him, smiles thinly and his chest swells when his Dad settles a hand on his head. His Dad knows he hates to have his hair ruffled, not like Sam.
“Take this,” John hands him the clothes and points to the bathroom, “Show him how to use the shower.”
Dean groans, but he doesn’t mind when his Dad gently shoves him forward.
Part 3
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: De-ageing!
» Pairing(s)/Characters: wee!Castiel, Winchesters
» Summary: As punishment for disobeying, Castiel is sent back in time in the form of a young child - only to be unofficially adopted by John Winchester.
» A/N: Written originally for
merry_gentry in comment_fic. Kudos if you can spot The Prophecy reference!PREVIOUS: Part 1
“Sam – Sammy, are you watching this?”
From his perch on the far bed, six-year-old Sam glances from his book to the television where green humanoid turtles leap and flip through a dark alley, whooping in triumph.
Dean grins, pointing. “Mutant ninja turtles!”
Sam considers the show through his heavy, dark fringe. “Why are they mutated?”
“Because they wanted to be ninjas, duh!”
A heavy knock sounds at the door of their motel room.
Sam stills, knuckles whitening on his book cover as Dean flies for the television, flipping the volume down while his other hand reaches for the sawn-off shotgun at the foot of the bed. Heart thudding in his chest, Dean issues an order with a jerk of his head and Sam nods, sliding to the floor out of sight with his book tucked to his chest.
It’s too early, their Dad had only left four hours ago and Dean can’t remember the last time he had returned in the same night when he advised that he’d be away for days. Shotgun to his shoulder, Dean quickly tiptoes to the door’s side and waits. The gun is still a bit too big for him, but his Dad had tried to find one that Dean could steady his grip on and the first shots he had fired to test proved that Dean managed it just fine.
Breathing sharply through his nose, Dean leans his ear to the wall and listens.
“Dean –“ Sam whispers, but his brother cuts him off with a finger to his lips.
The knock comes again, two quickly, then four and Dean’s shoulders release some of their tension. A key jostles in the doorknob and Dean steps back before the door swings open.
The icy chill cuts through the warmth of the motel room like a slap in the face, but Dean tightens his jaw when his Dad steps in, narrowed eyes scanning the room.
“Dad, what happened?” Dean frowns because his Dad’s still on guard, but then Sam’s there wrapped around their Dad’s leg, oblivious and glad.
“Dad!” Sam beams, arms hooked around John’s knee.
John looks as though he’d been about to answer Dean’s question, but huffs the breath out with a grim smile, cradling the back of Sam's head.
“It’s taken care of,” John says eventually.
Dean stiffens at the sight of motion at his Dad’s back. The shotgun is up in an instant.
“Sammy, get down!”
In an ordinary situation, Sam would react without thinking, but with his arms around his Dad all those trained instincts seem to desert him. Sam blinks in confusion, hoots a stupefied sort of noise and Dean waits less than a second before shoving a small hand past his family, taking aim.
The thing in the car park yelps in panic when Dean cocks the shotgun, there’s a crash of glass bottles against the gravel but then John is yanking the shotgun out of his hands.
Dean jumps in shock, glares between the car park and his Dad.
“What the hell, Dad? Something followed you, hurry up and –“
John’s firm hand settles heavily on his shoulder and Dean stops.
What happened to ‘shoot first, ask questions later’?
He shakes his head, not understanding and looks back into the car park seeing only the Impala and the other parked cars of the motel residents. He swears to himself, thinking whatever it was had escaped.
“Castiel,” John barks and Dean squints through the poor light of the overhead streetlamps. “It’s all right. Come on out.”
Dean’s eyes widen and he looks into his father’s face. “Dad?”
“Dean.”
John squeezes his shoulder, eyes serious and Dean forces the thudding in his chest to slow down. It’s a physical ache to calm the adrenalin, the muscles in his chest and arms straining as he pulls back, but he’s learned not to argue with that voice.
“Trust me,” John says, softer this time, “It’s all right.”
Dean stares as a small child, younger than Sammy, shuffles into the light. Brown messy hair, blue eyes and dirty, he looks like his parents had dressed him for church in a small but ill-fitted suit with a cream overcoat thrown on as an afterthought. That must have been a long time ago. His clothes are stained in mud and blood.
Dean feels an awful dread settle in the pit of his stomach that he can’t explain, but this kid… this kid….
He shakes his head, knowing that this is a bad idea. “Dad….?”
But John isn’t looking at his son anymore. John jerks his head towards the open motel doorway.
“Hurry up and get inside, boys.”
Castiel’s wary gaze flits between John and his son and he quickens his shuffle to an awkward run. Dean backs into the room before him. Glancing inside, he sees Sam hovering by the television where their Dad had swept him before stepping out to intervene and he quickly steps into Castiel’s path.
Castiel barely comes up to Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s prepared for when the boy slams into him head-on with a stunned ‘mmph!’. Dean catches him before he can fall backwards.
“Take your coat off,” Dean mutters, conscious of Sam who was probably peering around to see what’s going on.
Castiel pouts in confusion, brows furrowed and Dean glances at his Dad for permission.
John understands, nodding and Castiel whines in complaint when Dean shoves the coat off of his shoulders, rolls the bloody garment up under his arm and is thankful to see there’s only mud visible on the rest of him.
“All right, come on,” Dean says reluctantly and steps aside.
Looking severely put upon, Castiel trundles inside and John takes the bloody overcoat from Dean when he follows. Dean casts one last look into the car park and locks the door behind them.
He’s surprised when he reaches for his shotgun, but his Dad stows it under the pillow of the third unused bed instead. He slides Castiel’s soiled overcoat into his duffel bag out of sight. John’s eyes are stern and Dean snorts a breath of frustration, hands fisting at his sides, he glares at their visitor instead.
Inside the considerably warmer motel room, Castiel is standing in the middle of the carpet, arms in their overlong-sleeves softly bouncing against his sides. He keeps looking between all his company and Dean thinks he sees the beginnings of a small, tentative smile.
It pisses him off.
“Dad,” Sam pipes up and Dean puffs up with a smirk because he knows that tone, he knows that face on his brother that’s so carefully, pointedly blank as he looks expectantly from Castiel to their father. That’s the face before the tantrum, the face that would normally sweep Dean into damage control, but today he thinks he’s going to let Sammy introduce himself.
Sam points outright at Castiel. “Who’s this?”
John looks between the three boys in the motel room, but Dean notices with some chagrin that his Dad is focusing on him.
“Boys, this is Castiel.”
Castiel’s lips don’t quite make it into that smile Dean can see brimming, but he looks hopefully between the brothers. Dean’s eyes narrow when Castiel’s gaze lingers on him and those blue eyes are quickly averted.
“Castiel, this is Sam and Dean,” John’s voice is level and Dean just wants him to spit out the order he knows is coming.
“What’s he doing here, Dad?” Dean interrupts when Castiel opens his mouth and quickly shuts it.
John’s look is not approving. “Castiel needs our help, boys. We’re going to help him get back to his family.”
“You sure you’re not an orphan?” Dean quips, gleeful at the dark look his father turns on him out of the corner of his eye. He can already feel the hit that’ll eventually find the back of his head, but, whatever. He can pay for it later.
Dean’s taken aback when Castiel’s face falls and he looks at his feet. “I think I am.”
“Why?” John asks.
Castiel can’t quite hold John’s gaze. “It – my brother told me father was dead.”
“What?” Sam blurts and Dean thinks that this is probably one of those conversations where he should cover Sam’s ears.
“So… you’ve got a brother,” Dean says loudly, intent to muffle Sam’s quiet horror, “That means you’ve still got family.”
Castiel’s fumbling with his sleeves, twisting the cuffs over and over in his tiny hands held almost to his chin. “But -- m-my brothers are no longer my brothers.”
“Brothers?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the new plural, wondering why this kid speaks so weirdly, but his father gives him no cues and then there’s an uncomfortable, familiar hiccupping whimper and he realises that Castiel is sniffling against his sleeves.
“O-oh, come on,” Sam startles and quickly goes to Castiel’s side. Sam’s not much taller than Castiel and he hovers awkwardly as the smaller boy hides his face in his dirty suit sleeves. When the whimper becomes a keen, Sam holds Castiel’s shoulder and clumsily pats the patch between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Dean deflates: Sammy, you traitor.
Feeling like he’s having an out-of-body experience, Dean recognises that’s how he comforts Sam after a nightmare, but Sam doesn’t look quite prepared to hug this stranger yet. Sam also appears to be wondering it isn’t working as effectively as it should.
There’s something very strange happening to Dean’s family at this moment and he can’t stop it.
He bites the inside of his cheek and meets his father’s careful look of question. If he was fooling himself he’d think he actually had a choice in the matter.
“Yes, Sir,” Dean says, quietly.
He watches as his father nods and goes to kneel in front of Castiel, laying a hand on his shoulder. Sam looks relieved for the support, but he doesn’t stop rubbing Castiel’s back, now murmuring comforting noise rather than words.
“Castiel,” John says and waits until the boy lowers his sleeves from his face. Castiel’s eyes are shining and wet and his face looks impossibly dirtier than before. “You’ve got choices. There’s a cathedral three blocks from here –“
“No,” Castiel shakes his head vehemently and Dean credits the kid with some sense.
John nods, continuing, “Well, first thing come morning I’m taking you down to the police station. If your family have reported you missing we’ll find out where you came from.”
Castiel’s lower lip trembles. “They won’t let me come home.”
He sounds so miserably certain that it makes Dean stop and take notice. He doesn’t like the sound of that and he wonders just how much his Dad asked this kid before he brought him in.
“It’s okay,” Sam chimes helpfully. “You can stay here tonight.”
Because it was pretty clear that decision had been made when John took the shotgun out of Dean’s hands.
Castiel sniffs and wipes his face roughly. When he looks up, his eyes go straight to Dean who’s still hanging back, still unsure of everything except the anxiety coiling in his stomach.
He steps up on his Dad’s other side, hands in his jean pockets and he knows his Dad can tell he’s there because he doesn’t look over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to.
“We’ll need to hose you down,” Dean says and, okay, it’s not the perfect welcome, but it’s all Dean’s got at that moment.
Before his Dad can predictably wither him with a growl or mere look, Castiel slams into him for the second time that night. Dean grunts, most of the air knocked from his chest. He squirms under his family’s bemused expressions when Castiel’s tiny arms wrap around his waist and Dean quickly pries them off.
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel cries, relieved, and Dean really hopes he’s not going to make this a habit.
“Geez, personal space, dude,” Dean pushes him back towards his father and John receives him with a hand at his back. When John rises to his feet, Castiel blinks up at him, waiting. The hand at the back of his neck ruffles his hair and by the look on John’s face, Dean doesn’t think his Dad even realises what he’s doing.
Dean feels like glaring some more, so he does.
“You can borrow some of Sam’s clothes,” John decides and if it was possible Dean likes Castiel even less.
“I have a second pillow,” Sam offers and Castiel does smile then. Dean wonders at Sam’s traitorous readiness to welcome this stranger as Sam adds, “I’m six.”
“Six what?”
“I’m six-years-old! How old are you?”
Castiel frowns gently, considering it for a long moment until John says, “He’s five.”
“I’m five,” Castiel echoes quietly, but it lacks any conviction.
Sam bubbles on, asking more questions and John seems satisfied for the moment to let the two entertain each other.
Dean follows his Dad to their suitcases as John starts looking for something to put aside for Castiel. John doesn’t look at him as he searches through Sam’s clothes and Dean returns the favour.
“Dad, he talks kind of funny for a five-year-old,” Dean says, keeping his voice careful, not critical because his Dad needs to know that Dean’s only doing his job like he was taught to.
“He’s been through a lot, Dean,” John says and pulls out a clean sweatshirt, grey and plain. “I need him to tell me about it.”
And suddenly Dean understands.
This is a job. Castiel was a witness. Castiel has information. Once his Dad knew what he needed, they could find Castiel’s family and Castiel would go away.
“I’ll help,” Dean promises and John looks at him, smiles thinly and his chest swells when his Dad settles a hand on his head. His Dad knows he hates to have his hair ruffled, not like Sam.
“Take this,” John hands him the clothes and points to the bathroom, “Show him how to use the shower.”
Dean groans, but he doesn’t mind when his Dad gently shoves him forward.
Part 3
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