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blue_bells» Title: The Littlest Hunter (6/7)
» 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: Wow, so it's been five months: I'm going to skip the excuses, go straight on to the story and just cross my fingers that it was worth the wait! The final part has already been written, it'll be up within the fortnight.
PREVIOUS: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
When Dean comes to, he smells damp, rotting wood and Earth.
He’s not in the motel.
Dean snaps awake, inhaling sharply through his nose and he almost bangs his head on the wooden beam behind him. Wood scrapes roughly through the back of his shirt. His breath steams on the cold air of what looks like an old barn.
He’s pretty sure there are splinters in his back.
His arms have been tied above his head and he can feel, but not quite see the thick rope when he tugs. He thinks his hands would actually fall off if he tugged any harder. They’re numb, aching and there’s no slack in the knots.
He groans, unable to look up at his hands any longer.
It’s hard to take stock when your head is pounding.
They’ve let him kneel in the dirt. He can barely feel the ground through his jeans, but he’s shivering. He can't tell if the ground is wet or everything is just that cold.
His left eyelid sort of sticks when he slowly blinks and, yeah, that is sort of where the throbbing in his head is coming from.
And then Dean remembers.
The figure at the window of their motel window.
The stomp of footsteps along the thin walls and the shadows under the door.
Dean remembers the cold that gripped his lungs as he waited for the coded knock to swallow that bad feeling. He hadn’t picked up the shotgun, just motioned for Sam to turn down the volume on the television, turn it right down.
They didn’t wait long.
He should have grabbed the shotgun in the first place.
The knock at the door never came.
He didn’t recognise the grown-ups who blew the door open.
Sam went fighting and screaming and just the memory of that sound makes Dean feel sick. Sam grabbed everything he could reach when they dragged him out the door in broad daylight, but the grown-ups had shut his baby brother up pretty fast.
Dean had fired three, maybe four shots. He’s not sure he hit any of the five grown-ups that busted into their motel room. He’s pretty sure they’d knocked him out with his own gun.
Fucking sons of bitches….
“Sam?”
Dean squints in the dark, but he can’t see Sam in the dark of the barn.
It’s a half-moon tonight, dim shafts of light breaking the dark in narrow columns. A cold whistle of autumn air and the faraway buzz of highway traffic leak through the glass windows.
“Sam!” He whispers, more urgently, louder. His heart is thudding so hard it feels like there’s a boot in his chest trying to kick its way out.
Rusted shearing tools hang high from the wall on his left. Loose, thin piles of what might have once been wood planks and hay line both barn walls. Two rows of light shades swing from the roof, but Dean can’t see through the dark if any of them have bulbs. If he could get free, he wouldn’t risk bringing attention by flipping them on anyway.
It’s cold and the quiet is suffocating.
Dean viciously bites the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from trembling.
“Sam?”
A low and familiar groan finally answers from somewhere behind him.
Dean almost dislocates his shoulder when he startles, twisting round to find his little brother with his eyes. He doesn’t quite manage it at first, but he catches what looks like a small, crooked arm out of the corner of his eye.
“Sam? Sammy!”
Old wood still splinters. Dean doesn’t think he’ll have any skin left on his knuckles when he mangles his body around as far as his tied wrists will let him.
Sam’s tied to another beam under a set of stairs leading to the catwalk Dean’s beam supports; too far for Dean to reach him.
Sam’s head is nodding like it does when he’s been up too late in front of the television. Dean knows this isn’t like those times. The rest of Sam isn’t moving, arms behind his back at the beam. It’s too dark but Dean guesses the thick, dark shadow around Sam’s chest is layers of rope.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is small and faint.
“I’m here buddy, it’s going to be all right.” Dean hates the way his voice cracks at the promise.
Because this is absolutely the time to lie through his teeth to his baby brother who does not need to know Dean is scared out of his mind. But there’s one thing he knows, one thing that steadies the shake in his muscles for a breath and lets him shut his eyes to repeat it like a desperate, hysterical prayer.
“Dad’s coming, Sammy,” He believes with every petrified beat of his heart. “He’s on his way.”
Sam doesn’t reply. His head hangs to his chest.
The barn doors in front of Dean swing wide open. He shuts his eyes when a blast of freezing air from outside hits him in the face and he presses himself as far back into the dark as he can go.
There’s a silhouette of at least three people standing in the open doorway. None of them are his Dad. Dean knows he’s on his way. He just wishes he knew how to be brave until then.
“Look at that,” The silhouette of the man on the left glances at his friends, he sounds happy, but it makes Dean nervous, “He’s awake.”
He should have pretended to be asleep. Or dead.
The man who spoke jerks his head in a way that probably means something to the others.
“Check his brother.”
Dean forgets that last thought as the other two, a guy and a girl jog past him. The guy glances him over, face blank. They look like teenagers.
“Don’t touch him!” Dean shouts, fists curling above his head.
“He’s still out,” The girl calls, matter of fact and Dean wishes he could take his eyes off the guy in front to see what they were doing.
“Then wake him up.”
Dean’s head cranes back to see what they could be doing to his little brother, but a hand tugs his chin back around.
This guy seems to be calling the shots. He’s probably a teenager, too, but Dean can’t really tell. He’s not very much taller than the other two, but he’s big enough that Dean keeps still when he crouches down to look him in the eye.
“How ya doing, kid?”
Dean stares back at the almost smile on the guy’s face.
“Please don’t hurt my brother.”
The guy’s mouth shrugs and he glances at the broken light shades above their heads.
“Well, I don’t want to, but that’ll depend on you.”
Dean feels like someone’s just crushed his heart but he feels his mouth twisting into a scowl though he’d rather be crying.
“Who are you?” Dean spits, barely getting the words out.
The guy’s face lights up as though Dean’s done something right. That’s not right, Dean doesn’t want to help this guy.
“That’s a great question, I was going to ask you the same thing: what’s your name?”
Dean blinks, mind whirring and stubbornly replies, “Jason.”
The guy nods in encouragement. “What’s your last name, Jason?”
“… Todd.”
The guy whistles like he’s impressed and looks Dean up and down. “Well, well. Jason Todd. You’re smaller than I expected for Batman’s second sidekick.”
Just… damn.
For some reason, Dean hadn’t expected this douche to read comic books, too. That sort of trait normally would have put a grown-up – almost grown-up – on Dean’s cool list.
“You know… Jason died,” The guy continues, “Yeah, he was bludgeoned to death by a psycho.”
Dean bites his tongue when the guy grounds himself with a knee in the dirt, folds his hands on the other bent knee like he’s settling in for a serious conversation. There’s a weight to his movements, a sort of resignation Dean recognises from times his Dad had to sit him down to explain when Dean had done wrong. And that look in his Dad’s face before he even opened his mouth: the disappointment. The way he’d sigh, tight and short, would make Dean jump to swear he didn’t do it.
This guy’s wearing that same expression and Dean thinks the guy’s prepared to give him more than just a stern talking to.
Please, please hurry up, Dad.
“Do you know what ‘bludgeoned’ means, kid?”
Dean’s throat is too thick to answer.
There’s something small, square and flat folding between the guy’s fingers. It looks like a card.
“My friends over there are pretty angry I pulled them out of the bar where we were watching the football. Do you like football, kid? I don’t pay much attention, but they love it, so… the reason I’m telling you this is I want you to understand the two people standing over your brother are looking to hurt something. Bad.” The guy’s lips press in a thin line and Dean doesn’t think he’s used to disappointment like Dean’s Dad. “So, what’s your real name?”
“He’s coming round,” The guy’s friend says, somewhere behind Dean and his heart leaps in his chest. The thought of Sam being awake through this makes it suddenly more real.
The man holds up the card between two fingers. It has rounded corners. It looks sort of familiar.....
“Your brother’s wallet was empty except for this and a few candy wrappers. What does a kid his age need a wallet for, right?” The guy grins and looks at the card. Light glances off its plastic surface from the car headlights outside. He holds it out to Dean as though he could actually take it. “But apparently ‘Samuel Winchester’ likes books enough to get his own membership at the local library. Cute.”
Dean jerks when the man taps the card on the bridge of his nose.
“Would that make you Dean?”
There’s a muffled, uncomfortable noise behind him; Sammy waking up.
The man notices too, looking past Dean’s shoulder. He smiles.
“I’ll just ask your brother then.”
The man starts to push himself to his feet.
“No, wait!”
The guy raises his eyebrows expectantly. Dean has to swallow a few times, glancing behind the man holding them hostage and willing his Dad to appear in the barn’s doorway. He waits three breaths. Forces out an exhale that hurt his lungs.
“Dean. I’m Dean Winchester.”
The man’s smile fades, but he settles back down into the dirt.
“Where’s your Dad, Dean?”
Motel. Police station. Road.
Dean’s mind whirrs through images of these things and keeps coming back to the hopeful vision of his Dad cocking his shotgun, firing these bastards back to hell.
“He’s coming for us. And he’s gonna kill you when he gets here.”
The man shrugs at the threat. “You think your Dad’s coming, kid? My Dad’s already here.”
Dean frowns, attention flickering to the empty walls around them.
“Your Dad?”
Dean bangs his head back on the column when the wood on the catwalk creaks above him.
A much older man stands there in a long coat that ends around his ankles. His eyes glow yellow in the dark and he’s staring down at Dean with terrifying intensity.
Demon.
And like a tinny voice on the radio in another room, Castiel’s words drift back to him.
“When you were four years old, your mother was killed in Sam’s nursery by a yellow-eyed demon.”
Dean gapes. It can’t be -- it can't be the same demon.
Crap. Holy crap….
“Hey, kiddo,” The yellow eyes crinkle in a smile, stiff black collar of his coat standing at his ears.
When Dean's Dad went down on one knee and pushed a sawn-off shotgun into his hands four years ago, Dean could shoot the milk bottles off the fence from 200 metres.
Protect your brother. Protect yourself. Protect yourselves from anything that comes through that door and don't wait to see what it is. Safety off. Count the rounds when you load. Count when you fire.
Dean knew he was ready for anything.
There's been raccoons, stray dogs and adults who stared too long, too curious. Dean knew he could protect Sammy from those things. He saw his Dad's stores of rock salt, smelly herbs and saw the pictures of monsters in his journal when his Dad wasn't looking.
He saw monsters and he shot a rabid dog. Once.
He could handle those things, but now there's a tall man in a long coat who might have killed his mother, whose eyes burn yellow in the dark.
Dean’s scared out of his mind.
There's a gurgling noise of surprise somewhere from Sam, out of sight. Dean’s chest tightens, eyes tearing when Sam coughs wetly and whines.
"Make sure he drinks it all," the yellow-eyed man says.
Helpless fury burns in his chest and he feels faint.
In an instant, Dean’s awareness of the world drags to a crawl before it seems to stop completely, dust and wood particles suspended in the moonlight in front of his eyes and when he can move again he’s pulling himself up from the dirt.
He doesn’t remember falling. The car headlights are gone.
He doesn’t remember getting his arms free, but they’re limp and tingling at his sides in the dirt.
He doesn’t know why his vision has whited out. There’s an after burn when he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Then he hears the shotgun fire and drops his hands.
Is it too hopeful to think that he knows that shotgun?
Water splashes in his eyes and then someone’s shaking him.
“Dean!” He hears their whoosh of relief like a shout through water and then there are small hands on his face, tipping his face, “Dean, you’re still you.”
Dean frowns, he’s started to learn that voice, but… really?
Castiel’s profile burns like an after image in a void, but there’s something larger flaring from his back. The shadow of wings, disproportionately huge and sweeping, flutters with every vain pull of his small arms.
What the….?
“Cast--?”
Dean blinks a few times, but they’re still there, the negative flare of them fading with the pulse of pain behind his eyes. He squints at this tiny person hunched beside him under the walkway, but the edges of everything are still wobbling, half-whited out.
“I can see them,” Dean says and doesn’t consider if Castiel has a clue what he means.
He catches one of the hands in his shirt and Castiel’s small fingers close over his.
“… I believe you,” Dean breathes out.
Shotgun fire continues over their heads and Dean’s never been more grateful to be small.
“Are you hurt?” Castiel asks, voice hushed. His hands have moved to Dean’s shoulders.
Dean groans a question because he’s not sure where to start, but Castiel seems to understand.
“Trust me, okay? I’m going to protect you.”
One of Castiel’s hands leaves his shoulders, then Dean’s shirt rips over his heart and he freaks out when he feels cold metal against his skin. Castiel’s other hand is still there on his shoulder and Dean doesn’t know how, but the kid manages to hold him down.
“Trust me,” Castiel says, too sure, too firm for someone barely out of diapers.
“You gonna cut out my heart?”
“No. This sigil will protect you from evil.”
The metal point of the knife is still over Dean’s heart.
The wall explodes to their right and somewhere behind Castiel there’s a mighty crash of glass and metal like a whole wall of tools and window panes just came down. A body thumps to the ground, heavy and large and Dean wishes his vision would stop swimming.
Fuck, Sammy. Where the hell was Sammy?
Dean feels himself nod.
He still shouts in surprise when Castiel carves into his chest. Knowing it was coming doesn’t help to brace against the sharp, bright lines being cut into his skin, but the kid is quick and he’s done almost as soon as Dean’s stopped reeling against the shock of it.
The knife disappears and Castiel presses the shirt back firmly over his handiwork. It takes Dean a minute to react to the insistent tugs on his arm.
“Come on, get up. Dean!” Castiel says, but they won’t get anywhere if Dean doesn’t help him out. “We have to save Sam. We have to save—“
They jump as another gunshot splits the dark, but Dean chokes on his relief when John’s voice shouts above the animalistic snarls of pain and fury.
“There’s more where that came from, boys; keep it coming!”
Black smoke roars across the barn over their heads.
“Dad,” Dean’s voice cracks and he climbs to his feet, toward his father’s voice, but Castiel yanks him back urgently.
“No! No, Dean: we have to save Sam!”
Okay. Yes. Dean feels himself nodding, or that could just be the sway in his step. He’s finally on his feet, vision half-blind and blurry, but Castiel seems to know where he’s going. Dean obediently stumbles after him.
At a quick glance, he can’t see Sam by any of the pillars, but there’s a lot of dark despite the moonlight.
“What’s the plan?”
Castiel lets go of his hand and crouches behind a small tower of crates. Dean almost falls to his knees trying to follow him and then Castiel is pushing a sawn-off shotgun into his hands.
It’s his. Castiel actually brought Dean’s shotgun.
“Rock salt,” Castiel says and motions at his shoulder, “I can’t hold it.”
Dean’s grip is a bit limp, the nerves in his left arm despondent with aftershocks from whatever Castiel carved over his heart. His head’s still throbbing, making his stomach coil with nausea, but Castiel got them this far.
He grits his teeth, feeling the cold sweat on his brow and he’s almost certain he’s going to be sick.
“Get behind me,” He says.
The moment he’s stepped from behind the crates, someone rushes through the shaft of moonlight. They’re smaller than his father, bigger than Sammy, so he fires. The shriek is female and she whirls when she goes down. Her body contorts and before Dean realises what’s happening there’s a black cloud roaring in his ears, he can feel Castiel pressed against his back and for a second Dean thinks he can still hear the woman screaming. The wound over his heart flares like the knife is there again and with a final howl, the smoky cloud is gone.
Dean staggers, stunned, but still on his feet.
“Are you okay? Dean, are you okay?” Castiel is trying to see his face, his blue eyes bright in the moonlight.
“Sam!” Dean hears his father shout. “Dean!”
“Dad, I’m with Cas, get Sam!” Dean croaks and he reaches for Castiel’s hand. Castiel instead pushes him forward and that’s all the reassurance he needs.
Someone else steps into the moonlight over the woman’s body and it’s harder to cock the shotgun this time.
It’s the man with Sam’s library card and his expression is ugly.
“I’ll feed you to the fucking dogs,” The man snarls, trembling with rage and Dean’s heart skips a beat at the naked murder in his eyes.
“Run,” Dean hisses under his breath.
A beat later than Dean wants, eventually Castiel shifts beside him. The man’s eye twitches and by some invisible force, Castiel crashes against the crates with a wrenching cry. The shotgun shudders in Dean’s hands and the man gives a shout of pain, hunching over his damaged knee.
Castiel falls to the ground with a soft groan and Dean’s cocking the gun again. The man rears back with a growl when it hits him in the shoulder, but Dean startles when a volley of three successive shots finds the man twice in the heart and once in the head.
The man’s expression is shocked. Blood seeps in his eyes, down his chin and the black smoke erupts from his mouth before his body falls to the ground like a severed puppet.
Dean stares from the body to his father who’s suddenly standing beside him, shotgun tight against his shoulder.
John’s face is grim, but he pulls Dean tight against his side. Dean forces back a grateful sob when his nose is filled with the familiar smells of leather and gun oil that mean home; safe. He barely feels the throb of the cuts in his chest because it’s going to be okay now.
It lasts less than a second, because they still have to find Sam, and Castiel….
But Castiel’s already dragged himself to John’s other side. His expression is dazed, but he’s lucid enough to have wrapped his fingers around John’s pant. John’s other hand’s found his head, shotgun braced behind Castiel’s back and Dean’s reaching for the kid even as John’s pushing him into Dean’s arms.
“I’m going to find your brother, you stay out of sight,” John warns, hands tight on their shoulders.
“I’m coming,” Dean says just as Castiel pipes, “I want to help.”
And then another voice interrupts them and John’s shotgun is up in a moment.
“You can all stay right where you are; I’ve saved you the trouble.”
John fires and Castiel whimpers when Dean’s hands clamp around his shoulders.
It’s the yellow-eyed man hovering just beyond the moonlight where his collar cuts the shaft of light. There’s a hole from John’s gunshot smoking ineffectually over his heart and a thin trail of blood is leaking into his plaid button-down shirt.
At his feet, Sam is standing over the bodies of the fallen demons. Dean’s baby brother looks loose, almost sleepy, and he’s pretty sure they’re all staring at the same thing.
At the blood dripping from Sam’s mouth and chin.
“Dad?”
He says it without stutter or pain; Dean doesn’t think that’s his blood.
Sam blinks at them, calm and disconnected, and Dean finally understands what it means to feel your blood go cold.
“You,” John says, voice trembling with a new anger Dean’s never heard.
The demon smiles broadly and sweeps his hands out as if to say, ‘ta da’!
“I have to say… I didn’t expect to see you or your fine boys so soon, John. It’s a delight to check up on young Samuel here,” The demon proudly strokes a hand over Sam’s hair, but Sam doesn’t react, “He’s coming along nicely.”
Dean notices that his father doesn’t lower the shotgun. Sam is staring at them with a slack numbness that’s bringing the sick, rolling feeling back to Dean’s stomach.
“Sammy,” His father’s voice cracks, “Come here.”
The yellow-eyed man curls his hand at the base of Sam’s nape.
“You’ll have to forgive your boy if he’s not so obedient tonight. You could say he’s… under the influence.”
Castiel makes a choked noise.
“Tell me what you did,” John says.
“I’ve given him a taste of things to come,” the demon says simply, clearly pleased with the cryptic map he’s weaving.
“He’s fed Sam demon blood,” Castiel blurts, surprising them all and they turn to stare at him.
The demon’s smugness melts into something dark and those bright, pale eyes slowly focus on the smallest of them all.
“… What?” John’s voice is hollow with shock.
Dean forgets about Castiel’s bad shoulder and holds the kid tighter against his side, silently begging him to be quiet, but it’s already too late.
Castiel has the demon’s complete, undivided attention.
“And who is this?”
“He’s just—“ Dean starts, but Castiel speaks over him.
“I’m Castiel, an angel of the Lo—“
Dean clamps a hand over his mouth, desperately hisses in his ear, “Shut up.”
The demon is staring in careful wonder. “An angel? Well, I’m clarified: I was sure young Mary had only pumped out two before I put her on the rotisserie.”
A section of the roof explodes above the demon and John cocks his shotgun again. Debris of wood and dust rain on the demon’s head.
Dean gasps when the debris stops in mid-air as though suspended in water before a single splinter has touched the demon or his brother. Castiel bristles and Dean feels the air press in closer around them.
“You’re going to hand me my son. And then we’re going to walk out of here, all of us, alive,” John says, voice tight and even.
The demon is chuckling like he didn’t even hear John’s statement. He examines the floating debris and looks down at Sam fondly. “Ah, well done, Sam.”
“Don’t let him leave with Sam,” Castiel begs, fingers winding tighter in John’s pant leg and as horrifyingly curious as Dean is for what Castiel knows, he wants the kid to shut up for his own good.
“Sam,” The demon says with calm and confidence, “Please give me your father’s gun.”
Sam licks his lips, pink tongue darting out over his bloody mouth and the yellow-eyed demon shouts triumphantly when the shotgun flies into his hands.
Dean stares, shocked. “What the--?”
“Sam, no!” Castiel shouts, “I know you can hear us! Listen to your father, please! You can resist this!”
John looks too shell-shocked to speak and it breaks Dean’s heart.
Those careful, yellow eyes are on Castiel again, bright with curiousity, but the kid doesn’t seem to care.
“I’ll make you an offer, John,” The demon says, drawing the man’s attention back to him.
John glares, waiting for him to speak, like he knows this man is too powerful for any method at his disposal.
“I’ll trade your son for that one.”
The demon nods meaningfully at Castiel and the barn falls completely silent.
John fists his hands at his sides, but Dean sees it and when he thinks his father is about to speak, Castiel surprises them all for the second time.
“Done.”
“What?” John barks, but Castiel’s gotten better at holding himself together against that voice and he just looks between John and Dean, expression guarded.
“Trust me,” he mouths to Dean.
Dean has an awful feeling and it’s only going to get worse, either way this goes, because this isn’t right. John is trembling like he’s fighting the impulse to do something; to fly at this motherfucker that destroyed their family and get himself pulled to pieces, or let Castiel trade himself away to keep the rest of them together. If the demon honours his offer.
They lose both ways, but Castiel’s already narrowed his eyes at the demon expectantly.
The demon is smiling widely and it’s fucking terrifying.
“I’m going to like you,” He sets his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “Go on, Sam. I’m a man of my word.”
Sam looks at the hand on his pajama-clad shoulder, gaze unfocused.
“Sam,” Castiel says, softly and Sam looks down into his face, “We’re going to swap. It’s okay.”
Dean can’t let him do this. Dean wants his brother back. Dean can’t let… he can’t want….
Castiel looks up at him abruptly, searching Dean’s face like the conflict is plain on his face. His small hand reaches for the top of Dean’s left arm and when it settles on the muscle there, a funny not-smile finds his face. It looks so wrong, so weary on a kid so young.
But Dean believes him now; he’s not just a kid.
This guy thinks he’s going to save their family from an apocalypse that hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe he is their guardian angel. It doesn’t make Dean feel any better for letting him do this. He’s pretty sure people go to hell for this sort of selfishness.
“It’s okay,” Castiel assures him and it hits like a fresh knife in his chest.
Castiel looks up, craning his head back to meet John’s expression, drawn tight and grim. For some reason Dean will never understand, Castiel’s expression lights up with a real smile then.
He wraps his hand around those of John’s fingers that he can reach.
Sam meets him halfway across the divide, an unsteady sway in his step. Castiel’s hand briefly clasps his arm when they cross.
John sinks to one knee, closing his arms around Sam and Dean when he reaches them. Dean can smell the blood on his brother. He can feel the tremors in his father’s body and he’s worried when his brother makes no effort to hug their father back.
That’s not like Sam at all.
John glances down at Sam, pushing the hair back from his face and wiping the blood away with his sleeve. His Dad’s gaze flickers back to the yellow-eyed demon with his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and that proud smirk has returned to his face.
Castiel is staring up at him, a child against a demon.
“I never thought I’d see one of my brothers so removed,” The demon says.
What the hell does that mean?
Dean looks at his father in alarm, but John is still watching like a stunned man witnessing a disaster in slow motion. There are so many emotions flickering through his expression and Dean isn’t sure he recognises them all.
“Then embrace me, brother,” Castiel’s voice is soft and resigned.
It’s with an indulgent chuckle that the demon slowly lowers to his knees, arms wide open. His yellow eyes glitter merrily when Castiel steps firmly into the fold of his arms.
“Do you seek forgiveness for your crimes, brother?” Castiel asks against the demon’s shoulder.
The demon pats his back, sympathetically amused.
“Who are you, little bird?”
Dean’s lips are tingling and his chest feels too hot, but before he can dry heave, John’s hand is turning Dean’s face into his shoulder.
He almost misses the flash of silver that slips from Castiel’s sleeve.
John stiffens in surprise at the scream that rents the air and when Dean jerks back to look, the demon is slack-jawed with disbelief, light and electricity spilling from his eyes, nose and mouth.
At first he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing until Castiel pulls back from the embrace and Dean sees the large, silver knife Castiel’s stuck in the demon’s back.
The same knife he used to carve symbols into Dean’s chest. It was a very… bright silver.
The air feels electrified, charged and dense with power and if the thrum beneath their feet is any hint, it’s building.
Castiel leans in, twisting the knife.
“I’m the one who kills you, Azazel.”
The demon’s body jerks with a final shock of light and it hits them like a physical wall; Dean’s eyes bulge at the strength of his father’s arms around them, but in the end, John keeps them standing.
The dust settles, the light fades and Dean shoves back from his father to steal greedy gulps of air.
When Castiel looks up from Azazel’s body, he falters under John and Dean’s heavy stare. But before Dean really knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching for Castiel and a second later the kid has slammed into him, full force. Dean's numb, his arms falling around the kid who's just saved them and there's a furious sting behind his eyes.
John crushes the three of them against his chest. They’re all shaking.
“Castiel,” John says, undisguised awe and wary, “What was that?”
He loosens his hold on them enough for Castiel to look him in the eye. The kid dashes back to the body and pulls his knife out without ceremony, wiping it on the demon’s coat. Running back into the circle of John’s arms, he holds it higher for them to see.
“This is an archangel’s sword. It was in my pocket when we returned from the police station, but…”
“Gabriel,” John breathes and Dean looks between them waiting for the explanation, but Castiel is nodding, so Dean doesn’t think he’s going to get it.
“For Azazel, it was more than I needed. Gabriel must be planning ahead,” Castiel’s voice trails off softly, gaze growing distant and he slowly shakes his head at the knife that looks large enough to be a small sword in his hands.
John can’t seem to decide where he should look: the sword, the demon who killed his wife, or the kid who avenged her. His thumb is running stripes over Dean’s shoulder and Dean can see he wants to ask.
“… Dad?”
John shakes his head, eyes finding the demon’s body again. “Are you sure he’s --?
“This is sword is intended for the highest order of angels; Azazel was a dark shade of the angel he once was. He is very, very dead.”
Dean cracks a smile, a choked laugh escaping him in relief. He bumps his Dad’s side when he barely reacts; Castiel was actually funny!
And bad-ass. Dude, this kid was bad ass. They had to keep him.
John’s still staring at the corpse, Dean thinks he’s in shock. But on his Dad’s other side Sammy’s still silent, lolling against his arm and that was really not normal.
Leaning forward for a better look, Dean realises Sam’s pupils are as wide as saucers. His face is pale and vacant. His mouth is still smeared red; he looked like a zombie.
“Sammy?”
Sam only responds by rolling his head against John’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong with him?” John asks, frowing deeply when he turns Sam in his arms and he almost flops like a limp doll. “What did they do?”
“Demon blood?” Dean offers, remembering what Castiel had said. “Is it like mind control?”
Castiel stops, darting looks between them and John must recognise that expression because he narrows a familiar warning at the kid.
“Castiel….”
Dean wonders what he’s not telling them, but then Castiel pushes a flask from his jacket into John’s hand. It’s Dean’s silver flask from that morning on the bridge.
He can’t believe that was the same day.
“Give this to him, he has to drink all of it. The holy water should force it up immediately, we can’t let it linger in his system.”
John’s already coaxing Sam to drink it, rubbing a hand over his back. He’s so despondent, Dean allows himself to hold his brother’s hand. It’s freaking him out.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” He says, voice cracking.
His Dad gives him a tired look that cuts him to the bone and his eyes sting dangerously.
“I’m sorry, Dad; I let you down.”
His Dad’s face twists for a moment, like he’s in pain. Dean’s ready for the reprimand, but he’s not ready for Castiel, who’s never been in this moment with them before and is looking at Dean like he’s an idiot.
“You’re only a child, Dean.”
And then Sam’s throwing up on Castiel’s shoes and they forget everything else except consoling Sam by rubbing his back, ruffling his hair and encouraging him to take small sips from the flask until every last drop his gone and Sam’s sobs have settled to a sniffle against his father’s neck.
Forty minutes later, they’re sitting on the trunk of the Impala in the car park of a diner, with the barn and its bodies a distant blaze on the highway behind them. It’s been more than twelve hours since any of them ate, but sandwiched between Dean and Castiel has given both boys the opportunity to notice that Sam has barely touched his fries.
Sam’s staring off at nothing, food forgotten in his hands and it’s like the nothing is flowing right back into him, filling him up where the curious, temperamental spirit of a six-year-old brat ought to be.
Dean can see that his Dad is worried, holding Sam on his lap. His mouth is almost pressed to Sam’s hair, hands stroking Sam’s elbows and his eyes are shut tight. Dean may have thought his Dad was praying, except that they didn’t pray.
What really worries Dean is that his Dad gave him his burger to finish.
Dean is quietly freaking out in his own way, he doesn’t want to make it worse for his Dad.
“Hey,” He nudges Sam.
Castiel looks up from his burger when Sam sways into his shoulder with the movement. John’s hands tighten on Sam’s arms.
”Look alive, Smurfette, you’re scaring Dad.”
He doesn’t know if Sam even heard him. He exchanges a look with Castiel who looks so fucking calm, though he knows Dean’s freaking out and he’s not getting mad at him for that. It makes Dean feel a bit better.
Dean wraps his arm over Sam’s shoulders, squeezing him gently. “Come on, buddy.”
“John.”
Castiel’s twisted around in his seat and now it’s John exchanging a long look with the kid, like they’re exchanging thoughts and Dean wonders if Castiel will do that with everyone.
“You’re really an angel, huh, kid?” John asks. “Or you were an angel?”
Castiel’s nodding at his burger – extra beef – like it’s the first time it’s been difficult for him to admit. Funny, since he spent the last day trying to shove the truth down their throats.
“I rebelled against angels like Azazel to help my friends. I was cut off from the Host.”
When Castiel passes Dean his burger, Dean knows by his drawn expression that he’s done with it. It’s a good thing Dean’s hungry.
“I don’t have much power left, but I think I can help Sam,” Castiel says, eventually.
Dean stops chewing and forgets to swallow. His Dad doesn’t look as excited as he thought he would, instead he looks suspicious; but Dean trusts Castiel.
“How?” John asks, weirdly stern.
“This is a trauma he wasn’t supposed to witness. If I remove his memory of this day, it might… bring him back to the way he was.”
Dean shrugs, looking between Castiel and his Dad. “So, let’s do it.”
“Castiel,” John’s voice has become quiet, “How much of your power would it take?”
Castiel fidgets his bandaged hands. “If I’m successful… all – all of it.”
John watches Castiel’s mitt-like hands tap together. “Would it kill you?”
Dean finally swallows the cheekfulls of beef he’s been squirreling; and almost chokes.
“No, I’ve been in this limbo since I rebelled. If I do this, I would be completely human.”
A heavy silence falls over the car park. It’s too early in the morning for there to be many patrons and the forest is still asleep, the sky dark without a hint of dawn.
Dean doesn’t understand why his Dad is watching Castiel expectantly. Why doesn’t he say anything?
Castiel’s very preoccupied with his hands.
Finally, Dean speaks up.
“What’s wrong with being human? We’re human, you could come with us,” Dean says. Only once it’s out does he realise what he’s promised and he quickly glances at his Dad for approval. “Right, Dad?”
John’s smiling at Castiel’s bright expression of hope and Dean’s pretty sure he’s not going to get a smack upside the head.
“We could fit a few more in this car. It’s up to you, Castiel.”
Castiel’s smile is blinding, but he doesn’t thank them; he doesn’t throw himself into their arms for tearful hugs like he did that first night. Instead, he shuffles closer to the one who’s been quiet the whole night and settles a small hand on his forehead.
Together, he and Sam close their eyes.
Part 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: Wow, so it's been five months: I'm going to skip the excuses, go straight on to the story and just cross my fingers that it was worth the wait! The final part has already been written, it'll be up within the fortnight.
PREVIOUS: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
When Dean comes to, he smells damp, rotting wood and Earth.
He’s not in the motel.
Dean snaps awake, inhaling sharply through his nose and he almost bangs his head on the wooden beam behind him. Wood scrapes roughly through the back of his shirt. His breath steams on the cold air of what looks like an old barn.
He’s pretty sure there are splinters in his back.
His arms have been tied above his head and he can feel, but not quite see the thick rope when he tugs. He thinks his hands would actually fall off if he tugged any harder. They’re numb, aching and there’s no slack in the knots.
He groans, unable to look up at his hands any longer.
It’s hard to take stock when your head is pounding.
They’ve let him kneel in the dirt. He can barely feel the ground through his jeans, but he’s shivering. He can't tell if the ground is wet or everything is just that cold.
His left eyelid sort of sticks when he slowly blinks and, yeah, that is sort of where the throbbing in his head is coming from.
And then Dean remembers.
The figure at the window of their motel window.
The stomp of footsteps along the thin walls and the shadows under the door.
Dean remembers the cold that gripped his lungs as he waited for the coded knock to swallow that bad feeling. He hadn’t picked up the shotgun, just motioned for Sam to turn down the volume on the television, turn it right down.
They didn’t wait long.
He should have grabbed the shotgun in the first place.
The knock at the door never came.
He didn’t recognise the grown-ups who blew the door open.
Sam went fighting and screaming and just the memory of that sound makes Dean feel sick. Sam grabbed everything he could reach when they dragged him out the door in broad daylight, but the grown-ups had shut his baby brother up pretty fast.
Dean had fired three, maybe four shots. He’s not sure he hit any of the five grown-ups that busted into their motel room. He’s pretty sure they’d knocked him out with his own gun.
Fucking sons of bitches….
“Sam?”
Dean squints in the dark, but he can’t see Sam in the dark of the barn.
It’s a half-moon tonight, dim shafts of light breaking the dark in narrow columns. A cold whistle of autumn air and the faraway buzz of highway traffic leak through the glass windows.
“Sam!” He whispers, more urgently, louder. His heart is thudding so hard it feels like there’s a boot in his chest trying to kick its way out.
Rusted shearing tools hang high from the wall on his left. Loose, thin piles of what might have once been wood planks and hay line both barn walls. Two rows of light shades swing from the roof, but Dean can’t see through the dark if any of them have bulbs. If he could get free, he wouldn’t risk bringing attention by flipping them on anyway.
It’s cold and the quiet is suffocating.
Dean viciously bites the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from trembling.
“Sam?”
A low and familiar groan finally answers from somewhere behind him.
Dean almost dislocates his shoulder when he startles, twisting round to find his little brother with his eyes. He doesn’t quite manage it at first, but he catches what looks like a small, crooked arm out of the corner of his eye.
“Sam? Sammy!”
Old wood still splinters. Dean doesn’t think he’ll have any skin left on his knuckles when he mangles his body around as far as his tied wrists will let him.
Sam’s tied to another beam under a set of stairs leading to the catwalk Dean’s beam supports; too far for Dean to reach him.
Sam’s head is nodding like it does when he’s been up too late in front of the television. Dean knows this isn’t like those times. The rest of Sam isn’t moving, arms behind his back at the beam. It’s too dark but Dean guesses the thick, dark shadow around Sam’s chest is layers of rope.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is small and faint.
“I’m here buddy, it’s going to be all right.” Dean hates the way his voice cracks at the promise.
Because this is absolutely the time to lie through his teeth to his baby brother who does not need to know Dean is scared out of his mind. But there’s one thing he knows, one thing that steadies the shake in his muscles for a breath and lets him shut his eyes to repeat it like a desperate, hysterical prayer.
“Dad’s coming, Sammy,” He believes with every petrified beat of his heart. “He’s on his way.”
Sam doesn’t reply. His head hangs to his chest.
The barn doors in front of Dean swing wide open. He shuts his eyes when a blast of freezing air from outside hits him in the face and he presses himself as far back into the dark as he can go.
There’s a silhouette of at least three people standing in the open doorway. None of them are his Dad. Dean knows he’s on his way. He just wishes he knew how to be brave until then.
“Look at that,” The silhouette of the man on the left glances at his friends, he sounds happy, but it makes Dean nervous, “He’s awake.”
He should have pretended to be asleep. Or dead.
The man who spoke jerks his head in a way that probably means something to the others.
“Check his brother.”
Dean forgets that last thought as the other two, a guy and a girl jog past him. The guy glances him over, face blank. They look like teenagers.
“Don’t touch him!” Dean shouts, fists curling above his head.
“He’s still out,” The girl calls, matter of fact and Dean wishes he could take his eyes off the guy in front to see what they were doing.
“Then wake him up.”
Dean’s head cranes back to see what they could be doing to his little brother, but a hand tugs his chin back around.
This guy seems to be calling the shots. He’s probably a teenager, too, but Dean can’t really tell. He’s not very much taller than the other two, but he’s big enough that Dean keeps still when he crouches down to look him in the eye.
“How ya doing, kid?”
Dean stares back at the almost smile on the guy’s face.
“Please don’t hurt my brother.”
The guy’s mouth shrugs and he glances at the broken light shades above their heads.
“Well, I don’t want to, but that’ll depend on you.”
Dean feels like someone’s just crushed his heart but he feels his mouth twisting into a scowl though he’d rather be crying.
“Who are you?” Dean spits, barely getting the words out.
The guy’s face lights up as though Dean’s done something right. That’s not right, Dean doesn’t want to help this guy.
“That’s a great question, I was going to ask you the same thing: what’s your name?”
Dean blinks, mind whirring and stubbornly replies, “Jason.”
The guy nods in encouragement. “What’s your last name, Jason?”
“… Todd.”
The guy whistles like he’s impressed and looks Dean up and down. “Well, well. Jason Todd. You’re smaller than I expected for Batman’s second sidekick.”
Just… damn.
For some reason, Dean hadn’t expected this douche to read comic books, too. That sort of trait normally would have put a grown-up – almost grown-up – on Dean’s cool list.
“You know… Jason died,” The guy continues, “Yeah, he was bludgeoned to death by a psycho.”
Dean bites his tongue when the guy grounds himself with a knee in the dirt, folds his hands on the other bent knee like he’s settling in for a serious conversation. There’s a weight to his movements, a sort of resignation Dean recognises from times his Dad had to sit him down to explain when Dean had done wrong. And that look in his Dad’s face before he even opened his mouth: the disappointment. The way he’d sigh, tight and short, would make Dean jump to swear he didn’t do it.
This guy’s wearing that same expression and Dean thinks the guy’s prepared to give him more than just a stern talking to.
Please, please hurry up, Dad.
“Do you know what ‘bludgeoned’ means, kid?”
Dean’s throat is too thick to answer.
There’s something small, square and flat folding between the guy’s fingers. It looks like a card.
“My friends over there are pretty angry I pulled them out of the bar where we were watching the football. Do you like football, kid? I don’t pay much attention, but they love it, so… the reason I’m telling you this is I want you to understand the two people standing over your brother are looking to hurt something. Bad.” The guy’s lips press in a thin line and Dean doesn’t think he’s used to disappointment like Dean’s Dad. “So, what’s your real name?”
“He’s coming round,” The guy’s friend says, somewhere behind Dean and his heart leaps in his chest. The thought of Sam being awake through this makes it suddenly more real.
The man holds up the card between two fingers. It has rounded corners. It looks sort of familiar.....
“Your brother’s wallet was empty except for this and a few candy wrappers. What does a kid his age need a wallet for, right?” The guy grins and looks at the card. Light glances off its plastic surface from the car headlights outside. He holds it out to Dean as though he could actually take it. “But apparently ‘Samuel Winchester’ likes books enough to get his own membership at the local library. Cute.”
Dean jerks when the man taps the card on the bridge of his nose.
“Would that make you Dean?”
There’s a muffled, uncomfortable noise behind him; Sammy waking up.
The man notices too, looking past Dean’s shoulder. He smiles.
“I’ll just ask your brother then.”
The man starts to push himself to his feet.
“No, wait!”
The guy raises his eyebrows expectantly. Dean has to swallow a few times, glancing behind the man holding them hostage and willing his Dad to appear in the barn’s doorway. He waits three breaths. Forces out an exhale that hurt his lungs.
“Dean. I’m Dean Winchester.”
The man’s smile fades, but he settles back down into the dirt.
“Where’s your Dad, Dean?”
Motel. Police station. Road.
Dean’s mind whirrs through images of these things and keeps coming back to the hopeful vision of his Dad cocking his shotgun, firing these bastards back to hell.
“He’s coming for us. And he’s gonna kill you when he gets here.”
The man shrugs at the threat. “You think your Dad’s coming, kid? My Dad’s already here.”
Dean frowns, attention flickering to the empty walls around them.
“Your Dad?”
Dean bangs his head back on the column when the wood on the catwalk creaks above him.
A much older man stands there in a long coat that ends around his ankles. His eyes glow yellow in the dark and he’s staring down at Dean with terrifying intensity.
Demon.
And like a tinny voice on the radio in another room, Castiel’s words drift back to him.
“When you were four years old, your mother was killed in Sam’s nursery by a yellow-eyed demon.”
Dean gapes. It can’t be -- it can't be the same demon.
Crap. Holy crap….
“Hey, kiddo,” The yellow eyes crinkle in a smile, stiff black collar of his coat standing at his ears.
When Dean's Dad went down on one knee and pushed a sawn-off shotgun into his hands four years ago, Dean could shoot the milk bottles off the fence from 200 metres.
Protect your brother. Protect yourself. Protect yourselves from anything that comes through that door and don't wait to see what it is. Safety off. Count the rounds when you load. Count when you fire.
Dean knew he was ready for anything.
There's been raccoons, stray dogs and adults who stared too long, too curious. Dean knew he could protect Sammy from those things. He saw his Dad's stores of rock salt, smelly herbs and saw the pictures of monsters in his journal when his Dad wasn't looking.
He saw monsters and he shot a rabid dog. Once.
He could handle those things, but now there's a tall man in a long coat who might have killed his mother, whose eyes burn yellow in the dark.
Dean’s scared out of his mind.
There's a gurgling noise of surprise somewhere from Sam, out of sight. Dean’s chest tightens, eyes tearing when Sam coughs wetly and whines.
"Make sure he drinks it all," the yellow-eyed man says.
Helpless fury burns in his chest and he feels faint.
In an instant, Dean’s awareness of the world drags to a crawl before it seems to stop completely, dust and wood particles suspended in the moonlight in front of his eyes and when he can move again he’s pulling himself up from the dirt.
He doesn’t remember falling. The car headlights are gone.
He doesn’t remember getting his arms free, but they’re limp and tingling at his sides in the dirt.
He doesn’t know why his vision has whited out. There’s an after burn when he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Then he hears the shotgun fire and drops his hands.
Is it too hopeful to think that he knows that shotgun?
Water splashes in his eyes and then someone’s shaking him.
“Dean!” He hears their whoosh of relief like a shout through water and then there are small hands on his face, tipping his face, “Dean, you’re still you.”
Dean frowns, he’s started to learn that voice, but… really?
Castiel’s profile burns like an after image in a void, but there’s something larger flaring from his back. The shadow of wings, disproportionately huge and sweeping, flutters with every vain pull of his small arms.
What the….?
“Cast--?”
Dean blinks a few times, but they’re still there, the negative flare of them fading with the pulse of pain behind his eyes. He squints at this tiny person hunched beside him under the walkway, but the edges of everything are still wobbling, half-whited out.
“I can see them,” Dean says and doesn’t consider if Castiel has a clue what he means.
He catches one of the hands in his shirt and Castiel’s small fingers close over his.
“… I believe you,” Dean breathes out.
Shotgun fire continues over their heads and Dean’s never been more grateful to be small.
“Are you hurt?” Castiel asks, voice hushed. His hands have moved to Dean’s shoulders.
Dean groans a question because he’s not sure where to start, but Castiel seems to understand.
“Trust me, okay? I’m going to protect you.”
One of Castiel’s hands leaves his shoulders, then Dean’s shirt rips over his heart and he freaks out when he feels cold metal against his skin. Castiel’s other hand is still there on his shoulder and Dean doesn’t know how, but the kid manages to hold him down.
“Trust me,” Castiel says, too sure, too firm for someone barely out of diapers.
“You gonna cut out my heart?”
“No. This sigil will protect you from evil.”
The metal point of the knife is still over Dean’s heart.
The wall explodes to their right and somewhere behind Castiel there’s a mighty crash of glass and metal like a whole wall of tools and window panes just came down. A body thumps to the ground, heavy and large and Dean wishes his vision would stop swimming.
Fuck, Sammy. Where the hell was Sammy?
Dean feels himself nod.
He still shouts in surprise when Castiel carves into his chest. Knowing it was coming doesn’t help to brace against the sharp, bright lines being cut into his skin, but the kid is quick and he’s done almost as soon as Dean’s stopped reeling against the shock of it.
The knife disappears and Castiel presses the shirt back firmly over his handiwork. It takes Dean a minute to react to the insistent tugs on his arm.
“Come on, get up. Dean!” Castiel says, but they won’t get anywhere if Dean doesn’t help him out. “We have to save Sam. We have to save—“
They jump as another gunshot splits the dark, but Dean chokes on his relief when John’s voice shouts above the animalistic snarls of pain and fury.
“There’s more where that came from, boys; keep it coming!”
Black smoke roars across the barn over their heads.
“Dad,” Dean’s voice cracks and he climbs to his feet, toward his father’s voice, but Castiel yanks him back urgently.
“No! No, Dean: we have to save Sam!”
Okay. Yes. Dean feels himself nodding, or that could just be the sway in his step. He’s finally on his feet, vision half-blind and blurry, but Castiel seems to know where he’s going. Dean obediently stumbles after him.
At a quick glance, he can’t see Sam by any of the pillars, but there’s a lot of dark despite the moonlight.
“What’s the plan?”
Castiel lets go of his hand and crouches behind a small tower of crates. Dean almost falls to his knees trying to follow him and then Castiel is pushing a sawn-off shotgun into his hands.
It’s his. Castiel actually brought Dean’s shotgun.
“Rock salt,” Castiel says and motions at his shoulder, “I can’t hold it.”
Dean’s grip is a bit limp, the nerves in his left arm despondent with aftershocks from whatever Castiel carved over his heart. His head’s still throbbing, making his stomach coil with nausea, but Castiel got them this far.
He grits his teeth, feeling the cold sweat on his brow and he’s almost certain he’s going to be sick.
“Get behind me,” He says.
The moment he’s stepped from behind the crates, someone rushes through the shaft of moonlight. They’re smaller than his father, bigger than Sammy, so he fires. The shriek is female and she whirls when she goes down. Her body contorts and before Dean realises what’s happening there’s a black cloud roaring in his ears, he can feel Castiel pressed against his back and for a second Dean thinks he can still hear the woman screaming. The wound over his heart flares like the knife is there again and with a final howl, the smoky cloud is gone.
Dean staggers, stunned, but still on his feet.
“Are you okay? Dean, are you okay?” Castiel is trying to see his face, his blue eyes bright in the moonlight.
“Sam!” Dean hears his father shout. “Dean!”
“Dad, I’m with Cas, get Sam!” Dean croaks and he reaches for Castiel’s hand. Castiel instead pushes him forward and that’s all the reassurance he needs.
Someone else steps into the moonlight over the woman’s body and it’s harder to cock the shotgun this time.
It’s the man with Sam’s library card and his expression is ugly.
“I’ll feed you to the fucking dogs,” The man snarls, trembling with rage and Dean’s heart skips a beat at the naked murder in his eyes.
“Run,” Dean hisses under his breath.
A beat later than Dean wants, eventually Castiel shifts beside him. The man’s eye twitches and by some invisible force, Castiel crashes against the crates with a wrenching cry. The shotgun shudders in Dean’s hands and the man gives a shout of pain, hunching over his damaged knee.
Castiel falls to the ground with a soft groan and Dean’s cocking the gun again. The man rears back with a growl when it hits him in the shoulder, but Dean startles when a volley of three successive shots finds the man twice in the heart and once in the head.
The man’s expression is shocked. Blood seeps in his eyes, down his chin and the black smoke erupts from his mouth before his body falls to the ground like a severed puppet.
Dean stares from the body to his father who’s suddenly standing beside him, shotgun tight against his shoulder.
John’s face is grim, but he pulls Dean tight against his side. Dean forces back a grateful sob when his nose is filled with the familiar smells of leather and gun oil that mean home; safe. He barely feels the throb of the cuts in his chest because it’s going to be okay now.
It lasts less than a second, because they still have to find Sam, and Castiel….
But Castiel’s already dragged himself to John’s other side. His expression is dazed, but he’s lucid enough to have wrapped his fingers around John’s pant. John’s other hand’s found his head, shotgun braced behind Castiel’s back and Dean’s reaching for the kid even as John’s pushing him into Dean’s arms.
“I’m going to find your brother, you stay out of sight,” John warns, hands tight on their shoulders.
“I’m coming,” Dean says just as Castiel pipes, “I want to help.”
And then another voice interrupts them and John’s shotgun is up in a moment.
“You can all stay right where you are; I’ve saved you the trouble.”
John fires and Castiel whimpers when Dean’s hands clamp around his shoulders.
It’s the yellow-eyed man hovering just beyond the moonlight where his collar cuts the shaft of light. There’s a hole from John’s gunshot smoking ineffectually over his heart and a thin trail of blood is leaking into his plaid button-down shirt.
At his feet, Sam is standing over the bodies of the fallen demons. Dean’s baby brother looks loose, almost sleepy, and he’s pretty sure they’re all staring at the same thing.
At the blood dripping from Sam’s mouth and chin.
“Dad?”
He says it without stutter or pain; Dean doesn’t think that’s his blood.
Sam blinks at them, calm and disconnected, and Dean finally understands what it means to feel your blood go cold.
“You,” John says, voice trembling with a new anger Dean’s never heard.
The demon smiles broadly and sweeps his hands out as if to say, ‘ta da’!
“I have to say… I didn’t expect to see you or your fine boys so soon, John. It’s a delight to check up on young Samuel here,” The demon proudly strokes a hand over Sam’s hair, but Sam doesn’t react, “He’s coming along nicely.”
Dean notices that his father doesn’t lower the shotgun. Sam is staring at them with a slack numbness that’s bringing the sick, rolling feeling back to Dean’s stomach.
“Sammy,” His father’s voice cracks, “Come here.”
The yellow-eyed man curls his hand at the base of Sam’s nape.
“You’ll have to forgive your boy if he’s not so obedient tonight. You could say he’s… under the influence.”
Castiel makes a choked noise.
“Tell me what you did,” John says.
“I’ve given him a taste of things to come,” the demon says simply, clearly pleased with the cryptic map he’s weaving.
“He’s fed Sam demon blood,” Castiel blurts, surprising them all and they turn to stare at him.
The demon’s smugness melts into something dark and those bright, pale eyes slowly focus on the smallest of them all.
“… What?” John’s voice is hollow with shock.
Dean forgets about Castiel’s bad shoulder and holds the kid tighter against his side, silently begging him to be quiet, but it’s already too late.
Castiel has the demon’s complete, undivided attention.
“And who is this?”
“He’s just—“ Dean starts, but Castiel speaks over him.
“I’m Castiel, an angel of the Lo—“
Dean clamps a hand over his mouth, desperately hisses in his ear, “Shut up.”
The demon is staring in careful wonder. “An angel? Well, I’m clarified: I was sure young Mary had only pumped out two before I put her on the rotisserie.”
A section of the roof explodes above the demon and John cocks his shotgun again. Debris of wood and dust rain on the demon’s head.
Dean gasps when the debris stops in mid-air as though suspended in water before a single splinter has touched the demon or his brother. Castiel bristles and Dean feels the air press in closer around them.
“You’re going to hand me my son. And then we’re going to walk out of here, all of us, alive,” John says, voice tight and even.
The demon is chuckling like he didn’t even hear John’s statement. He examines the floating debris and looks down at Sam fondly. “Ah, well done, Sam.”
“Don’t let him leave with Sam,” Castiel begs, fingers winding tighter in John’s pant leg and as horrifyingly curious as Dean is for what Castiel knows, he wants the kid to shut up for his own good.
“Sam,” The demon says with calm and confidence, “Please give me your father’s gun.”
Sam licks his lips, pink tongue darting out over his bloody mouth and the yellow-eyed demon shouts triumphantly when the shotgun flies into his hands.
Dean stares, shocked. “What the--?”
“Sam, no!” Castiel shouts, “I know you can hear us! Listen to your father, please! You can resist this!”
John looks too shell-shocked to speak and it breaks Dean’s heart.
Those careful, yellow eyes are on Castiel again, bright with curiousity, but the kid doesn’t seem to care.
“I’ll make you an offer, John,” The demon says, drawing the man’s attention back to him.
John glares, waiting for him to speak, like he knows this man is too powerful for any method at his disposal.
“I’ll trade your son for that one.”
The demon nods meaningfully at Castiel and the barn falls completely silent.
John fists his hands at his sides, but Dean sees it and when he thinks his father is about to speak, Castiel surprises them all for the second time.
“Done.”
“What?” John barks, but Castiel’s gotten better at holding himself together against that voice and he just looks between John and Dean, expression guarded.
“Trust me,” he mouths to Dean.
Dean has an awful feeling and it’s only going to get worse, either way this goes, because this isn’t right. John is trembling like he’s fighting the impulse to do something; to fly at this motherfucker that destroyed their family and get himself pulled to pieces, or let Castiel trade himself away to keep the rest of them together. If the demon honours his offer.
They lose both ways, but Castiel’s already narrowed his eyes at the demon expectantly.
The demon is smiling widely and it’s fucking terrifying.
“I’m going to like you,” He sets his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “Go on, Sam. I’m a man of my word.”
Sam looks at the hand on his pajama-clad shoulder, gaze unfocused.
“Sam,” Castiel says, softly and Sam looks down into his face, “We’re going to swap. It’s okay.”
Dean can’t let him do this. Dean wants his brother back. Dean can’t let… he can’t want….
Castiel looks up at him abruptly, searching Dean’s face like the conflict is plain on his face. His small hand reaches for the top of Dean’s left arm and when it settles on the muscle there, a funny not-smile finds his face. It looks so wrong, so weary on a kid so young.
But Dean believes him now; he’s not just a kid.
This guy thinks he’s going to save their family from an apocalypse that hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe he is their guardian angel. It doesn’t make Dean feel any better for letting him do this. He’s pretty sure people go to hell for this sort of selfishness.
“It’s okay,” Castiel assures him and it hits like a fresh knife in his chest.
Castiel looks up, craning his head back to meet John’s expression, drawn tight and grim. For some reason Dean will never understand, Castiel’s expression lights up with a real smile then.
He wraps his hand around those of John’s fingers that he can reach.
Sam meets him halfway across the divide, an unsteady sway in his step. Castiel’s hand briefly clasps his arm when they cross.
John sinks to one knee, closing his arms around Sam and Dean when he reaches them. Dean can smell the blood on his brother. He can feel the tremors in his father’s body and he’s worried when his brother makes no effort to hug their father back.
That’s not like Sam at all.
John glances down at Sam, pushing the hair back from his face and wiping the blood away with his sleeve. His Dad’s gaze flickers back to the yellow-eyed demon with his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and that proud smirk has returned to his face.
Castiel is staring up at him, a child against a demon.
“I never thought I’d see one of my brothers so removed,” The demon says.
What the hell does that mean?
Dean looks at his father in alarm, but John is still watching like a stunned man witnessing a disaster in slow motion. There are so many emotions flickering through his expression and Dean isn’t sure he recognises them all.
“Then embrace me, brother,” Castiel’s voice is soft and resigned.
It’s with an indulgent chuckle that the demon slowly lowers to his knees, arms wide open. His yellow eyes glitter merrily when Castiel steps firmly into the fold of his arms.
“Do you seek forgiveness for your crimes, brother?” Castiel asks against the demon’s shoulder.
The demon pats his back, sympathetically amused.
“Who are you, little bird?”
Dean’s lips are tingling and his chest feels too hot, but before he can dry heave, John’s hand is turning Dean’s face into his shoulder.
He almost misses the flash of silver that slips from Castiel’s sleeve.
John stiffens in surprise at the scream that rents the air and when Dean jerks back to look, the demon is slack-jawed with disbelief, light and electricity spilling from his eyes, nose and mouth.
At first he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing until Castiel pulls back from the embrace and Dean sees the large, silver knife Castiel’s stuck in the demon’s back.
The same knife he used to carve symbols into Dean’s chest. It was a very… bright silver.
The air feels electrified, charged and dense with power and if the thrum beneath their feet is any hint, it’s building.
Castiel leans in, twisting the knife.
“I’m the one who kills you, Azazel.”
The demon’s body jerks with a final shock of light and it hits them like a physical wall; Dean’s eyes bulge at the strength of his father’s arms around them, but in the end, John keeps them standing.
The dust settles, the light fades and Dean shoves back from his father to steal greedy gulps of air.
When Castiel looks up from Azazel’s body, he falters under John and Dean’s heavy stare. But before Dean really knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching for Castiel and a second later the kid has slammed into him, full force. Dean's numb, his arms falling around the kid who's just saved them and there's a furious sting behind his eyes.
John crushes the three of them against his chest. They’re all shaking.
“Castiel,” John says, undisguised awe and wary, “What was that?”
He loosens his hold on them enough for Castiel to look him in the eye. The kid dashes back to the body and pulls his knife out without ceremony, wiping it on the demon’s coat. Running back into the circle of John’s arms, he holds it higher for them to see.
“This is an archangel’s sword. It was in my pocket when we returned from the police station, but…”
“Gabriel,” John breathes and Dean looks between them waiting for the explanation, but Castiel is nodding, so Dean doesn’t think he’s going to get it.
“For Azazel, it was more than I needed. Gabriel must be planning ahead,” Castiel’s voice trails off softly, gaze growing distant and he slowly shakes his head at the knife that looks large enough to be a small sword in his hands.
John can’t seem to decide where he should look: the sword, the demon who killed his wife, or the kid who avenged her. His thumb is running stripes over Dean’s shoulder and Dean can see he wants to ask.
“… Dad?”
John shakes his head, eyes finding the demon’s body again. “Are you sure he’s --?
“This is sword is intended for the highest order of angels; Azazel was a dark shade of the angel he once was. He is very, very dead.”
Dean cracks a smile, a choked laugh escaping him in relief. He bumps his Dad’s side when he barely reacts; Castiel was actually funny!
And bad-ass. Dude, this kid was bad ass. They had to keep him.
John’s still staring at the corpse, Dean thinks he’s in shock. But on his Dad’s other side Sammy’s still silent, lolling against his arm and that was really not normal.
Leaning forward for a better look, Dean realises Sam’s pupils are as wide as saucers. His face is pale and vacant. His mouth is still smeared red; he looked like a zombie.
“Sammy?”
Sam only responds by rolling his head against John’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong with him?” John asks, frowing deeply when he turns Sam in his arms and he almost flops like a limp doll. “What did they do?”
“Demon blood?” Dean offers, remembering what Castiel had said. “Is it like mind control?”
Castiel stops, darting looks between them and John must recognise that expression because he narrows a familiar warning at the kid.
“Castiel….”
Dean wonders what he’s not telling them, but then Castiel pushes a flask from his jacket into John’s hand. It’s Dean’s silver flask from that morning on the bridge.
He can’t believe that was the same day.
“Give this to him, he has to drink all of it. The holy water should force it up immediately, we can’t let it linger in his system.”
John’s already coaxing Sam to drink it, rubbing a hand over his back. He’s so despondent, Dean allows himself to hold his brother’s hand. It’s freaking him out.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” He says, voice cracking.
His Dad gives him a tired look that cuts him to the bone and his eyes sting dangerously.
“I’m sorry, Dad; I let you down.”
His Dad’s face twists for a moment, like he’s in pain. Dean’s ready for the reprimand, but he’s not ready for Castiel, who’s never been in this moment with them before and is looking at Dean like he’s an idiot.
“You’re only a child, Dean.”
And then Sam’s throwing up on Castiel’s shoes and they forget everything else except consoling Sam by rubbing his back, ruffling his hair and encouraging him to take small sips from the flask until every last drop his gone and Sam’s sobs have settled to a sniffle against his father’s neck.
Forty minutes later, they’re sitting on the trunk of the Impala in the car park of a diner, with the barn and its bodies a distant blaze on the highway behind them. It’s been more than twelve hours since any of them ate, but sandwiched between Dean and Castiel has given both boys the opportunity to notice that Sam has barely touched his fries.
Sam’s staring off at nothing, food forgotten in his hands and it’s like the nothing is flowing right back into him, filling him up where the curious, temperamental spirit of a six-year-old brat ought to be.
Dean can see that his Dad is worried, holding Sam on his lap. His mouth is almost pressed to Sam’s hair, hands stroking Sam’s elbows and his eyes are shut tight. Dean may have thought his Dad was praying, except that they didn’t pray.
What really worries Dean is that his Dad gave him his burger to finish.
Dean is quietly freaking out in his own way, he doesn’t want to make it worse for his Dad.
“Hey,” He nudges Sam.
Castiel looks up from his burger when Sam sways into his shoulder with the movement. John’s hands tighten on Sam’s arms.
”Look alive, Smurfette, you’re scaring Dad.”
He doesn’t know if Sam even heard him. He exchanges a look with Castiel who looks so fucking calm, though he knows Dean’s freaking out and he’s not getting mad at him for that. It makes Dean feel a bit better.
Dean wraps his arm over Sam’s shoulders, squeezing him gently. “Come on, buddy.”
“John.”
Castiel’s twisted around in his seat and now it’s John exchanging a long look with the kid, like they’re exchanging thoughts and Dean wonders if Castiel will do that with everyone.
“You’re really an angel, huh, kid?” John asks. “Or you were an angel?”
Castiel’s nodding at his burger – extra beef – like it’s the first time it’s been difficult for him to admit. Funny, since he spent the last day trying to shove the truth down their throats.
“I rebelled against angels like Azazel to help my friends. I was cut off from the Host.”
When Castiel passes Dean his burger, Dean knows by his drawn expression that he’s done with it. It’s a good thing Dean’s hungry.
“I don’t have much power left, but I think I can help Sam,” Castiel says, eventually.
Dean stops chewing and forgets to swallow. His Dad doesn’t look as excited as he thought he would, instead he looks suspicious; but Dean trusts Castiel.
“How?” John asks, weirdly stern.
“This is a trauma he wasn’t supposed to witness. If I remove his memory of this day, it might… bring him back to the way he was.”
Dean shrugs, looking between Castiel and his Dad. “So, let’s do it.”
“Castiel,” John’s voice has become quiet, “How much of your power would it take?”
Castiel fidgets his bandaged hands. “If I’m successful… all – all of it.”
John watches Castiel’s mitt-like hands tap together. “Would it kill you?”
Dean finally swallows the cheekfulls of beef he’s been squirreling; and almost chokes.
“No, I’ve been in this limbo since I rebelled. If I do this, I would be completely human.”
A heavy silence falls over the car park. It’s too early in the morning for there to be many patrons and the forest is still asleep, the sky dark without a hint of dawn.
Dean doesn’t understand why his Dad is watching Castiel expectantly. Why doesn’t he say anything?
Castiel’s very preoccupied with his hands.
Finally, Dean speaks up.
“What’s wrong with being human? We’re human, you could come with us,” Dean says. Only once it’s out does he realise what he’s promised and he quickly glances at his Dad for approval. “Right, Dad?”
John’s smiling at Castiel’s bright expression of hope and Dean’s pretty sure he’s not going to get a smack upside the head.
“We could fit a few more in this car. It’s up to you, Castiel.”
Castiel’s smile is blinding, but he doesn’t thank them; he doesn’t throw himself into their arms for tearful hugs like he did that first night. Instead, he shuffles closer to the one who’s been quiet the whole night and settles a small hand on his forehead.
Together, he and Sam close their eyes.
Part 7
