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blue_bells» Title: The Littlest Hunter (4/7)
» 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: I have a myriad of excuses for the delay on this, but it boils down to real life interference and being distracted by other people's fabulous (albeit seriously depressing) fanfic. Hope you enjoy!
PREVIOUS: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
It’s been a week since Gabriel closed a hand over his throat and thrust Castiel back into 1989.
“This is all I can do,” Gabriel had gritted his teeth and Castiel found himself plopped in the stall of a diner with the table-top at eye level.
It struck him as strange that the table was so large and when he reached for the edge to push himself out of the seat, he realised what was wrong.
He had stared at his hands, then his feet and when he felt his soft face there was a terrible, twisting, falling sensation and he thought that must have been what horror felt like.
He was stumpy and miniaturised in every direction.
Everyone in the diner had stared at him when he stumbled out of the stall – a child, alone. Some people had tried to take him aside, cooing as they towered, faces pinched in concern or sympathy, but their outstretched hands startled him.
He’d bolted from that diner and discovered his pockets were empty. When he finally found a telephone it was mounted in a tall, glass box that turned out to be beyond his reach. He must have spent almost an hour straining for the phone book. His fingers brushed the metal cable of the handset at least twice before he gave up, exhausted and sore, and that was new. He had to accede that no matter how high he stretched, leaped or even flexed his wings, he wasn’t going to get high enough.
He was stunned, realising he had so little strength he couldn’t even sustain a sufficient elevation for more than a few seconds to reach the podium of the small glass box. He didn’t understand, but he reasoned the drastic reduction of his powers had either to do with his new size or Gabriel’s will, or both.
It had been a long time since Castiel was afraid.
Afterwards, he’d gotten lost in the town, which dwarfed and terrified him with its noise and crowds and eyes that followed him everywhere because who’s this kid by himself? Can we help him? Can we take him home? Can we take him?
He quickly sought the quiet and security of the forest, where he thought he’d settle the tremor in his chest with nature on every side, but he’d become lost there, too. When darkness fell, Castiel had waited all of three hours, coat tucked around himself although he didn’t feel the cold, before he couldn’t stand the silence and blackness any longer and called for his brother.
He called until the voice of his small vessel was cracked and hoarse.
Gabriel didn’t answer.
There were enough creatures in the forest that did respond to Castiel’s cries and he quickly learned to keep moving. He couldn’t teleport very far and the more he feared, the less he could control it.
Castiel had never been so acutely aware of the human vessel as he was that night, halfway up a tree, tiny hands pressed down on the hammering of his heart. Gasping to catch his breath, Castiel rubbed a hand against the burn behind his eyes and his hands came back wet with tears. Human tears.
Sucking in icy air, teetering and certain he would fall to whatever was howling at the foot of the tree, Castiel disavowed any curious temptation he’d once had for what it would be like to be human.
He felt shattered, petrified as his fingers dug into the bark, and he had never felt so alone in his existence. Once upon a time he’d held the chorus of his brothers and sisters in every turn of his grace. When he’d relinquished that it had been the closest thing to a physical wrench. But he’d had Sam and Dean, and the faith in the righteousness of their mission had balmed the wound of his fall.
He’d had Sam and Dean and he could always call as he needed them. Now he didn’t even have a phone, he couldn’t physically reach a phone and the terror was almost numbing.
On the second day, Castiel watches the sun rise. The day is cold and the wolves have lost their interest, but he’s not ready to come down from the tree.
On the third day, the burning ache to find a familiar face trumps his paralysis and he wonders if Gabriel had a plan when he sent Castiel back in time. Castiel needed to stop the apocalypse, this is the only way Gabriel would assist his brother, but Castiel doesn’t have Gabriel’s perspective.
First he needs to find the Winchesters. The thought of being reunited with Sam and Dean floods Castiel with an almost crippling hope and relief, it’s hard to remember that he’s an angel when he so firmly believes his personal survival depends on being in their presence once again.
When he eventually musters the courage to climb down the tree, he underestimates the distance and the fall cracks something in his shoulder.
He barely notices the limp in his walk when he wanders for the next three days, always taking refuge with a tree or rock at his back when the sun sets. He walks past streams, past paddocks and farms with horses and cows, and highways where cars roar like thunder. He keeps walking and tries not to listen to the fear in his heart.
On the sixth day, when he’s taken refuge by a barn at twilight, Castiel feels a dark presence rolling like a fetid mist through the air and he knows there’s a demon nearby.
It’s pure instinct that drives him to confront them. It’s not until he’s standing before them that he remembers how small he’s become.
There are several demons, as it turns out. They don’t recognise him for what he is, angels haven’t returned to Earth in their numbers of the future, but their black, grinning eyes peer deeply into him when they abandon their original prey to catch and hold him down.
They know he’s something other and they keen and giggle, clawing even through his clothes, seeking what’s inside. He shivers, numbed with fear and rage, but it’s not until they take a knife to his skin that he can move again.
The grace swells like an old spring in his chest, an echo of the Host, and the demons shriek at the force that throws them back long enough for Castiel to scrawl a sigil in his blood and slap his palm at its centre.
When the light dies, he’s shaking, thinking that he’s safe until there’s a shout and he sees the man silhouetted with the rifle in his hands.
He’s scared, but this man is fast and Castiel thinks after all the millennia of glory, surviving being hunted by his brothers and stalked by the wild as a child, this will be the end of him: shot down like game.
But then Castiel kicks him in the ankle, one of many involuntary responses his body’s been leaking, and he sees the face that’s been burned into his memory like the man’s entire bloodline.
The man tells him his name is John Winchester, but Castiel already knew that.
Castiel wants to kneel and cry.
The part of him that’s small, human and flesh-bound also wants to throw himself against John Winchester. But that’s absurd.
Because he is John Winchester, Castiel doesn’t run like he did at the diner when the man straightens to his impressive height over Castiel’s tiny stature. Castiel looks up into the man’s face, seeing strength, caution and concern and Castiel is ready to follow him anywhere. It’s almost as good as if Dean or Sam had found him themselves.
John Winchester takes him to his home, to his sons. When Castiel sees Dean, his instinct is to rush forward, but then Dean cocks a rifle at him and Castiel falls more than dives behind the Impala for cover.
The slight boy with light, spiky hair and suspicious green eyes is still Dean and, of course, he doesn’t know Castiel. Castiel falls against his friend with no consideration when Dean says that he can stay. Dean is the most familiar. Dean almost feels like home. Castiel just hopes that the younger Dean has half of the restraint of his older self. If such virtues are determined by physical size, Castiel might be lucky in Dean.
Sam is smaller and louder than Castiel expects, but his kindness shines like a halo. Castiel can’t help standing near, as if Sam is a real source of heat. Or reassurance. Sam oscillates between joy and rage within the beat of a moment and while it lasts, Castiel is frightened, that somehow he’s caused this family’s discontent and he may end the night standing outside, alone in the dark again.
The moment passes.
The motel calendar tells him the year is 1989.
That tells him that Dean is ten years old, Sam is six and John Winchester, one of the most infamous hunters of his generation, is alive.
Castiel pauses his count of imaginary sheep, later that night, and looks at John’s back as he hunches over his desk.
John had asked Castiel draw the sigil he had used to destroy the demons in the barn. It was powerful blood magic, but this was John Winchester and he had been about to reunite Castiel with Sam and Dean, so he couldn’t smother the song in his heart and deny John his request.
John Winchester made him safe. John Winchester brought Castiel home.
The smell of the soap Dean handed him surrounds Castiel through Sam’s borrowed pyjamas. Castiel covers his smile with the blanket’s edge and sends up a fervent prayer of gratitude, hoping that wherever his own father is, he’s safe and alive and can still hear the prayers of his children.
Despite the closed doors and curtains drawn over the windows, Castiel can smell the change in the air. Dawn is breaking around their motel, the first shades of grey lifting the black of night and his fingers relax their grip on the coverlet under his chin.
Ever since the forest, he’s felt safest under the plain light of day. The dark plays tricks on his imagination that clench his heart so tight, but the horrors he doesn’ t understand about this world always seemed less scary in the morning.
Castiel has almost counted to seven hundred thousand imaginary sheep when he realises Sam and Dean’s father has left his chair and come to the foot of Castiel’s bed. John is not-quite-frowning, hands in the pockets of his baggy pants and Castiel stares right back. He wonders what John is thinking and if he took any rest last night.
Now that John is here, looking down at him, it must be time for Castiel to work.
He pushes himself up to a sitting position and folds the blanket back to his knees. The thin pillow crumples against the wall at his back and Castiel reaches behind himself to flatten it against the stained wallpaper comfortably.
“Is it time to visit your police station, John Winchester?”
“Did you sleep at all, Castiel?” John murmurs so that neither of his sons stirs.
Castiel subconsciously rubs his eyes before curling his hands in his lap. His throat feels dry. “I am an angel, I don’t rest.”
John still looks suspicious, but he nods as if to humour Castiel’s assertion. “And how does that work – being an angel?”
Castiel turns his head, straining his ear as though he hadn’t heard the question clearly. “Angels draw their grace and strength from the Host and, ultimately, our Father.”
“That’s why you don’t sleep?”
Castiel nods.
“So, Castiel,” John says quietly, before Castiel goes on, and settles side-on at the edge of the bed. He considers his words before his eyes flick up and Castiel sits up straighter, ready for the assessment in John’s gaze. “How can we tell the difference between an angel and any kid on the street?”
“Oh,” Castiel answers immediately, “An angel is gifted strength and righteousness by their grace -- and they don’t usually look like….” He glances down at himself, lips pursing apologetically that John Winchester has to see him in this lesser way.
Castiel can see John cataloguing that away, but he doesn’t deter from his course of inquiry.
“How do I tell?” John gestures with the scrap of paper where Castiel had scrawled the Enochian sigil, “You told me that anyone could do this. Can you show me something only an angel could do?”
Castiel remembers when Dean made a similar request of him at their first meeting in that barn so many months ago. He glances between the brothers, still sleeping, because before John had turned the key off in the ignition the night before, he’d turned to Castiel, lips set in a firm line and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to mention angels, demons or hunting in front of Sam, his youngest.
Castiel would have agreed to anything, but it had startled him at first. Then he remembered the stories that John Winchester had tried to shield his youngest from his obsession and the dangers that followed him home from that life. Dean had proven he was ready, shotgun at his shoulder, for anything that did.
History showed that approach had worked for a while.
He exhales slowly, focusing his strength to flex his wings like arms reaching above his head in a stretch, just barely beyond the skin of his vessel enough to show, but not to break free. He doesn’t know what would happen if he parted from Jimmy’s vessel in this form; Jimmy doesn’t even share it anymore.
The light bulb at the desk hums and John looks at it when its light intensifies and blinks dark for a moment. Castiel has become accustomed to a certain reaction, but when John looks back at him and only frowns expectantly after a pause, Castiel is concerned.
“Well?”
Castiel watches the light bulb return to its standard glow and he whirls on the bed, finding no shadows cast on the wallpapers behind him. His mouth falls open and he shakes his head, not understanding, because he feels as though he’s opened his entire chest; the room should be thrown in the shadow of his wings, but…
There’s nothing.
His fists balls up the pyjama shirt in the middle of his chest.
“This was my punishment for rebellion. But although I am…” His dry throat tightens and he rubs a thumb over the ugly floral mustard print of the coverlet, “Although I’m less than I was, I do not require rest. I’d expected more.”
John is definitely frowning now, but he picked up on at least one point in Castiel’s whisper. “You rebelled?”
“I fell to defend my friends. The angels wanted to misuse them,” Castiel says quickly and he can’t help glancing at Dean, who sleeps on, curled in a ball on his bed at Castiel’s left. Dean scowls in his sleep, his shoulder twitches from an impression of his dream and Castiel stops himself from reaching for Dean’s temple. He doesn’t have the ability to brush the bad dreams away anymore.
“I was severed from our Father and the strength of the Heavenly Host. I have my friends. But I’m alone.”
It still hurts to say it aloud.
The sting behind his eyes is back and he’s learned by now what that means. He rubs the heel of one hand against his eye, roughly, and distracts himself with the memory of how good it felt, after so long, to ride in Dean’s Impala the night before. John is much smoother when he steers around corners, Castiel had noted that Dean often drove in a hurry and Sam would sway in his seat from the momentum.
John sighs, resigned.
“Well, Castiel, I don’t know what to tell you, but you seem like a pretty ordinary kid to me. I don’t know who taught you to hunt with this sort of thing –“ John waves the sigil again, “—but when we find them I’m goin’ have some words. You’re too young to hunt by yourself, too young by a long shot.”
Castiel’s lips are scowling against his will, he can feel the sting behind his eyes threatening to break and he consciously battles to regain control of his expression. Take a deep breath, slow down, slow down…. Too many base instincts and controls have already deserted him in this smaller form.
“No,” Castiel’s voice sounds choked to his own ears and he wrings his pyjama top between his hands until it feels like he’ll leave burns there. “I’m supposed to save you. We have to avert the apocalypse!”
“Whoa,” John shushes and glances back at Sam when he stirs with a small sound. John watches his son, careful, until Sam settles on his back, eyes still shut and smacking his lips with an arm flung above his head.
John looks back at Castiel, pitying, voice lower than before, “I don’t know what you were taught, but there’s no apocalypse underway; it’s just the same old song of demons over the dashboard.”
“Not yet!”
“Castiel,” John says, quietly but firm. “There is no apocalypse. And you are not an angel; you’re just lost.”
Castiel swallows thickly, flushing and trembling with frustration. He doesn’t know what to do, how he can demonstrate what he is without his powers. Because if John Winchester doesn’t believe him, he won’t let Castiel help him, he’ll send Castiel away and the Winchesters will live the same path that leads them to the Apocalypse.
He doesn’t know how, but he won’t let that happen.
John goes to Dean’s bedside and squeezes his son’s shoulder. Dean wakes swiftly, head leaping from the pillow. His shoulders tense when he scans the room quickly and eventually looks up at his father, confusion clear on his face.
“Dad?” Dean’s voice is scratchy from sleep.
“The sun’s getting up, take Castiel for a run. He thinks he’s a hunter –“
“I’m an angel!” Castiel whispers harshly and Dean frowns at him through bleary eyes.
“-- Let’s see what he’s got,” John pats Dean’s shoulder and Dean nods in assent, still squinting through the weariness of sleep. His eyes barely stay open.
Dean’s grumpy, tired expression makes Castiel feel terrible. He leans towards Dean when John returns to his desk for a writing pad. “You are not required to take me on this run, Dean. You do not look rested.”
Dean yawns, a gaping stretch that threatens to dislocate his jaw, and when he resettles his face is unimpressed if still a bit glazed. “Dad said to take you running. So get changed. We’re going running.”
Castiel slumps as Dean throws off his covers, shivering against the morning chill before he staggers towards the bathroom. He makes no effort to wake Sam on his way past and Castiel suspects this is another activity that Sam is exempted from.
It couldn’t be a terrible life.
Because running, it turns out, is not as easy as humans make it look.
Castiel would hazard there are many angels who are unaccustomed to even a leisurely stroll.
When he didn’t teleport in his former glory, Castiel would walk everywhere he could. He can move swiftly in a battle, duck and weave, but to run….
Running is an entirely different sort of motion. It requires much coordination to achieve an efficiency of movement that Castiel is presently lacking and he feels like he’s flailing awkwardly as he sprints down the sidewalk to catch up with Dean.
At least Castiel was able to borrow a pair of Sam’s sneakers. John had looked surprised when they fit and gave Castiel another of those looks that made Castiel conscious he might have done something wrong. Again.
“You’re going to be tall when you grow up,” John had said and Castiel had flushed at the unimpressed eyebrows Dean raised at him before he went outside to wait in the parking lot.
Castiel notices when Dean’s eyebrows go into his hairline like he’s about to roll his eyes at some of the things John says. He feels embarrassed, almost enough that he wishes John wouldn’t say them. Except that each one softens the memories of the past week, the lingering ache in his shoulder from the fall, and Castiel snatches them like rations of kindness. It’s worth even Dean’s derision.
Judging by Dean’s irritated huff at Castiel’s dejected state, Castiel judges it best not to show any response to Dean’s frequent exasperation, or his flash of irritation each time he realises that Castiel’s slipped behind on their run.
They’re two streets down from the motel and Dean has an easy, loping stride. He’s barely broken a sweat and he keeps, unintentionally, easing ahead. Belatedly, Dean will look over his shoulder, turning when he realises just how far Castiel’s fallen behind again, sort of sigh, before jogging back to keep in step with him.
“You’re not even sweating: you can go faster,” Dean observes and Castiel actually glares up at him.
Castiel thought it would be nice having an opportunity to talk alone with Dean, instead he’s finding himself resenting his friend more than ever before. Dean doesn’t seem interested in talking and even if he was, Castiel doesn’t think he could find the breath for it. Funny, he’s never really noticed the need for air before.
He briefly considers kicking Dean in the ankle, one of the stranger impulses of this smaller form.
“Your legs are longer than mine,” Castiel says and is grateful that he left his coat back at the motel.
“Your legs are just too short,” Dean counters and Castiel almost trips over an invisible crack in the sidewalk.
Dean catches his arm and steadies him without breaking his stride.
If he can do that, Castiel believes that Dean truly is the saviour of mankind. Even if he is laughing at Castiel under his breath.
“Come on,” Dean slaps Castiel a little too hard on the arm and points at a white-painted bridge at the top of the hill in the near distance, “Race you to the bridge.”
“Why does Sam not run with us?” Castiel asks, heart skipping a beat at the word ‘race’.
Dean sneers in amusement. “’Cause Sam’s a pansy! C’mon, Cas, run as fast as you can!”
Castiel’s head snaps up at the familiar address, but Dean doesn’t see his shock because he’s bolted as though a horde of hellhounds have descended at his heels. Castiel doesn’t have time to nurse the bittersweet twinge in his chest because Dean is almost halfway to the bridge.
Castiel takes off after him.
He knows he’s not going to beat Dean to the bridge, not even catch up to him, but he feels compelled to run anyway when Dean reaches the bridge, turns, and calls for him to keep going.
Castiel has a detached flashback to Heaven under Zachariah’s interrogation as he forces his legs to obey his command; he can feel the strain on this vessel and his entire body feels like it’s on fire.
Years seem to pass before he reaches the bridge and Dean is grinning, actually grinning at Castiel, as he puts his hand up after Castiel almost runs into him full-force.
“Great work, buddy,” Dean congratulates and high fives Castiel’s palm when Castiel just pants and stares at him dumbly. “You’re kinda lopsided, though, d’you do something to your shoulder….?”
Dean halts, squints at him in concern and Castiel wonders why Dean looks grey and hazy all of a sudden.
“Dude, you don’t look so – whoa!”
The world tilts and Castiel’s knees have just hit the ground when Dean’s large hands clamp around his shoulders. He moans unhappily, boneless and dazed, as Dean pulls him upright, laughing.
Dean should not be laughing. Castiel feels betrayed.
He really wishes his body would respond to his commands, he had never battled his vessel for such a simple motor response before. In the end Dean has to drape him over the wooden railing for support. Castiel pouts, chin and arms thrown over the wooden beam as he squirms and waits for the feeling to return to his extremities.
“Just take deep breaths – that’s it," Dean laughs and slaps the wooden rail as he hops up next to him.
Castiel ignores Dean’s chortling noises and focuses on the rolling calm of the small brook under the bridge instead. It’s narrow and shallow enough that he can see the rocks on the river bed and the few cans, glass bottles strewn there. The early morning sun glints off the water’s reflection like a shade of diamonds and the birds’ rising chorus in the surrounding trees tells Castiel the world is truly waking up around them now.
Dean leans forward, hands on the rail and sucks in a deep breath with a happy sigh, shutting his eyes. Castiel squints up at him, the sun now climbing steadily overhead.
“You run well, Dean,” Castiel eventually says and Dean grins, pushing his chest out.
“Gotta know you can beat a fast retreat to live and plan the better hunt next time around. If you’re – you know – still here tomorrow, we can run again. Gotta work on your stride. You suck,” Dean glances down at Castiel, oblivious to the way Castiel’s heart leaped when Dean spoke of tomorrow. Dean stares at him for a moment then pushes two fingers to Castiel’s forehead. He frowns when he pulls his hand back and rubs his fingers together.
“You’re not sweating at all.”
Castiel manages to straighten against the rail and wipes the back of one hand across his forehead. It indeed comes back dry.
Dean has a thin sheen on his brow, under his eyes and above his upper lip.
“Maybe it’s because you’re an angel,” Dean sneers and punches Castiel lightly in the shoulder.
“It may be,” Castiel echoes, lamenting that his status doesn’t exempt him from the tightness in his chest that’s only just starting to ease, or the dryness in his throat. His hand goes to his neck and he coughs lightly, frowning at the tight, uncomfortable itch that doesn’t pass.
A small flask appears in front of his face and Castiel pinches his face at Dean in question.
“For your throat,” Dean explains, “Twist the cap.”
“Thank you.”
Castiel is so thirsty at the suggestion of a drink, he takes the flask and immediately tips it back. The first swig scalds his dry throat like liquid fire and he coughs it back up in a spray, almost dropping the flask into the river.
“Darn, wrong one, sorry,” Dean snatches the flask back and rifles in the lining of his jacket until he comes up with another identical flask. He twists the cap off this one himself because Castiel is still coughing, now a deep throaty wheeze that’s doubled him over against the rail. Dean pushes the flask against Castiel’s hand, but eventually sighs and steps in when Castiel can’t take it.
“Here, don’t choke.”
Castiel feels Dean’s hand at the back of his head as Dean tips the flask against his lips and this time, cool, clean water rolls down his tongue. It clears the scratching burn of the first drink and Castiel coughs in relief before taking a few more sips.
“Take it,” Dean orders and Castiel wrap his fingers around the flask, tipping it up for a longer drink.
“What was in the first one?” Castiel finally manages when he can speak again.
Dean shoots him a hard look, eyes alight. “Tell my Dad and I’ll kick your ass.”
And Castiel really believes that he would. Dean looms particularly well over Castiel’s current form and that’s still strange, to regard Dean as the taller brother.
So, he keeps his mouth shut, looks away and takes another long sip of the water in Dean’s flask.
“So, what’s your story?” Dean demands, his outburst apparently the spur he needed to broach the subject. “What do you want with my family?”
Castiel looks up at him in soft surprise.
“What do I want?”
“I said: what do you want with my family?” Dean says harshly and jumps down from the rail. He plants his hands on his hips, the motion pushing his jacket up. “I know you’re not a demon because you’re drinking my holy water from a silver flask, so what is it? Your family dump you? You just looking for a place to stay? ‘Cause we’re no charity, kid.”
It stings, but it’s a fair question. Castiel stares at him and he’s not sure quite what he could say that would make sense to this young Dean. What could he say that would have any meaning, that Dean could care about… and still let Castiel stay with them?
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, he hasn’t quite mastered the one-eyebrow quirk yet.
Castiel looks at the flask in his hands and lowers it to his chest.
“Your name is Dean Winchester, you love seventies and eighties rock music; something you take from your father. You’ll pass through at least twenty schools before you leave high school and on your eighteenth birthday, you’ll inherit the Chevy Impala from your father. Two years from Christmas, your brother will give you an amulet for Christmas that will be crucial to finding my father. The amulet was intended for your father, but he doesn’t come home on Christmas, so Sam gives it to you instead.”
Dean is staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head.
“Did you just make that all up? I mean… everyone knows I love Led Zeppelin. And Dad would never give me the Impala,” He says, bitterly annoyed.
“No, I’m from the future,” Castiel says, but Dean gives a sharp bark of laughter.
“The future? Where’s your DeLorean? Is Doctor Brown your Dad? Do you even have a last name?”
Castiel stares, trying to connect the dots and eventually gives up, shaking his head, but it’s a familiar confusion when it comes to Dean’s cultural references.
“Dean, I know these things because in the future you’re my friend. You told me and you’ve taught me so much more than I knew about this world. I want to help. I can protect you,” Castiel appeals, but he sounds a bit shrill even to his own ears and he lets his arms drop back to their sides. He can only imagine how he must look to John and Dean, a child proclaiming its importance like any youth with an overactive imagination.
It’s no wonder they don’t believe him. He probably needs their protection more right now.
“And how were you going to protect us?” Dean asks, giving Castiel a significant look from head to toe. “You can’t even beat me in a race.”
“I can do other things,” Castiel defends, not quite catching the petulant ring in his voice before it escapes.
“Like what?” Dean taunts with a cocky shrug and folds his arms.
“I know things you don’t. I know things that will save us – that will protect your Dad and Sam in the course of their future,” Castiel quickly amends, “And I can travel through time and space!”
Dean’s eyes widen comically, but Castiel thinks his impressed air is ingenuine. “Wow, can you fly, too?”
Castiel glances to the side, considering his recent failed attempt with the tall phone box. “… No.”
“Okay, okay…” Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, holds his hands in front of him, giving Castiel one last chance. “If you’re really an angel, then tell me something about us now that only we could know.”
Castiel studies Sam’s worn sneakers and rakes his memory, but seeing Dean like this only forces him to recall the last time he returned with the brothers and saw his parents as they once were.
His parents. Castiel hopes it’s enough.
“When you were four years old, your mother was killed in Sam’s nursery by a yellow-eyed demon.”
Dean bristles at the mention of his mother, Castiel hurries on, seeing Dean’s hands ball in fists at his sides.
“Sam was six months old,” Castiel searches Dean’s face for any clue if this will clear his doubt, “It’s the reason that your father became a hunter.”
There’s silence for a long moment and Dean narrows his eyes.
“Our family’ve been hunters all our lives. It started way before.”
It hadn’t occurred to Castiel that perhaps John hadn’t shared the truth of that fact with his sons.
“No, you were four. Before that, your father didn’t know about the supernatural. You know the yellow-eyed demon is the reason he keeps hunting; I can tell him about it."
Dean’s lips are pressed in a thin line when he cocks a sceptical eyebrow, and just like that, it’s like looking into a mirror to the future.
“Oh yeah?”
Castiel holds the flask out to him. “The demon's name is Azazel.”
Dean stares at him openly and eventually takes the flask back, holds it loosely against his stomach. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth… but I’m gonna ask my Dad when we get back.”
Castiel nods, that’s a good idea. After all, John Winchester wouldn't lie, especially to his son.
“I will never lie to you, Dean,” Castiel promises and Dean gives him a funny look then, like he considers Castiel could actually be telling the truth. “I’ll help protect your family any way that I can.”
Castiel can see Dean considering that before he thrusts his chin out and extends the flask back to Castiel.
“You need it more than I do. Um. Don’t lose it, I’ll want it back.”
It’s a small gesture, but Castiel accepts the olive branch with a grateful smile, presses the flask to his chest. Dean averts his gaze from the embarrassing display, hands awkwardly twitching at his sides before he glances to the sun, then the watch on his wrist.
“We should return before your father grows concerned,” Castiel says.
Dean looks up from his watch with a snorted laugh.
“Does everyone talk funny like you in the future?”
“… No, it’s… it’s simply the way I –“
“We’ll work on that,” Dean dismisses and Castiel has to ask.
“Dean? Do you believe that I’m an angel?”
The pause before Dean answers gives Castiel some hope, but then Dean shrugs. “Dunno yet.”
Castiel’s heart sinks, but he understands. Actions mean more than words, after all, especially amongst children and he hadn’t managed to demonstrate any substantial display of power when John or Dean asked him to.
Dean casts a final glance at his watch and seems to come to a decision. “Listen, we’ve still got time: if we run now, we’ll get to the baker before it opens.”
Castiel despairs a little at the mention of another run and shakes his head. “Why do we need to visit the baker?”
“Breakfast, dude! Don’t they have pie in your future?”
Oh.
How could he have forgotten that he was speaking to Dean in the context of bakeries?
Castiel glances over his shoulder back the way they had come.
“Shouldn’t we return to the motel?”
“Dude, you’ve just shoved a fairy tale down my throat, I need some pie to wash it down,” Dean says and his tone leaves no room for argument. “I’ll even get you some; you look like a cherry kinda kid.”
Castiel is touched by the considerate thought.
“… Do we have to run?”
“I had to get up at the ass crack of dawn for you; we’re running for pie. C’mon, we’ll get in trouble if we’re not back on time,” Dean waves a hand for Castiel to follow and takes off with a spring in his step.
Castiel follows, he hasn’t had time to consider the effect every time Dean summons him by that most perfect and familiar of nicknames, but he doesn’t think it would matter what Dean called him.
He fell for Dean, he’ll always follow.
If he had a choice, he would follow at a more leisurely pace because Castiel’s legs finally give in on their way back to the motel and John asks why there are cherries in Dean’s hair when they come through the door with Castiel on Dean’s back.
Castiel’s fairly certain that Dean didn’t mind carrying him until it led to the exposure of their pie detour.
Dean forgets to ask for the return of his flask in the ensuing interrogation wherein John is unimpressed that Dean strayed from his mission and Sam, now awake, bounces around demanding his own serving of pie until John silences him with a firm look.
In the end Sam makes them all instant cocoa and buttered toast. Castiel thoroughly enjoys his breakfast until he burns his tongue on the cocoa and Dean fetches him a glass of water instead.
Sam complains that Dean stinks, but he wants to run with them tomorrow if Castiel gets to go again.
John and Dean stare at the youngest Winchester, but Sam stands his ground and just asks Castiel to pass the butter.
Castiel would be grateful for the company (if they let him stay until tomorrow), unless Sam turns out to be a running prodigy like Dean. Although, then Sam and Dean could distract each other with their competition and not notice Castiel strolling after them.
Dean looks at his father and John agrees, but from the looks on their faces, neither of them seems to expect Sam’s conviction to last the night.
If it meant the difference between staying and going, Castiel would run without complaint.
He would run as fast and as far as they told him to. In a heartbeat.
John murmurs something about needing another pair of sneakers for them.
Castiel is too distracted by Dean’s cocoa gargling abilities to really notice.
Part 5
» 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: I have a myriad of excuses for the delay on this, but it boils down to real life interference and being distracted by other people's fabulous (albeit seriously depressing) fanfic. Hope you enjoy!
PREVIOUS: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
It’s been a week since Gabriel closed a hand over his throat and thrust Castiel back into 1989.
“This is all I can do,” Gabriel had gritted his teeth and Castiel found himself plopped in the stall of a diner with the table-top at eye level.
It struck him as strange that the table was so large and when he reached for the edge to push himself out of the seat, he realised what was wrong.
He had stared at his hands, then his feet and when he felt his soft face there was a terrible, twisting, falling sensation and he thought that must have been what horror felt like.
He was stumpy and miniaturised in every direction.
Everyone in the diner had stared at him when he stumbled out of the stall – a child, alone. Some people had tried to take him aside, cooing as they towered, faces pinched in concern or sympathy, but their outstretched hands startled him.
He’d bolted from that diner and discovered his pockets were empty. When he finally found a telephone it was mounted in a tall, glass box that turned out to be beyond his reach. He must have spent almost an hour straining for the phone book. His fingers brushed the metal cable of the handset at least twice before he gave up, exhausted and sore, and that was new. He had to accede that no matter how high he stretched, leaped or even flexed his wings, he wasn’t going to get high enough.
He was stunned, realising he had so little strength he couldn’t even sustain a sufficient elevation for more than a few seconds to reach the podium of the small glass box. He didn’t understand, but he reasoned the drastic reduction of his powers had either to do with his new size or Gabriel’s will, or both.
It had been a long time since Castiel was afraid.
Afterwards, he’d gotten lost in the town, which dwarfed and terrified him with its noise and crowds and eyes that followed him everywhere because who’s this kid by himself? Can we help him? Can we take him home? Can we take him?
He quickly sought the quiet and security of the forest, where he thought he’d settle the tremor in his chest with nature on every side, but he’d become lost there, too. When darkness fell, Castiel had waited all of three hours, coat tucked around himself although he didn’t feel the cold, before he couldn’t stand the silence and blackness any longer and called for his brother.
He called until the voice of his small vessel was cracked and hoarse.
Gabriel didn’t answer.
There were enough creatures in the forest that did respond to Castiel’s cries and he quickly learned to keep moving. He couldn’t teleport very far and the more he feared, the less he could control it.
Castiel had never been so acutely aware of the human vessel as he was that night, halfway up a tree, tiny hands pressed down on the hammering of his heart. Gasping to catch his breath, Castiel rubbed a hand against the burn behind his eyes and his hands came back wet with tears. Human tears.
Sucking in icy air, teetering and certain he would fall to whatever was howling at the foot of the tree, Castiel disavowed any curious temptation he’d once had for what it would be like to be human.
He felt shattered, petrified as his fingers dug into the bark, and he had never felt so alone in his existence. Once upon a time he’d held the chorus of his brothers and sisters in every turn of his grace. When he’d relinquished that it had been the closest thing to a physical wrench. But he’d had Sam and Dean, and the faith in the righteousness of their mission had balmed the wound of his fall.
He’d had Sam and Dean and he could always call as he needed them. Now he didn’t even have a phone, he couldn’t physically reach a phone and the terror was almost numbing.
On the second day, Castiel watches the sun rise. The day is cold and the wolves have lost their interest, but he’s not ready to come down from the tree.
On the third day, the burning ache to find a familiar face trumps his paralysis and he wonders if Gabriel had a plan when he sent Castiel back in time. Castiel needed to stop the apocalypse, this is the only way Gabriel would assist his brother, but Castiel doesn’t have Gabriel’s perspective.
First he needs to find the Winchesters. The thought of being reunited with Sam and Dean floods Castiel with an almost crippling hope and relief, it’s hard to remember that he’s an angel when he so firmly believes his personal survival depends on being in their presence once again.
When he eventually musters the courage to climb down the tree, he underestimates the distance and the fall cracks something in his shoulder.
He barely notices the limp in his walk when he wanders for the next three days, always taking refuge with a tree or rock at his back when the sun sets. He walks past streams, past paddocks and farms with horses and cows, and highways where cars roar like thunder. He keeps walking and tries not to listen to the fear in his heart.
On the sixth day, when he’s taken refuge by a barn at twilight, Castiel feels a dark presence rolling like a fetid mist through the air and he knows there’s a demon nearby.
It’s pure instinct that drives him to confront them. It’s not until he’s standing before them that he remembers how small he’s become.
There are several demons, as it turns out. They don’t recognise him for what he is, angels haven’t returned to Earth in their numbers of the future, but their black, grinning eyes peer deeply into him when they abandon their original prey to catch and hold him down.
They know he’s something other and they keen and giggle, clawing even through his clothes, seeking what’s inside. He shivers, numbed with fear and rage, but it’s not until they take a knife to his skin that he can move again.
The grace swells like an old spring in his chest, an echo of the Host, and the demons shriek at the force that throws them back long enough for Castiel to scrawl a sigil in his blood and slap his palm at its centre.
When the light dies, he’s shaking, thinking that he’s safe until there’s a shout and he sees the man silhouetted with the rifle in his hands.
He’s scared, but this man is fast and Castiel thinks after all the millennia of glory, surviving being hunted by his brothers and stalked by the wild as a child, this will be the end of him: shot down like game.
But then Castiel kicks him in the ankle, one of many involuntary responses his body’s been leaking, and he sees the face that’s been burned into his memory like the man’s entire bloodline.
The man tells him his name is John Winchester, but Castiel already knew that.
Castiel wants to kneel and cry.
The part of him that’s small, human and flesh-bound also wants to throw himself against John Winchester. But that’s absurd.
Because he is John Winchester, Castiel doesn’t run like he did at the diner when the man straightens to his impressive height over Castiel’s tiny stature. Castiel looks up into the man’s face, seeing strength, caution and concern and Castiel is ready to follow him anywhere. It’s almost as good as if Dean or Sam had found him themselves.
John Winchester takes him to his home, to his sons. When Castiel sees Dean, his instinct is to rush forward, but then Dean cocks a rifle at him and Castiel falls more than dives behind the Impala for cover.
The slight boy with light, spiky hair and suspicious green eyes is still Dean and, of course, he doesn’t know Castiel. Castiel falls against his friend with no consideration when Dean says that he can stay. Dean is the most familiar. Dean almost feels like home. Castiel just hopes that the younger Dean has half of the restraint of his older self. If such virtues are determined by physical size, Castiel might be lucky in Dean.
Sam is smaller and louder than Castiel expects, but his kindness shines like a halo. Castiel can’t help standing near, as if Sam is a real source of heat. Or reassurance. Sam oscillates between joy and rage within the beat of a moment and while it lasts, Castiel is frightened, that somehow he’s caused this family’s discontent and he may end the night standing outside, alone in the dark again.
The moment passes.
The motel calendar tells him the year is 1989.
That tells him that Dean is ten years old, Sam is six and John Winchester, one of the most infamous hunters of his generation, is alive.
Castiel pauses his count of imaginary sheep, later that night, and looks at John’s back as he hunches over his desk.
John had asked Castiel draw the sigil he had used to destroy the demons in the barn. It was powerful blood magic, but this was John Winchester and he had been about to reunite Castiel with Sam and Dean, so he couldn’t smother the song in his heart and deny John his request.
John Winchester made him safe. John Winchester brought Castiel home.
The smell of the soap Dean handed him surrounds Castiel through Sam’s borrowed pyjamas. Castiel covers his smile with the blanket’s edge and sends up a fervent prayer of gratitude, hoping that wherever his own father is, he’s safe and alive and can still hear the prayers of his children.
Despite the closed doors and curtains drawn over the windows, Castiel can smell the change in the air. Dawn is breaking around their motel, the first shades of grey lifting the black of night and his fingers relax their grip on the coverlet under his chin.
Ever since the forest, he’s felt safest under the plain light of day. The dark plays tricks on his imagination that clench his heart so tight, but the horrors he doesn’ t understand about this world always seemed less scary in the morning.
Castiel has almost counted to seven hundred thousand imaginary sheep when he realises Sam and Dean’s father has left his chair and come to the foot of Castiel’s bed. John is not-quite-frowning, hands in the pockets of his baggy pants and Castiel stares right back. He wonders what John is thinking and if he took any rest last night.
Now that John is here, looking down at him, it must be time for Castiel to work.
He pushes himself up to a sitting position and folds the blanket back to his knees. The thin pillow crumples against the wall at his back and Castiel reaches behind himself to flatten it against the stained wallpaper comfortably.
“Is it time to visit your police station, John Winchester?”
“Did you sleep at all, Castiel?” John murmurs so that neither of his sons stirs.
Castiel subconsciously rubs his eyes before curling his hands in his lap. His throat feels dry. “I am an angel, I don’t rest.”
John still looks suspicious, but he nods as if to humour Castiel’s assertion. “And how does that work – being an angel?”
Castiel turns his head, straining his ear as though he hadn’t heard the question clearly. “Angels draw their grace and strength from the Host and, ultimately, our Father.”
“That’s why you don’t sleep?”
Castiel nods.
“So, Castiel,” John says quietly, before Castiel goes on, and settles side-on at the edge of the bed. He considers his words before his eyes flick up and Castiel sits up straighter, ready for the assessment in John’s gaze. “How can we tell the difference between an angel and any kid on the street?”
“Oh,” Castiel answers immediately, “An angel is gifted strength and righteousness by their grace -- and they don’t usually look like….” He glances down at himself, lips pursing apologetically that John Winchester has to see him in this lesser way.
Castiel can see John cataloguing that away, but he doesn’t deter from his course of inquiry.
“How do I tell?” John gestures with the scrap of paper where Castiel had scrawled the Enochian sigil, “You told me that anyone could do this. Can you show me something only an angel could do?”
Castiel remembers when Dean made a similar request of him at their first meeting in that barn so many months ago. He glances between the brothers, still sleeping, because before John had turned the key off in the ignition the night before, he’d turned to Castiel, lips set in a firm line and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to mention angels, demons or hunting in front of Sam, his youngest.
Castiel would have agreed to anything, but it had startled him at first. Then he remembered the stories that John Winchester had tried to shield his youngest from his obsession and the dangers that followed him home from that life. Dean had proven he was ready, shotgun at his shoulder, for anything that did.
History showed that approach had worked for a while.
He exhales slowly, focusing his strength to flex his wings like arms reaching above his head in a stretch, just barely beyond the skin of his vessel enough to show, but not to break free. He doesn’t know what would happen if he parted from Jimmy’s vessel in this form; Jimmy doesn’t even share it anymore.
The light bulb at the desk hums and John looks at it when its light intensifies and blinks dark for a moment. Castiel has become accustomed to a certain reaction, but when John looks back at him and only frowns expectantly after a pause, Castiel is concerned.
“Well?”
Castiel watches the light bulb return to its standard glow and he whirls on the bed, finding no shadows cast on the wallpapers behind him. His mouth falls open and he shakes his head, not understanding, because he feels as though he’s opened his entire chest; the room should be thrown in the shadow of his wings, but…
There’s nothing.
His fists balls up the pyjama shirt in the middle of his chest.
“This was my punishment for rebellion. But although I am…” His dry throat tightens and he rubs a thumb over the ugly floral mustard print of the coverlet, “Although I’m less than I was, I do not require rest. I’d expected more.”
John is definitely frowning now, but he picked up on at least one point in Castiel’s whisper. “You rebelled?”
“I fell to defend my friends. The angels wanted to misuse them,” Castiel says quickly and he can’t help glancing at Dean, who sleeps on, curled in a ball on his bed at Castiel’s left. Dean scowls in his sleep, his shoulder twitches from an impression of his dream and Castiel stops himself from reaching for Dean’s temple. He doesn’t have the ability to brush the bad dreams away anymore.
“I was severed from our Father and the strength of the Heavenly Host. I have my friends. But I’m alone.”
It still hurts to say it aloud.
The sting behind his eyes is back and he’s learned by now what that means. He rubs the heel of one hand against his eye, roughly, and distracts himself with the memory of how good it felt, after so long, to ride in Dean’s Impala the night before. John is much smoother when he steers around corners, Castiel had noted that Dean often drove in a hurry and Sam would sway in his seat from the momentum.
John sighs, resigned.
“Well, Castiel, I don’t know what to tell you, but you seem like a pretty ordinary kid to me. I don’t know who taught you to hunt with this sort of thing –“ John waves the sigil again, “—but when we find them I’m goin’ have some words. You’re too young to hunt by yourself, too young by a long shot.”
Castiel’s lips are scowling against his will, he can feel the sting behind his eyes threatening to break and he consciously battles to regain control of his expression. Take a deep breath, slow down, slow down…. Too many base instincts and controls have already deserted him in this smaller form.
“No,” Castiel’s voice sounds choked to his own ears and he wrings his pyjama top between his hands until it feels like he’ll leave burns there. “I’m supposed to save you. We have to avert the apocalypse!”
“Whoa,” John shushes and glances back at Sam when he stirs with a small sound. John watches his son, careful, until Sam settles on his back, eyes still shut and smacking his lips with an arm flung above his head.
John looks back at Castiel, pitying, voice lower than before, “I don’t know what you were taught, but there’s no apocalypse underway; it’s just the same old song of demons over the dashboard.”
“Not yet!”
“Castiel,” John says, quietly but firm. “There is no apocalypse. And you are not an angel; you’re just lost.”
Castiel swallows thickly, flushing and trembling with frustration. He doesn’t know what to do, how he can demonstrate what he is without his powers. Because if John Winchester doesn’t believe him, he won’t let Castiel help him, he’ll send Castiel away and the Winchesters will live the same path that leads them to the Apocalypse.
He doesn’t know how, but he won’t let that happen.
John goes to Dean’s bedside and squeezes his son’s shoulder. Dean wakes swiftly, head leaping from the pillow. His shoulders tense when he scans the room quickly and eventually looks up at his father, confusion clear on his face.
“Dad?” Dean’s voice is scratchy from sleep.
“The sun’s getting up, take Castiel for a run. He thinks he’s a hunter –“
“I’m an angel!” Castiel whispers harshly and Dean frowns at him through bleary eyes.
“-- Let’s see what he’s got,” John pats Dean’s shoulder and Dean nods in assent, still squinting through the weariness of sleep. His eyes barely stay open.
Dean’s grumpy, tired expression makes Castiel feel terrible. He leans towards Dean when John returns to his desk for a writing pad. “You are not required to take me on this run, Dean. You do not look rested.”
Dean yawns, a gaping stretch that threatens to dislocate his jaw, and when he resettles his face is unimpressed if still a bit glazed. “Dad said to take you running. So get changed. We’re going running.”
Castiel slumps as Dean throws off his covers, shivering against the morning chill before he staggers towards the bathroom. He makes no effort to wake Sam on his way past and Castiel suspects this is another activity that Sam is exempted from.
It couldn’t be a terrible life.
Because running, it turns out, is not as easy as humans make it look.
Castiel would hazard there are many angels who are unaccustomed to even a leisurely stroll.
When he didn’t teleport in his former glory, Castiel would walk everywhere he could. He can move swiftly in a battle, duck and weave, but to run….
Running is an entirely different sort of motion. It requires much coordination to achieve an efficiency of movement that Castiel is presently lacking and he feels like he’s flailing awkwardly as he sprints down the sidewalk to catch up with Dean.
At least Castiel was able to borrow a pair of Sam’s sneakers. John had looked surprised when they fit and gave Castiel another of those looks that made Castiel conscious he might have done something wrong. Again.
“You’re going to be tall when you grow up,” John had said and Castiel had flushed at the unimpressed eyebrows Dean raised at him before he went outside to wait in the parking lot.
Castiel notices when Dean’s eyebrows go into his hairline like he’s about to roll his eyes at some of the things John says. He feels embarrassed, almost enough that he wishes John wouldn’t say them. Except that each one softens the memories of the past week, the lingering ache in his shoulder from the fall, and Castiel snatches them like rations of kindness. It’s worth even Dean’s derision.
Judging by Dean’s irritated huff at Castiel’s dejected state, Castiel judges it best not to show any response to Dean’s frequent exasperation, or his flash of irritation each time he realises that Castiel’s slipped behind on their run.
They’re two streets down from the motel and Dean has an easy, loping stride. He’s barely broken a sweat and he keeps, unintentionally, easing ahead. Belatedly, Dean will look over his shoulder, turning when he realises just how far Castiel’s fallen behind again, sort of sigh, before jogging back to keep in step with him.
“You’re not even sweating: you can go faster,” Dean observes and Castiel actually glares up at him.
Castiel thought it would be nice having an opportunity to talk alone with Dean, instead he’s finding himself resenting his friend more than ever before. Dean doesn’t seem interested in talking and even if he was, Castiel doesn’t think he could find the breath for it. Funny, he’s never really noticed the need for air before.
He briefly considers kicking Dean in the ankle, one of the stranger impulses of this smaller form.
“Your legs are longer than mine,” Castiel says and is grateful that he left his coat back at the motel.
“Your legs are just too short,” Dean counters and Castiel almost trips over an invisible crack in the sidewalk.
Dean catches his arm and steadies him without breaking his stride.
If he can do that, Castiel believes that Dean truly is the saviour of mankind. Even if he is laughing at Castiel under his breath.
“Come on,” Dean slaps Castiel a little too hard on the arm and points at a white-painted bridge at the top of the hill in the near distance, “Race you to the bridge.”
“Why does Sam not run with us?” Castiel asks, heart skipping a beat at the word ‘race’.
Dean sneers in amusement. “’Cause Sam’s a pansy! C’mon, Cas, run as fast as you can!”
Castiel’s head snaps up at the familiar address, but Dean doesn’t see his shock because he’s bolted as though a horde of hellhounds have descended at his heels. Castiel doesn’t have time to nurse the bittersweet twinge in his chest because Dean is almost halfway to the bridge.
Castiel takes off after him.
He knows he’s not going to beat Dean to the bridge, not even catch up to him, but he feels compelled to run anyway when Dean reaches the bridge, turns, and calls for him to keep going.
Castiel has a detached flashback to Heaven under Zachariah’s interrogation as he forces his legs to obey his command; he can feel the strain on this vessel and his entire body feels like it’s on fire.
Years seem to pass before he reaches the bridge and Dean is grinning, actually grinning at Castiel, as he puts his hand up after Castiel almost runs into him full-force.
“Great work, buddy,” Dean congratulates and high fives Castiel’s palm when Castiel just pants and stares at him dumbly. “You’re kinda lopsided, though, d’you do something to your shoulder….?”
Dean halts, squints at him in concern and Castiel wonders why Dean looks grey and hazy all of a sudden.
“Dude, you don’t look so – whoa!”
The world tilts and Castiel’s knees have just hit the ground when Dean’s large hands clamp around his shoulders. He moans unhappily, boneless and dazed, as Dean pulls him upright, laughing.
Dean should not be laughing. Castiel feels betrayed.
He really wishes his body would respond to his commands, he had never battled his vessel for such a simple motor response before. In the end Dean has to drape him over the wooden railing for support. Castiel pouts, chin and arms thrown over the wooden beam as he squirms and waits for the feeling to return to his extremities.
“Just take deep breaths – that’s it," Dean laughs and slaps the wooden rail as he hops up next to him.
Castiel ignores Dean’s chortling noises and focuses on the rolling calm of the small brook under the bridge instead. It’s narrow and shallow enough that he can see the rocks on the river bed and the few cans, glass bottles strewn there. The early morning sun glints off the water’s reflection like a shade of diamonds and the birds’ rising chorus in the surrounding trees tells Castiel the world is truly waking up around them now.
Dean leans forward, hands on the rail and sucks in a deep breath with a happy sigh, shutting his eyes. Castiel squints up at him, the sun now climbing steadily overhead.
“You run well, Dean,” Castiel eventually says and Dean grins, pushing his chest out.
“Gotta know you can beat a fast retreat to live and plan the better hunt next time around. If you’re – you know – still here tomorrow, we can run again. Gotta work on your stride. You suck,” Dean glances down at Castiel, oblivious to the way Castiel’s heart leaped when Dean spoke of tomorrow. Dean stares at him for a moment then pushes two fingers to Castiel’s forehead. He frowns when he pulls his hand back and rubs his fingers together.
“You’re not sweating at all.”
Castiel manages to straighten against the rail and wipes the back of one hand across his forehead. It indeed comes back dry.
Dean has a thin sheen on his brow, under his eyes and above his upper lip.
“Maybe it’s because you’re an angel,” Dean sneers and punches Castiel lightly in the shoulder.
“It may be,” Castiel echoes, lamenting that his status doesn’t exempt him from the tightness in his chest that’s only just starting to ease, or the dryness in his throat. His hand goes to his neck and he coughs lightly, frowning at the tight, uncomfortable itch that doesn’t pass.
A small flask appears in front of his face and Castiel pinches his face at Dean in question.
“For your throat,” Dean explains, “Twist the cap.”
“Thank you.”
Castiel is so thirsty at the suggestion of a drink, he takes the flask and immediately tips it back. The first swig scalds his dry throat like liquid fire and he coughs it back up in a spray, almost dropping the flask into the river.
“Darn, wrong one, sorry,” Dean snatches the flask back and rifles in the lining of his jacket until he comes up with another identical flask. He twists the cap off this one himself because Castiel is still coughing, now a deep throaty wheeze that’s doubled him over against the rail. Dean pushes the flask against Castiel’s hand, but eventually sighs and steps in when Castiel can’t take it.
“Here, don’t choke.”
Castiel feels Dean’s hand at the back of his head as Dean tips the flask against his lips and this time, cool, clean water rolls down his tongue. It clears the scratching burn of the first drink and Castiel coughs in relief before taking a few more sips.
“Take it,” Dean orders and Castiel wrap his fingers around the flask, tipping it up for a longer drink.
“What was in the first one?” Castiel finally manages when he can speak again.
Dean shoots him a hard look, eyes alight. “Tell my Dad and I’ll kick your ass.”
And Castiel really believes that he would. Dean looms particularly well over Castiel’s current form and that’s still strange, to regard Dean as the taller brother.
So, he keeps his mouth shut, looks away and takes another long sip of the water in Dean’s flask.
“So, what’s your story?” Dean demands, his outburst apparently the spur he needed to broach the subject. “What do you want with my family?”
Castiel looks up at him in soft surprise.
“What do I want?”
“I said: what do you want with my family?” Dean says harshly and jumps down from the rail. He plants his hands on his hips, the motion pushing his jacket up. “I know you’re not a demon because you’re drinking my holy water from a silver flask, so what is it? Your family dump you? You just looking for a place to stay? ‘Cause we’re no charity, kid.”
It stings, but it’s a fair question. Castiel stares at him and he’s not sure quite what he could say that would make sense to this young Dean. What could he say that would have any meaning, that Dean could care about… and still let Castiel stay with them?
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, he hasn’t quite mastered the one-eyebrow quirk yet.
Castiel looks at the flask in his hands and lowers it to his chest.
“Your name is Dean Winchester, you love seventies and eighties rock music; something you take from your father. You’ll pass through at least twenty schools before you leave high school and on your eighteenth birthday, you’ll inherit the Chevy Impala from your father. Two years from Christmas, your brother will give you an amulet for Christmas that will be crucial to finding my father. The amulet was intended for your father, but he doesn’t come home on Christmas, so Sam gives it to you instead.”
Dean is staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head.
“Did you just make that all up? I mean… everyone knows I love Led Zeppelin. And Dad would never give me the Impala,” He says, bitterly annoyed.
“No, I’m from the future,” Castiel says, but Dean gives a sharp bark of laughter.
“The future? Where’s your DeLorean? Is Doctor Brown your Dad? Do you even have a last name?”
Castiel stares, trying to connect the dots and eventually gives up, shaking his head, but it’s a familiar confusion when it comes to Dean’s cultural references.
“Dean, I know these things because in the future you’re my friend. You told me and you’ve taught me so much more than I knew about this world. I want to help. I can protect you,” Castiel appeals, but he sounds a bit shrill even to his own ears and he lets his arms drop back to their sides. He can only imagine how he must look to John and Dean, a child proclaiming its importance like any youth with an overactive imagination.
It’s no wonder they don’t believe him. He probably needs their protection more right now.
“And how were you going to protect us?” Dean asks, giving Castiel a significant look from head to toe. “You can’t even beat me in a race.”
“I can do other things,” Castiel defends, not quite catching the petulant ring in his voice before it escapes.
“Like what?” Dean taunts with a cocky shrug and folds his arms.
“I know things you don’t. I know things that will save us – that will protect your Dad and Sam in the course of their future,” Castiel quickly amends, “And I can travel through time and space!”
Dean’s eyes widen comically, but Castiel thinks his impressed air is ingenuine. “Wow, can you fly, too?”
Castiel glances to the side, considering his recent failed attempt with the tall phone box. “… No.”
“Okay, okay…” Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, holds his hands in front of him, giving Castiel one last chance. “If you’re really an angel, then tell me something about us now that only we could know.”
Castiel studies Sam’s worn sneakers and rakes his memory, but seeing Dean like this only forces him to recall the last time he returned with the brothers and saw his parents as they once were.
His parents. Castiel hopes it’s enough.
“When you were four years old, your mother was killed in Sam’s nursery by a yellow-eyed demon.”
Dean bristles at the mention of his mother, Castiel hurries on, seeing Dean’s hands ball in fists at his sides.
“Sam was six months old,” Castiel searches Dean’s face for any clue if this will clear his doubt, “It’s the reason that your father became a hunter.”
There’s silence for a long moment and Dean narrows his eyes.
“Our family’ve been hunters all our lives. It started way before.”
It hadn’t occurred to Castiel that perhaps John hadn’t shared the truth of that fact with his sons.
“No, you were four. Before that, your father didn’t know about the supernatural. You know the yellow-eyed demon is the reason he keeps hunting; I can tell him about it."
Dean’s lips are pressed in a thin line when he cocks a sceptical eyebrow, and just like that, it’s like looking into a mirror to the future.
“Oh yeah?”
Castiel holds the flask out to him. “The demon's name is Azazel.”
Dean stares at him openly and eventually takes the flask back, holds it loosely against his stomach. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth… but I’m gonna ask my Dad when we get back.”
Castiel nods, that’s a good idea. After all, John Winchester wouldn't lie, especially to his son.
“I will never lie to you, Dean,” Castiel promises and Dean gives him a funny look then, like he considers Castiel could actually be telling the truth. “I’ll help protect your family any way that I can.”
Castiel can see Dean considering that before he thrusts his chin out and extends the flask back to Castiel.
“You need it more than I do. Um. Don’t lose it, I’ll want it back.”
It’s a small gesture, but Castiel accepts the olive branch with a grateful smile, presses the flask to his chest. Dean averts his gaze from the embarrassing display, hands awkwardly twitching at his sides before he glances to the sun, then the watch on his wrist.
“We should return before your father grows concerned,” Castiel says.
Dean looks up from his watch with a snorted laugh.
“Does everyone talk funny like you in the future?”
“… No, it’s… it’s simply the way I –“
“We’ll work on that,” Dean dismisses and Castiel has to ask.
“Dean? Do you believe that I’m an angel?”
The pause before Dean answers gives Castiel some hope, but then Dean shrugs. “Dunno yet.”
Castiel’s heart sinks, but he understands. Actions mean more than words, after all, especially amongst children and he hadn’t managed to demonstrate any substantial display of power when John or Dean asked him to.
Dean casts a final glance at his watch and seems to come to a decision. “Listen, we’ve still got time: if we run now, we’ll get to the baker before it opens.”
Castiel despairs a little at the mention of another run and shakes his head. “Why do we need to visit the baker?”
“Breakfast, dude! Don’t they have pie in your future?”
Oh.
How could he have forgotten that he was speaking to Dean in the context of bakeries?
Castiel glances over his shoulder back the way they had come.
“Shouldn’t we return to the motel?”
“Dude, you’ve just shoved a fairy tale down my throat, I need some pie to wash it down,” Dean says and his tone leaves no room for argument. “I’ll even get you some; you look like a cherry kinda kid.”
Castiel is touched by the considerate thought.
“… Do we have to run?”
“I had to get up at the ass crack of dawn for you; we’re running for pie. C’mon, we’ll get in trouble if we’re not back on time,” Dean waves a hand for Castiel to follow and takes off with a spring in his step.
Castiel follows, he hasn’t had time to consider the effect every time Dean summons him by that most perfect and familiar of nicknames, but he doesn’t think it would matter what Dean called him.
He fell for Dean, he’ll always follow.
If he had a choice, he would follow at a more leisurely pace because Castiel’s legs finally give in on their way back to the motel and John asks why there are cherries in Dean’s hair when they come through the door with Castiel on Dean’s back.
Castiel’s fairly certain that Dean didn’t mind carrying him until it led to the exposure of their pie detour.
Dean forgets to ask for the return of his flask in the ensuing interrogation wherein John is unimpressed that Dean strayed from his mission and Sam, now awake, bounces around demanding his own serving of pie until John silences him with a firm look.
In the end Sam makes them all instant cocoa and buttered toast. Castiel thoroughly enjoys his breakfast until he burns his tongue on the cocoa and Dean fetches him a glass of water instead.
Sam complains that Dean stinks, but he wants to run with them tomorrow if Castiel gets to go again.
John and Dean stare at the youngest Winchester, but Sam stands his ground and just asks Castiel to pass the butter.
Castiel would be grateful for the company (if they let him stay until tomorrow), unless Sam turns out to be a running prodigy like Dean. Although, then Sam and Dean could distract each other with their competition and not notice Castiel strolling after them.
Dean looks at his father and John agrees, but from the looks on their faces, neither of them seems to expect Sam’s conviction to last the night.
If it meant the difference between staying and going, Castiel would run without complaint.
He would run as fast and as far as they told him to. In a heartbeat.
John murmurs something about needing another pair of sneakers for them.
Castiel is too distracted by Dean’s cocoa gargling abilities to really notice.
Part 5
