Archive of Our Own

In Castiel's defense, the Men of Letters archive rooms held artifacts and files, sure, but they also acted as general storage rooms. The shelves and floor space were cluttered with boxes of perfectly normal, though excess, items. It was as if someone had cleaned out their basement, intending to separate items into piles of things to keep and those to throw out... yet never got around to finishing it.

In their search, Sam had found a rough inventory list. Dean found a different one. And then another one.

Reading over the paperwork, it was unclear which items were already stored and which were in preparation for storage. It also wasn't clear which boxes were occult-related or someone's junk.

Clearly, in hindsight, that particular knickknack had not been someone’s junk.

“How do you feel?” Sam had worried, his face huge from Castiel's perspective.

It had been a stupid, logical question to ask, with a long and complicated answer.

Presently, Cas was in the library, sitting on the table in front of a massive grimoire that had been propped open for him. Reaching out with both hands, he clumsily turned the page.

Having fingers would have been convenient, but instead, his crocheted arms worked more like paws, and he had to use both hands to turn pages the size of a movie poster.

How do you feel?

He was just under a foot tall and made of yarn and cotton, how did they think he felt?

Cas didn’t remember the transformation, just fragmented chaos and confusion, then coming to as someone called his name, their voice far away, muffled like he were underwater.

He remembered Dean looming over him, looking monstrously large, the lines of his face carved into confusion. Castiel remembered fingers sliding under him, his limbs limp and head lolling as the floor fell away. He remembered being cradled in the hands of a giant and the nauseating way hundreds of feet flew by when Dean stood.

Then, he blacked out again.

Turning another page, Castiel was aware of the way the material forming his face shifted and pulled in order to reflect an expression.

Honestly, he had no idea how the magic worked. It shouldn't have worked. It was beyond anything he’d encountered before. Animated objects? Sure. Brooms that swept rooms. Vines and greenery used as defense measures. Statues acting as sentries. Enchanted pens that recorded the events of a person’s life.

But none of it was like this. Those things had never been alive. Sentient. It was unfeasible.

Cas looked at the peach-colored material of his hands, the sleeves of a coat suited for a doll rather than a person. What was he able to hear with? How were his black bead eyes able to see? How could he talk with no mouth? How could he breathe? Sigh? How could he be so miserable if he was made of cotton and thread instead of flesh and bone?

When Castiel had woken up, he'd groggily taken in the details of his room in confusion until realizing it looked strange because it wasn't his room. It was Dean's room and Dean's bed, and Castiel had been carefully propped against a pillow to rest.

Sitting in the chair by the bed, Dean rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb, his gaze distant until Castiel tried to move.

Castiel saw Dean's expression slam closed like storm shutters, anxious vigilance smoothing away as he explained what happened. Did he think Castiel wouldn't recognize the way he was using the tone and demeanor usually saved for civilians? Maybe it was an automatic shift born from years of conditioning. If Dean appeared calm, it might keep Castiel calm when he saw what had happened after touching the porcelain doll.

Dean had cradled Castiel in the palms of his hands and held him up in front of the mirror. He'd maintained that calm facade until Cas saw his reflection, then tore his eyes away.

That couldn't be him, Cas had thought, eyes taking in the crocheted doll staring back. It was a doll in his likeness, sure, but it wasn't him .

But then the doll moved when Cas did. The doll lifted its arm as he reached out, its head tilted when his did.

Uncomprehending, Castiel had slid his gaze to Dean's reflection, waiting for the 'gotcha' moment, but even with his face turned away, Castiel could see the misery and guilt Dean tried to hide earlier.

Now, unable to concentrate, Castiel let his hands fall to his lap, shoulders drooping. He was getting nowhere, wasting time flipping through a book he knew didn't hold the answers when he couldn't even focus on the pages.

When Castiel pushed to his feet, Sam lifted his head, his worried hazel eyes zeroing in on him from the opposite side of the table.

Sighing, Castiel moved to the table's edge and lowered himself down, first to the chair, then the floor. 

“Cas?” Sam called out as he left the library.

Castiel lacked the energy to respond and said nothing.

Intuitive as ever, Sam let him leave without remark or empty platitudes.

Castiel missed his wings. He wished, at the very least, he had hands he could curl into fists. But no. He was denied even that much dignity.

Would life ever spare him these humiliations and injustices?

He was a child’s toy , trapped in a form more foreign and limited than his human one.

Castiel had been a warrior . He had led military campaigns and fought on the front lines as allies and enemies alike fell around him. He’d laid siege to Hell and-- against all odds, and when he wasn't even supposed to be there-- he'd won . His true visage was terrifying and beautiful, too much for human eyes to bear, his voice beyond what they could comprehend. He’d sung with the choirs and watched civilizations rise and fall. For a human to truly see him was to forfeit their life, to go blind and know madness.

Now, Cas stood in an empty corridor of the bunker, looking at his bedroom door with no way inside because it was closed.

This was a level of cruelty worthy of Hell.

Head bowed, Castiel made his way to the next room instead.

Passing Dean’s boots, Cas grabbed the bottom of the blanket and climbed hand-over-hand up and onto Dean's bed.

Then, he sat looking around.

He was so small . Everything towered huge and immovable around him, everyday items too far away for him to reach, too big for him to use.

Looking at his hands, Castiel's face rushed with the pinpricks of shame, vision blurring as crushing grief and despondency swept in unencumbered.

How did he feel ?

He felt like someone's plaything . A toy manipulated for someone else's amusement.

Crawling toward the pillow, Cas curled up on his side, drawing his knees to his chest, and tried to sleep.

Hours later, Cas was roused from fitful sleep by a faint click and muted silence, the change in sound enough to make him stir. Groggy and disoriented, Castiel pushed to sitting and shook his head. When he saw his hands, his body-- when he remembered-- Cas' went rigid, staring. Then, he slowly dragged his attention to the door.

Dean stood leaning against it, eyes shuttered.

“My door is closed,” Cas explained. He couldn't bear to hear Dean ask the obvious. Green eyes flicked to their shared wall, then fell. It was then Cas noted the damp hair fresh from the shower, the sweatpants and t-shirt, the closed door. Dean was dressed for sleep; this was his bedroom. Cas shuffled to the edge of the mattress. “I can leave.”

“Cas, no,” Dean protested, taking an aborted step. Cas froze, and Dean looked anywhere but at him, rubbing the back of his neck. Pink spread over his cheeks. “Bed’s obviously big enough for the both of us-- if you don’t mind bunking with me.”

Decline , Cas' mind said. I don't need sleep. He needs rest, not one more worry on his plate. I shouldn't be here, anyway . I can just go.

I can't do this , the other part of Cas' mind countered. I can't fend off this storm on my own, a little doll all alone in the silence of a giant's castle .

Lowering his head, Cas shifted closer to the pillow and hated himself for it. He hated his weakness, that he was fool enough to land himself in the situation, that his powerlessness was being paraded in his face like a joke. He hated himself for being afraid, for not wanting to be alone. Castiel hated himself for wanting to cry from sheer frustration, from shame and humiliation. Emotions beyond his control were tearing him in completely different directions and left him aching for something he didn’t know how to name or ask for.

Dean moved cautiously through the space, as though he were the intruder. Pulling back the covers, he paused when Cas curled up on his side. He wet his lips. “...do you want to take off your coat? Be more comfortable?”

Castiel shook his head, hugging the material tighter, wishing it made him feel more substantial and less afraid.

Accepting that without argument, Dean turned off the lamp as he slid into bed, the two of them facing one another in the dark.

With the sudden inability to see, crushing panic overwhelmed Castiel, nonsensical and unrestrained. Unable to breathe, he scrambled blindly toward Dean, clawed at the sheets until he was clutching the front of Dean’s shirt. Cas trembled from head-to-toe, and he pressed his face to the material of Dean's nightshirt trying to ground himself, afraid he'd disappear if he let go. Grateful his beaded eyes didn’t have tear ducts to cry with, Castiel prayed Dean would allow him this. Wouldn't push him away for overreacting, for being needy and scared. He prayed Dean wouldn't let him drown and suffocate and break.

Cas choked, a muffled sound escaping him before he pressed himself more firmly against Dean as though trying to barricade a door instead.

A hand settled against Castiel’s back, and Dean gently ran his thumb back and forth. “You’re gonna be okay,” he promised, voice a whisper, his warmth a shield wrapping around Castiel. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Not sure he believed him, Cas nodded, swallowing back a whimper. He tried to concentrate on breathing, on the steady beat of Dean’s heart. Castiel counted each one until the comforting sound lulled him into a dreamless sleep.

  “Cas,” Dean whispered. A hand shook him, the touch light, meant to rouse. “Morning, Sunshine. Time to wake up.”

Relaxed and warm, Cas floated to the surface of wakefulness, ready to sink back down just as easily as he blinked his eyes open to a world of solid gray. He clutched the soft material with paw-like hands. Recoiling in confusion and alarm, Castiel tried to scramble backward, head jerking all around, trying to take in his surroundings, and then his head jerked back, field of vision swinging up.

Dean loomed above him, head angled. “Easy, tiger, it’s just me.” He smirked, one brow swept high. “Forget where you were for a second?”

Forgot where he was. Forgot what he was. A disorienting nightmare settling piece-by-piece into his reality.

He sat back, legs splayed in front of him as the panic swept back out to sea, numbness crashing into him in its place.

Back popping as he stretched and groaned, Dean yawned before letting his arms drop with a sigh of satisfaction. His bright green eyes landed on Castiel, smile easy.

“Wanna keep me company while I make breakfast?”

Fighting the urge to not sag in relief they weren't going to talk about last night, Cas jerked his head in an eager nod. “Yes.”

“Awesome!” Dean looked around. “...Would probably be a lot faster if I just took you with me in there.” His eyes met Cas’. “That cool with you?”

The need to be carried room-to-room like a child’s toy? No. No, that was not 'cool' with Castiel, but it was logical.

He sighed. “Yes.”

“‘Kay. Imma run to the bathroom, then come back, okay?”

When Dean left the room, all of approximately five seconds passed before the need to move, to do, to prove himself-- what did it mean when an angel was insecure and desperate for validation or was that part of their basic nature?-- had Castiel up and reaching for the sheet.

He tugged the material up and straightened it, then did the same with the blanket, before grappling with a pillow relatively the size of a whale. Managing to center the monstrosity, Castiel climbed to the top of it, jumping from one side to the other trying to fluff it into proper shape. Finally, Cas pulled on the pillowcase, smoothing out the wrinkles, until it looked pristine.

Task finished, Castiel was disappointed to find nothing else he could do. Sighing, he resigned himself to waiting, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

Dean swung into the room a few moments later, momentum staggering to a halt.

Cas looked up, watching Dean's eyes as they took in the neatly made bed, then Castiel.

Dean did that thing again. The one where he shut down his emotions, shielded his thoughts behind a blank slate a flash before a mask promising everything was fine slipped into place.

Dean grinned. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Not that I’ll be partaking, but the company is nice enough.” Dean hesitated when he came to stand by the bed. Castiel had to tilt his head all the way back to see his face. "The distance is significantly greater for me, so please move a bit slower. It’s… dizzying.”

Dean winced and nodded, a bitten back apology obvious in the line of his brows as he did as requested.

Rather than carrying Cas as expected, Dean placed Cas on his shoulder where he could sit.

“Think you can hang on up there?”

Stabilizing himself with a hand on Dean's shoulder, the other on the back of his neck, Cas nodded, pleased and grateful. “Yes.”

When they left the room, Dean paused to glance down the hall toward Sam’s room. The door was closed.

Cas saw the flex of muscle as Dean clenched his teeth, brows drawing together as he turned away.

  When the lines of his features didn't soften, Castiel hedged, “...Is something wrong?” 

Dean blinked, startled out of his thoughts as though he'd forgotten about the angel perched on his shoulder. “Nah. Everything’s fine.”

The yarn where Cas' mouth would have been tugged into something like a smile with the lie. Everything was fine, save for all the broken pieces on the ground.

Lucifer and Michael were dead, sure. Mary was alive and off hunting. Charlie was on a road trip discovering their universe and following the threads of her other-self. Jack was staying with Jody and the girls, wanting to meet them-- specifically Claire due to a sort of pseudo-sibling relationship-- and build friendships with people closer to his age he could be himself with.

All of those things seemed positive if you only glanced at the surface, but if you looked-- really looked-- the cracks in the facade grew more and more apparent.

Jack was having an identity crisis. He had the appearance of an adult, but the mind and experience of a toddler, too young to be at the heart of a cosmic war, a tool for Lucifer's manipulation. How was a child to know who he was, decide who he wanted to be, when so many were deciding it for him based on half his parentage?

Sam… was not handling things well. Having Lucifer free and their enemy again, having him get so close without them ever knowing... it tore open all of his old wounds. Memories of the apocalypse and Hell and the Cage had been yanked to the forefront of his mind, allowed to fester and bleed as recent events became salt in the wound. He’d adopted sleep habits worse than Dean’s. Sam stayed up all hours of the night busying himself with books or in the gym. He would run on the treadmill for hours, as though he could outrun his memories, could keep his mind too busy to think about what happened. It was as though he thought pushing himself to exhaustion could push the traumas back into that box where the Winchesters shoved everything. Every night, it was the same pattern, Sam pushing himself to the brink like maybe-- tonight, tonight, tonight-- he'd surrender to a dreamless sleep. Maybe this time he wouldn't wake up screaming and gasping to breathe.

Then, there was Dean, the sort-of figurehead of the family, with enough trauma of his own, but he never stopped trying to take the weight of Sam's, as well. Dean blamed himself when things went wrong, held himself accountable to the impossible expectation of doing more than any one man could. Then worry piled atop his guilt when his efforts didn't erase the shadows and lines from Sam’s features. Dean could not fix everything, and it was that truth he grappled with the most. There were things beyond his control, unjust things he couldn’t protect his baby brother from, couldn't protect Jack from. 

It was only made worse by the fact Sam and Dean were no longer the only family they had left, yet they were as alone as they'd always been. The estrangement of their mother was a ghost haunting all the empty spaces around them, tearing away once-comforting memories and destroying any wishful thinking of what might have been.

Now, adding to all of that, was Cas’ predicament. He had not only failed to help them but was now pulling on already drained emotional and mental resources. He was making things worse when all he ever wanted was to protect.

Castiel said nothing and gripped Dean’s shirt tighter.

In the kitchen, Dean held his arm out at an angle, letting Cas slide down to stand on the countertop.

“Hang tight while I get breakfast started.”

Cas turned. “What can I do to help?”

Pausing, narrowed green eyes flicking over Cas’ form and size, then around the kitchen. They settled on the coffee pot. “Do you know how to make coffee?”

Cas gave a sharp nod. “I can do that.”

And he would. Even though he was the same height as the machine, he could do this small thing, could be useful and grant a measure of relief when Dean sighed into that first cup.

Dean did little more than get the coffee down before moving over to the fridge.

“Sam can’t cook,” he said. Cas looked over this shoulder as Dean retrieved a variety of things, arranging them in neat order. “And I’m not just janking on Sam saying that,” he assured, grabbing a frying pan off the hook. Castiel carefully tipped the bag of coffee on its side so he could shovel out the grounds. “He cannot cook. You try to get Sam to scramble some eggs and you’re gonna eat overcooked, rubbery eggs with pieces of shell in them. He tries, I’ll give him that.” He opened a container of leftover rice and poured it into the pan with a bowl of mixed vegetables. “I was laid up with a broken leg back… well, it was after you died. The first time. Er, the second, I guess? When we were fighting the leviathan. Running from them more like; had to go to ground-- in part because I broke my frikkin leg and had a cast up to my thigh. Showers were fun, lemme tell you.”

He waved wildly with the spatula and threw Cas a wink, not commenting on the way Castiel was struggling to drag the faucet sprayer over to the coffee pot to fill it with water. “So Sam-- bless him-- despite his own damage and putting up with hallucinating Lucifer like a ridiculous sitcom laugh track of bad puns and sarcasm, has to take up most of the cooking because hey! Cast. Up to my thigh. Part of it was wanting to help me, though he’s never been good at the caregiving bit, and part, I know, was him just trying to keep himself busy so as to not focus on his own things, which hey, can’t blame him for.”

 Hugging the nozzle, Cas smiled as water began filling the reservoir. “I take it his attempts didn’t go well?”

Pouring a dark sauce into the rice and vegetable mix with a flourish, Dean slid him a look. “Did I mention Sam can’t cook?” He stirred his concoction, letting the rice turn a warm brown as Castiel turned off the water. He closed the lid and hit the brew button. “Rubbery eggs. Burnt grilled cheese. Even if he’s just heating up soup it explodes everywhere. I would not believe it had I not witnessed it my whole life. He's like a magnet that repels food or something. The one thing he is mildly confident in his ability to cook chili-- which again is not great, but is edible.” He shrugged as he poured the mixture into a bowl, rinsed, and wiped out the pan before he started cracking eggs in another bowl. “Cas. Dude. Chili. Every day. For weeks ." A shudder rippled through him. "I ended up losing weight because I couldn’t bear to look at another bowl of it. How the kid managed without me, I don’t know. Probably ate in the college cafeteria until Jess and she saved him from himself. Probably saved her, too.”

When the flat circle of eggs began to solidify, Dean scooped some of his earlier mixture into it, and folded the edge over, then transferred the omelet to a plate.

“I say all of that to make sure-- if you ever break your leg and are laid up in bed?” He drizzled a squiggle of ketchup across the top of the omelet, presenting the finished product to Castiel with a flourish. “ Don’t let Sam try to feed you.”

Wishing he could properly smile, Cas soundlessly clapped his plush hands. Dean gave a mock bow.

Once he poured himself a cup of coffee, Dean scooped up Cas, depositing him on the table before sitting down to eat.

Castiel eyed his breakfast. “Where did you learn that?”

“To cook? Necessity. Boredom from being stuck in motels and the desperate need for variety on a limited budget. I can only eat microwave mac and cheese so much, and fresh groceries added to food bank donations made money last longer.”

Shaking his head, Cas pointed. “No, where did you learn to cook that .”

“Ah.” He shrugged. “Got the idea from watching anime.” Cas watched him, and Dean stared back, food making his cheek bulge on one side. “Yeah, your face isn’t giving me anything to work with expression-wise, so I don’t know where to go from there.”

Cas looked away, hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Dude, don’t be sorry.” He waved his fork, then continued to eat. “I guess I never realized how much I depend on non-verbal cues for what to say next, like if that was all the answer you were looking for or if you want me to elaborate on the story. Or even if you fell asleep-- though your eyes lose their shininess when you blink or sleep.”

“I’ll try to communicate better,” Cas promised, nod exaggerated.

Dean's mouth pulled down at the corners. “Cas, I was just teasing you. You’re fine, dude.”

“I’m not, and I’m sorry.” He looked at his palms. Was this going to be the story of his life? Failure and disappointment until he ultimately became nothing? “I only wanted to help, but yet again...” He sagged. “I’m sorry.”

The clock on the wall counted out the seconds of weighted guilt and awkward silence.

Dean placed a hand, heavy but gentle, on his head. Startled, Cas looked up to see Dean's thin smile, open weariness making him look old beyond his years.

“Cas, it’s not your fault. It could have been me digging through the box. Or Sam.” His thumb stroked over the yarn of Castiel’s hair. Cas was aware he was effectively being petted but he appreciated the effort. Perhaps his childish appearance made it easier for Dean to be open up more. “The room was full of stuff that wasn’t organized or on shelves. There’s no way you could have known. We still haven’t been able to find paperwork to go with the box-- if there is any. It could be a freak accident. Cursed heirloom from Grandma’s attic.” He withdrew, shaking his head. “You’re definitely a Winchester if you’re blaming yourself for things you had no control over.”

Castiel looked away again. “I only want to help.”

Dean nudged his foot with the tines of his fork, making him meet Dean's gaze. “You do help.”

Doubtful, but grateful, Castiel tried to backtrack the conversation. “You can tell me more,” he blurted. Dean’s brow furrowed. “About cooking because of anime.”

Taking the subject change for what it was, Dean launched into an explanation regarding anime and Japanese culture surrounding food, the art that meals should not only be delicious, but visually appealing. Art, even.

Cas listened, nodding in the right places and chuckling when Dean told him about a character’s reaction to food that was so overwhelming and orgasmic it made his clothes explode from his body. He appreciated Dean's effort to cheer him up. It didn’t work, but Cas could make him believe it had.

When Dean finished eating, he made a second omelet and retrieved another coffee mug.

It was a juggle of trying to balance plate, coffee, and Cas so Dean could knock and then open Sam’s bedroom door.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” he crowed. He flicked the wall switch with his elbow, flooding the room with light.

Sam was sprawled face-down on his pillow, his mumbles lost to cotton as one hand gestured for them to go away.

Cas took in the disarray of the room in stunned silence. It looked more like a storage room than a bedroom. There were unorganized files and haphazard piles of books and papers on every surface and even the floor, but at the heart of the mess sat Sam's bed.

Heaving a sigh, Dean's cheerful mask fell away from a weary expression. He leaned toward the chest of drawers.

“Hop down, will you, Cas?”

He did, and Dean set aside the food and coffee to begin clearing the desk. He arranged books and files, then stacked them out in the hall. The meal went on the unearthed wood surface of the desk.

When Dean reached to pull the blanket off Sam, Cas cleared his throat-- or made a sound something like it, anyway. Dean followed Cas’ nod to the liquor bottles beneath the bed. Another heavy sigh made Dean's shoulders sag as he retrieved an empty bottle of Jim Beam and the mostly empty Jack Daniels. One clanged into the trash, and the other went out in the hall with the rest.

“C’mon, Sammy, rise and shine,” Dean ordered. He yanked the covers back, exposing Sam to the cool air. “Brought you breakfast and coffee.” When Sam refused to move, Dean shook his shoulder roughly. “I’ll come back with water and aspirin in a minute. Get up .”

 The only answer he got was grumbling, which he must have taken as assent because Dean turned, meeting Cas’ eye.

“Back in one minute,” he promised.

Castiel stared into the corridor for a long moment after Dean was gone, before turning his attention to where Sam sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands and his hair in need of a wash. Maybe it was the fluorescents, but Sam's hair looked as ashen and unwell as Sam's pallor.

Even with angelic powers, Cas couldn't have done more than cure Sam’s hangover, maybe cause him to have dreamless sleep, but that wouldn’t fix things. It wouldn’t heal the wounds that carved his face in gaunt lines or left shadows under his eyes.

When Sam let out a soft, almost imperceptible swear, Cas stiffened.

Sam didn’t realize Cas was there. He was intruding, but seated on the chest of drawers, there was nothing Castiel could do save for make his presence known.

“I understand talking to someone helps,” he offered hesitantly. Sam’s head jerked up, followed by an immediate flinch, eyes squeezing shut. Cas remembered his one hangover and felt further sympathy, useless though it was. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything.”

He wasn’t sure if he meant with the hangover or the trauma, and Sam didn’t seem to know either. He offered a smile that was little more than a stretch of lips, anyway. It did nothing for the dullness in his eyes.

Dean slid into the room, socked feet skidding over linoleum with ease. He held pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“I am way too good to you, Sammy,” Dean announced as he held them out. “I practically spoil you. Breakfast in bed and everything.”

Sam’s snort of amusement was half-hearted, but his mouth ticked up higher at the corner. “Jerk.”

“Brat. Eat your breakfast. Make your bed. Get a shower. I expect you in the library in an hour.” Turning, Dean lifted his arm. “Cas?”

He hopped up, surprised by his strange mix of enthusiasm and anxiety urging him to not be left behind, settling on Dean’s shoulder as they headed for the library.

 Sam didn’t show up for nearly two hours, but neither of them commented on it. Dean offered him another glass of water and more aspirin, never breaking stride in his conversation with Rowena in the War Room, their voices low and to-the-point. Professional and business-like.

Castiel kept his eyes focused on the grimoire, pretending he couldn't hear them, pretending he didn't see Sam’s worried glance or Rowena’s curious gaze.  Cas didn't give up the pretense until he heard, “Do you have a lab I can use?” Dean nodded and Rowena smiled, a bright splash of color and excitement against a palette of lifeless beige . “Then shall we?”

Dean looked over and caught Cas' eye, a question in the slight angle of his head. Steeling himself, Cas pushed to his feet and hopped into Dean’s hand before being guided to sit on his shoulder.

Rowena opened her mouth, and Dean snapped and jabbed a finger at her. “ Not a word.”

Her mouth clicked shut, but the corners of her lips still wobbled with an amused expression Cas didn’t understand.

The lab was mostly empty save for outdated equipment and tables covered in dust. Rowena tapped a lacquered nail to the metal tabletop, the dust clearing away like a hand through sand art. Setting her bag down, Rowena began rifling through it.

Castiel slid down Dean’s arm to the table surface but didn’t move any further, eyes tracking her movements carefully.

She began arranging books and beakers before casting him a glance and tapping the surface again. “C’mon, poppet. Let’s have a look. I'll need whatever cursed item caused this little mess. Handle with care when you fetch it, will you?”

Cas met Dean's eye, then watched him duck out the door, his wordless promise for a swift return hanging in the air between them. When Cas turned back, he startled backward, nearly over the edge of the table at suddenly having Rowena’s face looming large and too close.

 Her hand snapped out, bolstering him and keeping him from falling. Cas stumbled a few steps away, his skin crawling from her intent examination. “Fascinating.” She tilted her head. “Can you see and hear me?” He nodded. “Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

She poked his stomach with a fingernail. “Feel? That?” He nodded, and she straightened, arms folded to clutch her elbows. She stared at him, a sharp, calculating look in her narrowed eyes. “Twas a doll, aye? Nothing else? Most unusual.” She turned to her bag. “I can try some basic counter curses and potions, but I'm not sure how to administer them aside from dumping them on you.” Glancing over her shoulder at him, she smirked, brow sweeping high. “I don’t suppose you fancy getting washed and tossed in the dryer. Would you shrink further, I wonder? Ah! I’d know that glare doll or not. Such a dirty look. It was a jest , angel,” she said, waving a hand as she dug through her bag. “I'll not risk worrying that bonnie hunter of yers further. I’d be creating a hair tonic next.”

When Dean returned, he held the porcelain doll out in front of him with a pair of metal tongs.

Rowena's back straightened as she turned. “Not crochet? How odd. Did you touch it again?” Dean and Cas shared a look, then back to her. She raised her hands. “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”

Dean folded his arms. “And risk making it worse? No.”

“Alright, well, then we need a test subject. Do y’have a prisoner?” His brows shot up. “We could ask Fergus to donate I’m sure-- all very bad people, of course." She tapped her lips with her index finger, talking to herself more than she was to them. "I wonder if being an angel had any effect on it. 've never cursed an occult or ethereal creature. Such a thing seems as likely to explode as it might fizzle into nothing. Too bad we’vn’t another angel to test. Have you got any?" she asked, gaze sharpening with focus on them again. She scoffed when Dean shook his head, then pulled out her cell phone. “Well, I’ll need to run tests on various subjects before I can even begin to offer answers. Maybe a demon or two. I know Fergus has more than a few to spare." She blinked, gaze flicking up to meet Dean's. "I don’t suppose a girl could get a cuppa?”

Scowling, Dean opened his mouth to snarl out something, but Cas looked at him. “ Dean .” Despite being unable to properly convey thoughts with body expression, whatever Dean saw when he looked at Cas had him heaving a weary sigh, palm face up at the edge of the table.

“ Fine . Pot of tea coming up.” He jabbed a finger at her as he scooped Castiel into the crook of his arm, something protective in the way he cradled his arm to his chest. “Not a word of this to Crowley, understood?”

“Mum’s the word,” she promised, dimples flashing as mirth danced in her eyes.

Truth be told, the King of Hell being alive again was probably the most underwhelming of recent events.

Of course, after multiple universes, doppelgangers, and a second showdown between Michael and Lucifer, Crowley being resurrected by a Prince of Hell because they were that dedicated to not being in charge? Didn’t even register on the Weird-o-meter.

What did? Seeing Rowena get choked up tat having her son back.

Their lives were surreal .

Cas waited until they were down the corridor. “Do you think she’ll keep it to herself?”

“If she doesn’t want to end up the one being experimented on, she will.”

After getting Rowena a kettle and a few tea bags-- with a side look at the man sitting bound and gagged in the corner-- Dean headed to the library.

“Sammy, you good?”

Sam raised his head, his skin less waxen, but the lines and shadows still prominent. “Yeah, why?”

Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Rowena’s in the R&D room, and my eyes need a break. Me and Cas are gonna be in the Cave if you wanna walk by and check on her occasionally.” He hesitated. “...if you hear screaming, Crowley’s offered her test subjects to find a cure with.”

Sam stiffened. “And we’re okay with that?”

“I figure it’s kinder than whatever Hell’s got planned.”

Sam made a sound of reluctant agreement before returning to his research into curses and counter-curses.

When they turned to the hallway, Dean looked down to give Cas a crooked smile, a bare hint of teeth flashing. “ I am gonna introduce you to some anime .”

And for some reason, it didn't bother Castiel in the slightest that Dean still cradled Cas in the crook of his arm as they made their way through the bunker.

“What does cooking have to do with being attacked by monstrous octopi? Or ‘demonic talons of aroma magic’? There’s no such thing. Why do they keep ending up naked?”

“It’s a use of hyperbolic humor to the point of ridiculousness that makes it funny. It's supposed to be ridiculous!” He settled his hand on Cas’ head where he sat in Dean’s lap. Cas looked up to find him grinning. “Just watch .”

Frowning, Castiel turned back to the tv and laid his head against Dean’s sternum. He didn't think humans would ever make sense. He was comfortable, though, which counted for something. Further, the sound of Dean’s heart so close to his ear was one he found he rather enjoyed. Humans might never make sense, but Castiel was content right where he was.

Lucifer’s face loomed large over Castiel, his grin a jagged slash revealing all of his teeth, sharp and uneven.

Castiel shoved his feet under himself, yarn sliding ineffectually against the slick wood surface of the library table as he tried to scramble away, to run.

“Ah, ah…” Lucifer cooed. Long fingers nimbly plucked the back of Cas’ coat and dragged him back, lifting his feet off the table. Castiel flailed, tearing free of the garment and throwing his weight forward when he landed. A desperate ball of hysteria was surging to life in Cas' chest, making it hard to breathe, to think, to choke back the scream barely held at bay in his throat. Lucifer laughed and grabbed Castiel by his suit jacket, clucking his tongue and cooing. “Did you really think you could get away, Castiel? So naive.”

Castiel's movements were clumsy, all his years as a trained solder forsaking him as he twisted and pulled free of the jacket, as well, landing on his hands and knees. He panted, breaths shallow and high in his throat.

Lucifer gasped, eyes lighting up with delight.

The terrible sight had a voice screaming inside Cas's head. He tried to get his feet under him again but still couldn't get traction on the sleek surface of the table.

Lucifer reached forward, snagging Cas' foot and making him land on his belly, Castiel scrambled, twisting to look where Lucifer grabbed him.

Black yarn was pinched between Lucifer’s fingers, and he gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Looks like you have a snag , brother.”

He gave the yarn a tug, dragging Castiel a few inches closer.

Cold terror and despair filled Castiel as more yarn came free, cotton bursting from the opening. Cas turned and tried again to escape as the strange tugging sensation on his leg continued.

Lucifer laughed a low, pleased hum that would have sounded warm were it anyone else. The sound made Castiel’s skin crawl and his hair stand on end.

A gasp in his throat, Castiel threw another glance over his shoulder, the rhythm of his heart stumbling at the sight of his leg unraveled to the knee. Cotton spilled across the wood, the stitches coming undone with ease as Lucifer continued pulling with meticulous glee.

“You’re just falling to pieces, Castiel.” He stopped, head tilting. Side of his mouth stretching higher, Lucifer reached forward, plucking at a loose thread on Cas' arm. The small tug made cotton erupt from the split. “I get to tear you apart after all.”

“No!” Castiel shouted, voice strangled.

There was no defiance in Castiel's words nor his action, just unbridled terror. He was going to die. Lucifer was finally going to win, and Castiel was going to die. Even as he fought to free himself, panic overriding logic, he only unraveled faster. Lucifer loomed larger, his grin stretching wider , his laugh louder --

“ No! ” Cas screamed, fighting against the force restraining him, suddenly unable to see. He got tangled and toppled over.

“Cas, whoa, stop, Cas!” a voice barked. Cas fought wildly, no coordination as he freed himself, but stumbled like a drunk, unable to orient himself in the impenetrable darkness.

A light flared on, near blinding, as Cas freed himself, yet again. from the sheets and blankets. He spun in a desperate circle, trying to see every stitch, every thread.

“Am I unraveling?”

“What?”

“ Am I unraveling? ” he demanded, voice ragged. Castiel shook from head-to-toe, an uncontrollable quaking. There was a painful build up growing in his chest, a surge he was hopelessly unable to brace for.

Green eyes took him, before landing on Castiel’s face. Dean shook his head. “It was just a nightmare. You’re fine.”

Suffocated, Castiel curled his arms to his chest like trying to hold himself in one piece. “I’m not,” he choked, a full-body sob breaking free. He covered his face, ashamed as his control unraveled like pulled thread.

Everything was a mess. All he wanted, even the simplest things, he couldn’t do. He couldn’t help Sam- not using his grace, not as a friend. He couldn’t help Dean shoulder his burdens so he didn’t have to do it alone. He wasn’t able to help Jack, hadn't been able to save Kelly. He hadn’t stopped Lucifer and now they all had more scars to bear because of it. All he wanted to do was help and protect. Now he was so weak and useless he could be unmade by the pulling of a thread .

Cas kept his face covered as another tearless sob wracked him. Talons of shame, self-loathing, and despair tore through him, shredding him to ribbons.

The mattress shifted, dipping, as Dean moved closer. He curled his body around Cas, settling a hand on his back to draw Castiel closer. Dean hugged him to his chest.

Like the night before, Cas gripped the front of Dean’s shirt, pressing his face into the material as he shook and fell apart, all of it finally breaking free.

Dean's thumb rubbed his back in gentle strokes. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

In the morning, Dean faltered halfway into the kitchen, nearly dislodging Castiel from his shoulder with the sudden stop.

“You’re still here,” said Dean, tone bleeding from surprise into a question.

Rowena flicked them a glance over her tea. “I’m still solving yer problem.” She tilted her head. “Did you know yer brother’s keeping such odd hours? Two in the mornin’ and he’s running on a bloody treadmill.”

She pushed up from her seat, silk nightgown and kimono robe falling around her legs, before moving to the stove and kettle for another cup of tea.

Dean made a series of aborted vowel sounds, and she looked at him, one brow swept high. Her normally immaculate hair was sleep mussed, but still fell in elegant curls and waves. It looked as though she’d bothered with bare minimal makeup before stepping out of her room, which Castiel found curious. She was beautiful, but with an unexpected vulnerability and unspoken trust that was startling to see.

“Made myself at home in the room across the hall. Fergus sent an overnight bag and seems to be under the impression my staying over was of a less professional nature. I’ve left him to wonder which of you I might have gotten tangled up with. His reactions as he mentally considered each possibility was quite funny.”

Dean tore his eyes from her ballet slipper shoes to the clock on the wall and the early hour. “Wait. If Sam was up at two, what were you doing up? When did you go to sleep?”

“Oh around three,” she waved a hand airily. “I tend to get lost in problems yet to be solved. Made Sam a cuppa and sent him off to bed.” She hesitated. “Do you want a cup? You’re up early.”

Castiel dropped his gaze, but Dean sauntered in, pausing by the island to let Cas slide down his arm.

“Late nights and early mornings are what I do,” Dean declared, pulling out the coffee. “Just didn’t take you for one.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “A girl loves a mystery.” Passing Castiel to return to her seat, Rowena paused, a glint in her eyes as she turned her head to smile. “By-the-by, angel, when thinking over the problem, I did make you something. In the library.” He angled his head, interested as well as surprised. She hesitated, flicking a glance toward Dean before biting her bottom lip. Looking a Cas again, she gesticulated with thin fingers. “May I?”

Dean’s head pivoted sharply.

Cas stagger back a step, reflexive denial getting caught in his throat. But then... God, he hated his form so much. Hated everything about this so much. Shoulders sagging, Cas turned his face away and nodded.

Rowena was gentle, scooping him up with care. He tried to ignore the desire to crawl under a rock and die when she carried him like a child would carry a doll, her forearm curled so her forearm held him secure, his back against her chest and legs dangling free. There was a visceral, shame-filled indignity to it.

She talked absently as they went, recounting her initial efforts for identifying the specific cause of the transfiguration, then narrowing down the list of potential curses, spells, or alchemical transfigurations, and trying to ascertain what a change in a variable, from a mortal to a celestial, might do to the overall formula and chemical reaction, if Castiel's ethereal nature acted as some kind of accelerant that would amplify the original intended chemical reaction.

Surprised by her steady stream of-- rather scientific-- theorizing, Castiel was immediately distracted from the way she carried him like a toy tucked in her arm, craning his head to try and meet her gaze as she explained.

"Also unusual and quite interesting: trying to use the curse on a human soul-- just the soul, mind you, no corporeal form-- left with a cursed doll possessed by a human."

"...like a haunted doll?"

"No. Haunted objects are the result of violent deaths. Generally. The true soul of the person isn't attached. Much like with ghosts, it's sort of a one-foot-in, one-foot-out little number. No, with this, the soul was in the doll. Trapped and benign, maybe, but I wasn't going to sit around to see if we had ourselves a sentient Midas-touch doll. Also, exorcising a human soul from a vessel took a little recalibrating of your garden variety exorcism, but is actually doable-- which is both curious and potentially very dangerous in the wrong hands. I'd burn it, but think I'll leave that wee bit of new information with you boys. Stars know you'll probably end up havin' to use it again."

In the library, she set Castiel’s feet on the edge of the table and released him, while Dean leaned against the archway, arms folded.

There was a mound of realistic, miniaturized books and grimoires waiting for him like a dragon's hoard. Castiel moved closer.

“What are these?”

“Sometimes to find a solution to a problem, you have to work on something else.” Frowning, he turned, a question on his lips. Rowena rolled her wrist, the gesture elegant and dismissive. “The books are too big for you, so I replicated and shrunk them. Basic alchemy.”

“You can do that?” Dean wondered, reaching the table in a couple of long strides. He picked up a grimoire on top of a mound. It had been a thick tome yesterday, but now it opened easily across his palm.

“You had the ingredients, and necessity dictated I replicate a magical object,” she answered. “I wasn’t going to risk destroying the doll. I have to have a controlled variable if you expect me to reverse engineer a complicated curse of unknown origin.”

Reluctantly impressed, Dean set the grimoire back down. “Not bad, Rowena.”

“‘Damn impressive’ is what you mean, Winchester.” She turned away, another dismissive wave over her shoulder. “And I made you some pleasure reading, if you'd like, while you wait. Yer welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready fer the day. Wake Samuel and tell him I’m recruiting him as my assistant, will you?” She faltered, shooting them a coy look over her shoulder. “Unless you want to fetch me tea and help me with experiments all day?” His open mouth clicked shut and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Didn’t think so. Run along, boys. When I know something, you will. Until then, don't hover.”

Cas swiveled his eyes to look up at Dean as his mouth shut.

Lips pursed as he watched Rowena leave, Dean gingerly regarded Castiel. “...I guess we have the day off.”

“Are there cases we can work on?”

“We’d have to find them first, and we are not-- I keep reminding myself-- the only hunters in the world, and I do not want another hunt,” he said holding up an index finger. Frowning he looked after Rowena. “It’s weird being... instructed to take the day off.” When he smiled, it was crooked and toothy. “Don’t have to tell me twice, though.”

“You deserve a day off, Dean,” Cas said. The words were frustrating to him as soon as he spoke them. They weren't... precise. Depth and entonement lacking. Communicating in his natural form and language was so much easier, allowing him to convey thoughts, meanings, intent, and even imagery simultaneously. He never seemed to get it right as a human. Stall hadn't learn how to say what he meant, how to be understood. “You deserve to be safe and able to relax. Enjoy it. I’ll…” the reminder of his limitations made his words stumble, “I’ll… be here. Reading, I suppose.”

There wasn’t anything else he could do. Read and wait.

If he made his way through the books Rowena made for him, would she make him more? Could he make requests? What would he request? He had no idea. He’d never had a reason for recreational reading and didn’t have any context for which stories or storytellers were good. He could ask Dean for recommendations, he supposed, then ask Rowena.

Sam had suggested the idea of setting up a tablet for Castiel, and, if his hands couldn't navigate the surface, putting fingers of a latex glove on Cas' hands. If it wouldn't require the help of someone else to put them on, Castiel probably would have already asked for them. Yarn did little in the way of granting him purchase.

“You’re not gonna…” Dean hesitated, mouth open like he didn’t know his next words. “Did you want to hang out or something?”

Castiel's back straightened, hope and wariness two waves crashing into one another. “...did you ? It’s your off day, Dean. You don’t have to inconvenience yourself by babysitting me. I can get around need be.”

Dean blinked, and Castiel watched his eyes narrow in that way they did when he wasn’t happy with a situation and was counting in his head before he could snap out a caustic remark-- usually about whatever reckless plan of the day they were faced with.

Inhaling a deep breath, Dean held up a finger. “Well, okay, one , it’s my off day but it’s also yours. I’m halfway into retirement anyway, and B , dude! How often do you ever just stick around? I get you have better places to be or things to do than be around us--

“Wha-?”

“--but chilling isn’t babysitting -- and I wouldn’t babysit you, Cas, c’mon!” Castiel drew back at the unexpected anger, failing to correlate his intention with Dean's response. Green eyes studied him, throat bobbing before Dean's gaze skittered away and he glared at a random shelf. “You’re here, and you’re never here. Just… hang out with me-- unless you don’t want to, then that’s different, but--”

“No, I want time with you!” Cas insisted, before wincing at his frank earnestness. A flush of heat spread up Dean’s neck and cheeks. “I-I mean… I just didn’t want you to feel... this form's limitations is an added inconvenience to your lives. I-I don't want you to feel... obligated to expend… t-there's already so much going on, and, well...” His voice trailed off, vocabulary feeling as limited and restricted as everything else.

Even things he wanted to say-- even when Castiel knew the exact words-- they were held at bay by the knowledge that such sentiments were unnecessary or would make Dean uncomfortable.

Dropping his head, Dean slid his hands into his pockets, muttering.

“...What?”

Dean shot him a glare, body stiff. “I said ‘why do you always have to make me ask ?’” He whirled, plaid pulled tight over his back as he stormed away. “I’m going wake Sam and then get a shower and dressed.”

Cas was on his feet in an instant, things he didn’t know how to voice in English caught in his throat, one hand stretched out to stop him. When Dean turned the corner, Castiel wilted and rubbed his forearm.

“I’ll just... wait here then.”

An hour later, Cas had sorted through his curious assortment of books, using a rudimentary filing system until he was sitting cross-legged and surrounded by stacks of books.

Head tilted, Castiel idled through the novel open across his lap.

Rowena had made an exact copy of the original. The pages were yellowed with age, dogeared and soft, and the cover and spine were creased from years of handling, of being shoved in bags and carried around. They weren't imitations but true recreations. Shrunken novels, collections of short stories, poems and plays, even grimoires, bestiaries, and one book on botanical medicine.

Before the bunker, having a collection for pleasure reading wasn’t something the Winchesters could do. Keeping anything beyond essentials was a luxury afforded to people who got to live in the world the Winchesters kept safe.

But in the years since, Castiel had seen them pick up used paperbacks at local coffee shops, yard sales, libraries, or a used bookstore in whatever town held the case of the week.

The reminder both Winchesters did, occasionally, have time for recreational hobbies made him smile. Castiel liked knowing they had the sense of permanence, of having a place to call home.

Closing the book again, Castiel studied its cover.

“That’s not mine.” Cas looked up to see Dean standing a few feet away. His unusually pale pallor was erased by a blush that surged up his neck and across his features, as though all color had drained and been replaced. “Where did you get it?”

Cas frowned. It wasn't like the book was something Dean had hidden under his mattress, but given his guarded and defensive tone, it might as well have been.

“Rowena made it for me.” Cocking his head, Castiel studied Dean, who was now looking everywhere but at him. “Why are you embarrassed?”

He snorted and drew closer, hand extended. “I’m not. Let’s go watch a movie.”

Holding the book to his chest, Cas twisted in case Dean tried to take it away. He watched Dean’s throat bob, the way he lowered his eyes, still refusing to look at Castiel.

Castiel did not let go of the book.

“I don't understand," he admitted. "Why does this book upset you?"

"It's just a book."

"If that were true, you'd be able to look at me." Cas studied his face some more, trying to find whatever answer Dean was afraid to give. "Are you worried I’m offended? Because it's about a man falling in love with an angel?”

Their gazes met when Dean’s eyes flicked up. “...Would you be?”

“We're capable of love, Dean. And, like humans, we want love. Most of us are never been exposed to the different kinds of love unless we leave Heaven.”

Dean withdrew his hand, yanking his green eyes away. “...the book goes beyond just…” His throat bobbed. “It’s not just the man, though.”

“I’m aware of the romantic, sexual nature between them, Dean. It’s on the back of the book.”

Castiel wished his face could express more, could relay the bafflement and confusion he felt. He wanted to ask for an outright answer, wishing-- yet again-- that Dean would just say what he meant, what he was thinking. Trying to communicate using stunted words and half-truths only made it that much harder for Castiel to manage. He just wanted to understand and be understood, but attempting to do so felt like trying to control the flow of a tide.

Dean worked his jaw to the side. “Isn't that taboo? Sacrilege?”

“That's angelic prejudice, not my father’s,”  Cas said carefully. “He doesn’t care what we do… mostly because he just... doesn’t care.” He looked down at the book in his hands, the statue of an angel curled in on themselves and bowed low. “It’s a nice thought, I think. Breaking free of blind devotion to discover true love. To be loved in return. Not for what we are or what we can do , but... but just for us . Like we’re people. Like we matter.” Cas trailed his hand over the cover, heart twisting like a sour rag inside him. “I would like to have that.”

Air punched out of Dean like a slashed tire, making Castiel look up at him. Dean's face was stormy. “That requires actually staying , Cas.” He twisted away, hands curling into fists by his sides. “I need to go check on Sam.”

Castiel’s stomach fell with the sudden, irrational fear if Dean walked away, he wouldn’t come back.

“Can I go with you?” Cas blurted.

Dean froze, posture rigid.

Cas held his breath, watching Dean's broad shoulders, feeling like he were on the precipice of something, as though it were prophetic should Dean walk away.

It was the second time Dean spoke of Cas’ absences, and something in the reminder jabbed at him. As though Dean were accusing him. As though leaving was a choice Cas made. Yet there was always something that kept him on the move. The need to prove himself, to atone, to give nothing less than it all to make up for all the times he'd failed. It wasn't choice, it was necessity. He wished he had the luxury of stopping. More than anything, Castiel wished he could stay.

But if there was one lesson Castiel had learned, and it was one he'd learned the hard way, it was that usefulness was a prerequisite to worth. Too many things were at stake for it to be any other way.

For a long, horrible moment, Cas thought Dean might continue walking.

Then with unnatural stiffness, Dean turned and came back, lowering his hand for Cas before settling him on on his shoulder.

The book got tossed to the side.

 Sam’s room was empty.

Cas hadn't expected to find Sam and Rowena working together, the two of them holed up and busy in the R&D room.

It made for an interesting sight, both seeming out of place. Despite her exquisite outfit, Rowena's hair elaborately piled on her head, she was using a dropper, carefully counting out drops of luminescent liquid as she added it to a beaker over a Bunsen burner. The bubbling mixture changed colors each time she added a drop.

Sam was bent over the adjacent table, sorting through reference materials and jotting notes down before passing them to Rowena. Tearing off a slip of paper, Sam shoved it into his back pocket before lifting a stack of leather-bound books.

“I’m gonna re-shelve these and pull the others.”

“Hurry back,” she murmured. Pausing, she pursed her lips. “Bring tea.”

Sam gave what could pass for a polite smile as he stepped by them, his lips pulling into something other than a frown as he left.

“Why do you have a pile of porcelain dolls in the corner?” Dean asked, flatly.

Cas turned back, eyes falling on the collection of dolls shoved into a corner out of the way.

When he’d come to earth, Castiel hadn’t understood why humans found so many inane things frightening, like Sam’s fear of clowns. But looking at the still faces and dead stares, Cas felt unsettled.

“Test subjects one thru eight.” Rowena didn’t spare them a glance from the notes Sam had given her. “I set them aside for later testing, but Fergus is supposed to send me demons to experiment on next.” Dean opened his mouth, and she tapped the toe of her shoe against the newly painted concrete floor. “Don’t worry. Samuel and I already took precautions.”

Castiel eyed the demon trap, then the pile of dolls again. “...you’ve been busy.”

“It is why you came t’me fer help, is it not?” she asked, fixing them with a look and raising one finely sculpted brow. “Did’ja need something?”

“Where’d you get the books, Rowena?” Dean demanded, tone sharp and cutting to the bone.

His profile was jagged lines, his lips pinched and angry. Castiel could see the muscles of his jaw flex as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

Rowena's mouth curled, her sensuous feline demeanor slipping into place even as she feigned ignorance. “The library, of course.”

“The other books.” It was a growl, a threatening rumble that made Castiel stiffen. The aggressive sound was in sharp contrast with the way Dean's face grew increasingly redder. His ears practically glowed with heat.

Guilt thrust a hand in Castiel's chest, squeezing tight enough his face should have burned with shame he hadn't given Dean space and gone to find him later. This was not a confrontation intended for witnesses, much less Castiel.

But Dean had taken Cas with him, even while dutifully ignoring him now.

Rowena straightened, mouth a perfect ‘o’ as she fluttered her lashes. “Oh, did you mean the fiction ? Well ,” she settled her hands on her hips, “was gonna ask if I might borrow a few for the experiment, but you were both already dead to the world, so--”

“So you came in without permission--”

“You two looked very cozy--”

“--and took things without permission.”

“You didn’ even notice, and I didn’ dare make a sound. I certainly didn't want to wake you.”

“ Boundaries , Rowena,” Dean snarled, teeth flashing. “You- of all people- should understand and respect places considered safe or private.”

Though Dean swallowed the words, Castiel clearly heard the 'Should understand violation' that went unspoken.

Rowena heard it, too, because she flinched, coyness fleeing as a waxen pallor rushed in.

The silence between them was suffocating . Cas wished there was some way for the ground to open up and swallow him whole so he didn't have to bear witness to the precarious balancing act of vulnerability and unspoken words. Dean's breathing was quick and unsteady, his clenched teeth the last rampart preserving his pride.

Rowena ran her fingertips along the edge of the table, cheeks not tinged pink.

Dean yanked his face away, glaring at nothing.

Did the reveal of one book bother him so greatly? As though exposing some great flaw or weakness to an enemy? No one book could show his hand so easily, but maybe it was just that Castiel didn't know how to read the cards.

When sorting through the books, the angel on the cover was what prompted Castiel to glance through that one, curious about angelic presence in fiction.

While the characters' relationship would clearly end in tragedy, Castiel had been comforted to know it was a love story. He hadn’t attached any deeper meaning to the book’s presence aside from one they’d happened across by chance.

Dean's reaction was...

Castiel couldn't begin to make sense of it, really. It was another reminder Castiel was leagues away from understanding him. Might never understand him.

For every step forward Cas felt he gained, he always seemed to stumble and lose ground. The closer they got, the farther away they seemed. Cas couldn't see beyond Dean's walls, couldn't hear him over the noise of all the things that went unspoken. The space between only stretched further, and it was an agony Castiel didn't know how to relieve.

Rowena kept her attention on her fingertips as she brushed them back-and-forth along the table's edge. “...You have my apologies.” Dean snorted and turned away, the movement so sharp Cas lost his balance and almost lost his perch. “Dean,” she said, voice urgent now. Dean faltered but didn't look back. “...I am sorry.”

Throat clicking on a swallow, Dean dipped his chin in acknowledgment and made his way down the hall.

 Castiel had felt like an intruder in the bunker after the battle between Michael and Lucifer was all said and done. His face, so recently worn by Lucifer, was salt in fresh wounds. It wasn't only Sam that flinched at the sight of him; Castiel, too, recoiled from his reflection.

Everything felt fractured and relying on tape to hold it together, but the damage was flagrantly plain to see, and none of them seemed to know what to do with it. How did you tend old wounds freshly ripped open or new ones that continued to bleed?

They felt like strangers who didn’t know how to be around one another, giving each other wide berth and unable to make eye contact.

It had come as no surprise when Mary left, nor that she left first, unsure how to be around the sons she loved who were also strangers she didn't know.

Jack had quietly voiced he wished to go to Jody's in order to visit Claire, to get to know his ‘sister.’ He hadn't been able to look at any of them when he said it.

Cas wondered if it hurt as much for Jack to say it as it did for them to hear it, wondered he wasn't going to try and make his own amends after what happened to the dream walker girl, Kaia, or their inability to protect him, just as they hadn't been able to protect his mother, had left him disillusioned.

Castiel could only hope Claire and Jack would not do something reckless-- as they were want to do.

Things got worse after that.    

There was so much guilt weighing on Cas' heart it felt as though it dragged along the floor behind him. The guilt, in turn, only fueled his anxiety, yet his inability to fix things, if only in some small measure, clawed at his insides tearing Castiel apart. The destructive whirlwind made him restless and jumpy, had him up and trying to do any small task he could, too guilt-ridden to stay but too worried for Sam and Dean to leave. Because, if he wasn’t helping, wasn’t doing, wasn’t proving himself useful or contributing, then one of them (probably Dean) would voice the obvious: “Why are you still here?”

Perhaps that was the cruel irony of the curse.

Cas looked on the outside as helpless as he felt on the inside. A burden other people carried.

But then... sometimes...

In the dim of the Cave, Castiel twisted to consider Dean above him.

Partially reclined in the chair, Dean's breathing had evened out twenty minutes into the movie, head lolled to the side.

Cas was to blame for that, too.

Were it not for the hand curled around his middle, holding Cas to Dean, he would have felt worse.

As much as Dean probably should have deposited Cas somewhere out of the way with his pile of miniaturized books, as much as he should have told Cas a long time ago to leave, for some reason he still seemed to want Castiel nearby-- even if the silence between them was heavy and uncomfortable.

  At Castiel's movement, Dean frowned, fingers twitching and holding Cas more firmly in place.

You do help , he'd said.

Cas wasn’t sure how. When he looked back, all he saw were his failures and the times he hadn’t been there when it might have made a difference.

You’re here, and you’re never here.

Wriggling so he was curled on his side, Cas rested his head against Dean’s ribs. Dean’s thumb rubbed a line down Castiel’s back, making him sigh and relax, drowsiness stealing over his senses.

Perhaps he didn’t help much and not in the ways he thought he should, but somehow... somehow there was something Dean found value in, some way Castiel helped, though he didn’t know what or how.

Turning back around, Castiel let his eyes drift closed, comforted by the warmth of Dean’s body, the hand curled around him. He let himself believe that it was enough-- whatever it was Dean saw-- enough to allow Castiel to stay. He let himself imagine he might get to keep this family he’d come to cherish, the humans he’d come to love, the man he’d come to--

Castiel viciously cut off the thought; it served no purpose. Instead, he snuggled in closer to Dean, and drifted off to sleep, grateful for what he had, for as long as he would have it.

It was enough.

 It was another three days before Rowena found a counter-curse.

 And, despite the doll debacle, things had… improved in the bunker. All of it seemed to be credited to Rowena.

Sam was doing better. He was sleeping regular hours since Rowena kept them busy all day before fixing a ‘cuppa’ and shooing Sam off to bed with the warning he better not keep her waiting in the morning. Perhaps it was the constant research, testing, carting books back and forth to the library, and fetching tea and their meals, but it didn’t take more than that for Sam to fall asleep at the end of the day.

Dean was an early riser by habit, so breakfast and coffee were always ready when Sam wandered into the kitchen in the morning.

Sam eating and sleeping regularly made for a happier Dean.

A happier Dean and Sam meant a happier Castiel.

And, in the time they spent waiting, Dean and Cas alternated watching anime and movies or in Dean’s room, reclined against pillows and reading.

Initially, when Dean asked if Cas was okay with just chilling out and reading, Cas had studiously avoided reaching for The Vintner's Luck , prepared to select a book at random, but Dean had touched his fingertips to Cas’ arm.

When Castiel looked up, he'd found Dean regarding him with a shuttered expression. “You can read the book, Cas. I don’t care.”

It was the second time Dean lied about it. He very obviously did care but was trying not to or trying to convince Cas he didn’t-- neither of which was successful.

Rather than press, Cas accepted the extension of trust with a slow nod.

Beside him and leaning back against the pillow, Castiel hadn’t finished a chapter before there was a knock on the frame of the open door.

Rowena leaned against it with her arms folded and a coy curl to her lips. “Ready to a real boy again, angel?”

He’d opened his mouth to point out her question was contradictory; he could either be a real boy or an angel, not both. He swallowed the words and inclined his head.

He wanted to be a ‘real boy’, but he needed to be an angel.

Either option was better than being a doll.

  He woke up on Dean’s bed again.

He felt leaden and his thoughts were sluggish in registering much of anything as he dragged his eyes open to blink once at the ceiling.

The bed shifted, a weight settling beside him as a familiar face came into view.

“Cas?”

Castiel watched him with detachment, tongue dry and heavy in his mouth as the wet cotton of his thoughts struggled to gain traction, to provide a status report and other necessary information. He blinked again, labouriously.

A hand gripped Cas' shoulder, shaking him gently before the hand moved, a warm slide of skin up his neck until the hand cupped the side of his face. Worry contorted familiar features, brows drawing together over green eyes, brilliant and unguarded, as they studied Cas in return.

 Dean , Castiel's brain finally supplied.

“Yeah,” he answered, “it’s me.” Castiel hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “How do you feel? Do you know where you are?”

His brain was still churning out slowly, and the first question coming back with no answer, so Castiel answered the second one. “With you,” he said, curling his fingers, one-by-one, around the wrist of the hand still cupping his face.

Blushing, Dean dropped his head with a breathy laugh. “Well, you’re not wrong.” Cas’ grip slid free, arm flopping to the blanket. The worry and concern came rushing back to Dean's expression, his thumb stroking Cas' cheekbone. “I’m gonna go get Rowena and be right back , okay?”

Fingers briefly touched the back of Cas' hand before Dean slipped from his line of sight. Closing his eyes, Cas drew in a slow breath. He tried to think, to ground himself using each of his senses, fighting for control of them.

By the time Dean and Rowena returned, Castiel was trying to push himself to a sitting position.

Dean swooped in, hand on his bicep and the other on his back, helping Cas lean heavily on the pillows against the headboard.

Rowena settled herself gracefully on the other side of the bed, Castiel blinking slowly and tracking her movement with his eyes.

Sam stood wordless in the doorway, arms crossed and chewing on his thumbnail.

Dean hovered, his hand a solid weight on Cas' shoulder as Rowena performed a series of basic tests.

Honestly, for a witch, her methods and manner were all very scientific, he thought. She was very impressive.

“Thank you, angel,” she hummed. Patting his leg, she stood and smoothed out her dress. “I’m going to make you some tea to help your recovery. Bit of a potion, if you will.”

The hand on Cas' shoulder tightened. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Absolutely nothing, Squirrel. Stop fretting.” Her glittering nails flashed in the artificial light when she gestured. “It’s like he’s coming off a magical anesthetic. It’ll wear off quick enough, and yer bonnie wee angel will be right as rain, you have my word.”

The rest of their conversation was lost as Castiel slipped back into the fog of sleep, content in the knowledge he was home and safe. Anything else wasn’t terribly important.

 Cas hadn’t known what to do with the miniaturized books once he was returned to form, so he set them on a mostly empty center shelf in the library, using iron bookends to hold them in place, resisting the urge to double-check the list tucked in his pocket. They were all there should he happen across them, but he was especially drawn to only one.

Letting his arm fall to his side, Castiel drew in a solidifying breath and turned away.

He was stalling. There was nothing for him to do, no mission to help on or research to parse through. The idea of having to hunt down a place where he might be needed left Castiel feeling exhausted before he'd even begun. He was weary from leaving, knowing it was necessary, but always wanting to selfish instead, wanting to stay.

It was ironic, actually.

While he’d delayed for as many days as possible before he would be forced to leave, to go do something of use… Rowena had settled in and seemed to have little intention of leaving.

She went to art galleries and formal parties, met Crowley for lunch and tea, and spent most of her time in the bunker sequestered in the R&D room, occasionally employing Sam as her all-too-willing assistant.

He seemed to be doing better for it.

It was surreal to witness. For Cas to come into the kitchen, only to find her in her nightgown and silk robe, chatting with Dean over breakfast. It was the casual way of it, he thought. Like she didn’t even question if it was allowed or if she belonged. The way she, in turn, hadn't been questioned. Seeing Dean chuckle into his coffee before glancing over his shoulder with a crooked grin and mirth in his eyes. Morning, Sunshine.

And Castiel had to leave.

Castiel had to leave when he wanted to stay.

Because he needed to be useful.

Because if he wasn’t, then he was failing them.

If he failed them, they wouldn’t need him.

Dean wouldn’t need him.

Castiel wanted to be wanted, but that was not an experience he was familiar with. To just belong. But that was a fiction afforded to humans, not angels.

Cas hoped that in some other life, some other universe, things were different. That he and Dean were able to meet and be friends without all the complications of world-saving and the pressure of responsibility on their shoulders. He hoped they would be able to be more than just friends, with lingering looks and touches, going on dates where they drove just to drive and parked the Impala in a field with blankets and drinks to watch the stars overhead.

With a weary sigh, Cas shook the thought away, hand on the rail as he climbed the first of the stairs leading to the entrance.

It didn’t do to dwell on what might have been in another life. It did nothing to change things in the one he had.

“So that’s it?” Dean asked. Cas turned at the top of the stairs to see Dean by the map table, arms folded, and eyes that of a stormy sea. “You’re just gonna leave? Not even a goodbye?”

Guilt and longing twisted inside Castiel, they were embedded claws dragging across his flesh. His hand tightened on the railing, accentuating the peaks of his knuckles.

“There are things that need to be done,” he said, before succumbing and dropping his gaze, the sight of Dean too painful. “Good-byes make it harder to leave, and they feel too permanent.”

“So if you don’t say goodbye it means you can still come back?” Castiel swallowed. “So, you expect me to always be waiting, but you won’t promise the same?”

“I don’t expect you to wait.”

“Why do you always do this, Cas?” he demanded, voice full of wounded accusation, startling Castiel. Green eyes, bright and sharp with anger, glared. “You always run off instead of staying. Cas, if you don’t want to be here, then don’t be here .” His throat bobbed and Dean wiped a hand over his face, tearing his gaze away. “I’m tired of being jerked around.”

Cas came down a step, one foot planted on the metal grate below. “Why would you think I don’t want to be here? Dean, you-- this -- is the only family I have.”

He remembered curling up next to Dean in the dark, face pressed into his shirt as he counted his heartbeats and drifted to sleep-- warm and content-- despite the circumstances that allowed such intimate proximity.

Castiel had spent most of the last week by Dean’s side; on his shoulder, in his lap, or tucked against his side. It was a harsh realization he wouldn’t have that anymore. He missed it already. Castiel may have been returned to his more familiar form, but his limitations were no less stifling. The words he couldn’t say, others he didn’t know how to translate and convey. He couldn’t just curl into Dean now. Couldn’t touch him or be seen in his true form. Could only be compressed and folded into a new body with a voice and language that weren’t his own, choked by the things he wanted and had no idea how to have .

Cas came down another step. “Dean, how could you think I want to be anywhere but here?”

“Because you are always leaving ,” Dean hurled back. Castiel flinched. “You always make me ask , to try and coax you to stay for a minute longer but there’s always somewhere more important you’d rather be.”

“Dean, there’s never been anywhere else I want to be!” he countered, their voices rising. “I don’t go because I want to. If I don’t, then I’m not useful, and if I’m not useful, then what point is there in coming back?”

“The point is being here!”

“Not if you don’t need me!” They were practically yelling at one another now.

“I always need you!” Dean shot back.

Cas jerked, eyes wide.

Dean seemed to realize his words, then, and yanked his face away, fair skin flushing red hot.

Descending the final steps until his feet reached the floor, Castiel shook his head. “…I-I don’t understand.”

“What’s so hard to get?”

“Missions. Contribution. I don't... I-I can't…”

Dean blinked, head carefully swiveling until he was looking at Castiel with a wrinkled brow. Then he blinked again, some realization sparking to life in his eyes. “Cas, I don’t want you here because of some mission . You don’t have to… to prove yourself o-or earn a place here. That is what family means. I want you here just because I want you here, not because of a case or a crisis or the world ending for the millionth time.” He swallowed, and Cas’ eyes tracked the movement before meeting his eye. “Just being you is enough. You're enough. And I am tired of there always being one more mission. I told Sam before: we saved the world from Michael and Lucifer, I was tapping out.” Tongue darting across his bottom lip, Dean pressed a hand against his chest. “I did, and I still want you here, Cas. You can tap out, too. You'd still have a place here and part of our family. We can take a long-overdue vacation to a warm beach, but you’d have to actually stay for once.”

Castiel didn’t understand, maybe didn’t want to, didn’t want to hope and be wrong that they might could actually just be . That Dean might want him in his life and by his side the same impossible way Castiel wanted him.

Castiel crossed the space between them without meaning to, curling his hand around Dean’s wrist.

Green eyes darted over his face, breaths shallow, and Castiel must have dreamed the way Dean’s pupils dilated, his eyes falling to Cas’ mouth, then back.

Maybe it was a dream, but even in dreams, Cas didn’t know the words or how to form them on his tongue. Instead, he cupped the back of Dean’s neck with his free hand and swooped in to press his mouth to Dean's, lips soft and heart pounding so loud he couldn't hear over the sound, couldn't think about anything beyond the soft touch.

Dean froze, his entire body going rigid.

Castiel let his lips linger, pulling back just enough to brush his mouth against Dean’s once more, a whisper of contact that had electricity zinging through him. If Castiel wanted to be understood when language failed him, there would be no misunderstanding him now.

With a sigh that could have been Castiel’s name, Dean shifted, hand grabbing a fistful of his coat and jacket, before pulling him in closer, holding him there as their mouths met again, moved against one another's, both of them holding on as if afraid to let go.

Castiel almost couldn’t believe it-- it was too fantastic and surreal-- and yet, there was Dean, warm beneath his fingertips, lips eager against his own, pressing into Castiel as much as Cas was pressing into him. Hands were in hair and gripping at clothes, and it was exhilarating and impossible and like the first sweet taste of air and freedom. It was overwhelming, forcing Cas to break the kiss on a breathy laugh, his forehead resting against Dean’s. He wasn't sure if he needed to laugh or cry. Maybe both, broken and set free as he was.

“What’s funny?” Dean asked, the words ghosting over Castiel’s mouth, making him want to lean back in and capture them with his own.

He gave in to the impulse, pressing a chaste kiss to Dean's mouth, savoring it, before pulling back with a smile.

“You want me to stay .”

Dean huffed a laugh of his own. “Yeah, Cas. I want you to stay.”

  EPILOGUE

“--yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. Just let us know when you get here,” Dean said before ending the call and tucking the device into the bag they’re brought with them down to the shore.

Castiel rolled his head to the side, cracking open one eye to look at him. “Claire?”

Dean’s thumb stroked over his where their interlaced fingers lay between their chairs.

Cas marveled over the sight of their hands together. Human hands. It had been the obvious outcome given the progression of events leading to the removal of his grace--  a desire he’d had for longer than he would admit. Live a human life with Dean by his side. Live it with a family he had found and that found him.

He’d never been so happy.

“Yeah. She and Jack just picked up Charlie and are going to stop to get proper beach clothes and swimsuits, so it should be a few hours more.  Jody and Donna should get here before them. The other girls stayed home.”

He angled his head back, craning to see the bright blue house with white shutters raised on pilings, their various vehicles parked underneath.

Sam and Rowena were making their way across the white sand, he in swimming trunks and a sleeveless shirt, and she dressed in a bright red two-piece with colorful material knotted at her hip and billowing away from her legs.

He looked to the man beside him. “Did she tell them there’s plenty of room in the house?”

“Yeah, but apparently, Jody and Donna were due a vacation, Alex and Patience were due some peace and quiet in a house not so full, and Claire and Jack decided sibling bonding included a road trip to the beach.”

“How’s the water, boys?” asked Rowena, dropping her bag by the chair on Castiel’s other side.

She flicked her fingers and the blue canvas umbrella blossomed open, throwing her and Sam’s chairs into shade as he set down his things and a cooler.

“Dunno,” Dean said, dropping his sunglasses onto his nose and laying his head back. “I am way too happy and content right here .”

Castiel squeezed his hand.

Rolling her eyes, Rowena untied her half-skirt and draped it over the back of her chair with a muttered comment before heading toward the water.

Sam’s eyes followed her.

Dean rolled his head around to look at his brother over his sunglasses, one brow arched high and smirking. “Dude. Are you checking out Rowena ?”

Sam blushed, jerking in surprise. “What? Pfft, no.”

A wide grin splitting his features, Dean leaned back. “Oh my God, you were checking out Crowley’s mom. I can’t wait to tell him.”

“Don’t you dare .” He looked after her. “We’re just… friends.”

“For now.”

" No , we're just friends." Sam glared. “I like having a friend, Dean.” He looked down with a jerky shrug. “...I think she does, too. It’s been... well. It's been kind of nice having her in the bunker.”

Smile curving the corner of his mouth, Dean waved him off. “I know, Sammy. I have decided to never tell her that, though.”

Sam peeled off his shirt and tossed it at his brother’s face. “Whatever. You two getting in the water?”

Castiel looked at Dean, and Dean looked at Castiel, and they both smiled.

“I think we’re good right here,” Cas said.

Dean nodded, leaning back with a toothy grin. “We’re beyond good. We’re retired, and it’s so great .”

Smiling, Cas let his eyes slide closed, basking in the warmth of the sun and the sound of the waves on the shore, the feeling of Dean’s hand in his.

It was better than great. It was perfect.

  END