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“Now Dean,” started Garth, trying to give the hunter his best Bobby look. “You can’t sit here forever. You’re starting to get pale. I mean, Dean Winchester is not a man who is pale. Sam hasn't changed in a week. He’s not going to change today. You need to get out in the sunshine, get some vitamin D, make eyes at a girl. I don’t care. Just stop moping in here and get out there and experience some life.”
Garth put his hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow in that mother hen sort of way that Dean always had even more trouble taking seriously than he usually did with Garth. “You idjit.”
Dean raised both his eyebrows at that one... and then considered. Leaving Sammy here in the bunker when he was sick went against every grain Dean possessed, but if he was going to be honest with himself, he was tired. He was tired of watching Sam cough and collapse, sweat and fight and deny that anything was hugely wrong. Dean had finally man-handled his brother into a bed (when had Sam lost so much weight, he was way too light, he should never have been able to budge his brother let alone shove him into a bed) and called Garth to back him up in making him stay there. Cas helped as much as he could of course, but it was almost as if Cas was afraid of being around too much. Dean hadn’t been helping much with that either, another admission that made him uncomfortable. He should have been helping Cas acclimate to being human, but with Sam so sick and Kevin off the rails and just...life, there hadn’t been time or opportunity. He’d been screwing up a lot lately, and he knew it. Maybe Garth was right. Maybe it was time for a couple hours off.
“Okay. I hear you. I’ll go stretch my legs. But the minute he so much as twitches, you call me, do you understand?”
“I’ll chicken soup for the soul him the minute he wakes up. And I’ll call you. Get out of here, Dean. If time allows, grab some ice cream sandwiches. Now get out there, big guy!”
Dean shook his head, trying not to smile at the more-than-slightly-ridiculous hunter, and turned to leave the bunker library--
And walked straight into Castiel.
The ex-angel may have lost his Grace capital G, but he certainly hadn't lost any physical grace. The guy was a freaking ninja. He stood impassably in the doorway, regarding Dean with a mixture of... were those nerves? It seemed like it. Nerves and hope. Like an abused puppy. Damn it. Dean started to channel his surprise into annoyance, and then softened. Of course Cas would be nervous around him. He’d barely done anything lately but ignore and berate the poor guy. Something shifted uncomfortably inside of Dean, and he recognized most of it as shame. Shame and that other nameless something that he always felt around Cas. The thing that felt like playing around with a butterfly knife.
“What's up, Cas?”
“Hello, Dean. I apologize, but I overheard Garth’s suggestion that you go out. I was... hoping, that I might join you. I would like to also be in the sunshine. And I believe my vessel is also hungry.”
Dean closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face and jaw. This day was just getting more and more complicated.
“Body, Cas. It’s your body. You just say, ‘I’m hungry.’”
Castiel frowned and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, thank you. I am hungry. May I join you?”
He owed Cas this one. Time for human lessons. Just please God don’t let it be like that montage from “The Little Mermaid”.
“Yeah. Okay. Come on.”
Something like joy flashed in the blue eyes, making Dean feel even more guilty and more... something-ey. He wasn’t going to name that other feeling. It scared him a little. Castiel schooled his features into seriousness as he nodded and accompanied Dean toward the door, following him more like a child now than the bodyguard he had been in the past. This was going to be one interesting day.
Garth watched them go, that mothering smile playing around his lips. Maybe those two would finally sort themselves out. It was sweet either way, and Dean, Sam, and Castiel deserved some happiness out of all this mess. He was just happy to be around.
Sam stirred in the other room, and Garth got himself busy making chicken soup. It was going to be a nice quiet day.
⧫
Castiel sat stiffly in the passenger side as Dean dug through his cassette collection for something to take his mind off... whatever it was on. Though Cas was getting better at personal space, it sometimes felt as though he made up for his lack of wings by being physically closer to Dean. This was one of those times, and it was making him uncomfortable. Ah, there it was, Best of Queen. He slid the tape home, turned up the dials and almost smiled as ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ started to play. He put Baby in gear and grinned when she purred back at him. Now things were going to be fine.
“Where are we going?”
Dean considered. The sun was blasting down at them, leaving everything awash in summer and sweetness. The trees, the grass, even the gravel, was putting on a show for the end of the spring and the beginning of hot days and warm nights. Summer was a beautiful thing, and she wasn’t shy about it.
“What day is it, Cas?”
“June the 7th.”
“No, man, what day of the week?”
“I believe it is Saturday morning.”
Only one thing for it then. He pulled out of the bunker’s parking and onto the road, smiling a little to himself.
“Then we are going to Suburbia.”
Cas frowned. “What manner of place is Suburbia?”
“The human equivalent of purgatory.” Or paradise, sometimes. He sighed, thinking of Ben and Lisa. And then was almost shifted into laughter at the concern on Castiel’s face.
“No man, it’s a joke. It’s where the middle class lives. You know, planned communities, neighbourhoods where all the little houses look the same. Pink flamingoes on the lawn.”
Nope, Cas was still lost, his expression even more puzzled. Dean did laugh then.
“Just trust me, man. This will be fun.”
“I trust you, Dean.”
Yeah right, he thought. Like you trusted me with the Angel Tablet? But that little something flickered in his chest again anyway with the words, and the gravel in the voice that said them.
Dean’s memories of life before hunting were few and fuzzy. Most of them centred around feelings or impressions, scents and sounds, but there were some he remembered clearly. And one of the best was going to garage sales with John. “Garage Sailing” they called it, on the good ship ‘Thrift’. In retrospect though, Dean was pretty sure that John’s love of garage sales was just a simple enjoyment of people and playing the game.
“What game?” asked Cas, as they stepped out of the car into the sunshine.
“The only game in town. Find something you want, barter with the other person until they get what they want and you get what you want for a price everyone likes and then everyone walks away happy. Barter, haggle, bargain, trade, deal. No, not that kind of deal. Fair deal. And it’s a garage sale, so it’s just fun because it’s not important stuff. If you don’t like the price, you can just walk away and it doesn’t matter.”
“But the garage is generally attached to the dwelling. I have never heard of them being removed. Why would people engage in this activity?”
An eye roll and a sigh from Dean. “Not literally, Cas. They sell their old stuff from inside of their garages. Not the garage itself.”
Cas looked wide-eyed and slightly bewildered, and Dean admitted to himself that he may have overwhelmed the ex-angel with this particular garage sale. It was an entire cul-de-sac, four houses in total, driveways crammed with everything he could conceive of-- including, it seemed, two kitchen sinks. He smiled at Cas, genuinely amused. “It’s okay, Cas. Just walk around and look at stuff. If you find something you like, come find me and I’ll show you the ropes.”
Dean walked away before he could hear Cas question the need for more ropes, didn’t they have enough, and waded into nostalgia.
Castiel stood on the edge of the commotion, watching people wander aimlessly from item to item, toy to trinket, feeling hopelessly out of place. What was he supposed to understand from all of this? This didn’t look like any game that he knew. Two children to his left were running through a lawn sprinkler in their swimsuits, screeching in glee from the shock of the chill water. Tarps had been spread out on green lawns, filled with bric-a-brac and tools and books that could fall apart if he looked at them the wrong way. There were ladders spread with long wooden dowels between the steps, clothes and coats and dresses and a colourful nightgown hanging from them. He tilted his head, considering. The concept of sleepwear had always intrigued him. He walked toward the nightgown, drifting slowly through the people and items.
Dean meanwhile was haggling over a vintage swivel socket wrench set. It was a thing of beauty, despite the rust stains creeping over the handles. The set practically screamed that it belonged with Baby, even if the price was still just a little too high. Either the guy knew what he had was worth it, or he was just greedy. Dean stood, pretending to consider, getting ready to try the old “maybe I’ll come back later” on the owner, when he turned to check on Cas.
Who was feeling up a blue lace nightie.
“JEE-sus Christ on a bicycle...’scuse me a minute.”
A hand clamped down on Castiel’s shoulder and he turned, smiling, toward what he hoped was Dean.
It was not.
The frightening blonde woman hissed at him, and Castiel turned his wrist to produce an angel blade out of old habit. He was both relieved and embarrassed by the gesture, as the woman was not in fact a demon (relief) and he was no longer an angel (shame) and thus he would not be causing a public stir with the sudden appearance of a weapon (further relief). She was angry, however, and he found himself to be nervous anyway.
“Are you some kind of perv? Put that down, there are little kids around here!”
Castiel dropped the nightgown as though it were made of holy flames and licked his dry lips, scanning the crowd for Dean. He found his friend striding toward him from two yards over, and Dean did not look pleased. Cas looked back at the woman, struggling for something normative to say.
“Ma’am I assure you I am not, as you suppose, a pervert. I am simply admiring the colour and construction of this garment. Tell me, do you have the equivalent in a male garment?”
The woman gaped at him, and he looked up for Dean again, feeling slightly panicked. Still too far away. Castiel wished for the hundred thousandth time that Dean had wings. Or that he had his own back.
“Look buddy, I don’t care what kind of things you get up to in your own place and your own time, but you aren’t getting your... kicks, whatever, in my nightgown, do you understand me? You want to dress up in women’s underwear, you go buy some from a store you fucking creep!”
Castiel turned to fully face the woman, and was truly frightened to discover that he had lost sight of Dean. What now?
“I apologize if I have offended you. I am sure that you look lovely in your nightgown, the colour very much suits you. I will leave you in peace now.”
He had taken less than a step when the woman’s hand cracked across his face. He had not been struck before as a human, except by Dean, and that didn’t count. The pain was confusing, bright, and almost comforting. He put a hand to his cheek, feeling the heat as it reddened.
“Excuse me ma’am, is this man bothering you?”
Dean!
The blonde woman turned, her snarl of outrage softening immediately when she caught sight of green eyes. Castiel understood at once-- he often felt the same.
“Um, yeah! He’s...fondling my nightgown in front of the entire neighbourhood.”
Dean smiled his most charming smile, the one that Castiel knew he reserved for only the most difficult people.
“I’m so sorry, I promise you he doesn’t mean any harm, ma’am. He’s not from around here, he’s from--”
“Barcelona,” said Cas, as Sam had instructed what felt like centuries ago.
Dean’s slightly confused eyes slid back from Cas to the angry woman. “Barcelona, yes. He’s teaching over at the university, I’m his TA.”
The woman seemed to calm immediately. It never ceased to amaze the angel that what sometimes required his angelic powers and a light touch of fingers to a forehead, Dean could often do just with words. Humans were such incredible creatures.
“Barcelona? That’s in Europe somewhere, right? Wait, then how come he doesn’t have an accent?”
Dean and Cas looked at each other, sharing a moment of panic.
“Ah, my father,” blurted Castiel. “He was American. I have his accent. Again, ma’am, I am truly sorry to have upset you, it was not my intention. I seem to have made a cultural mistake in admiring this item.”
And just as suddenly as she had been angry, the woman was falling over herself to apologize. "Oh my god and I hit you, I'm so sorry!" the woman babbled, reaching out to touch Cas' inflamed cheek. "I didn't know you were European! Wow, I must be making such an ass of myself. I just thought you were-- never mind what I thought. Again, I--"
Castiel took the woman's hand and held it gently. She quieted immediately.
"What is your name, ma'am'?"
"Helena."
"From the Greek, meaning torch or ever shining light. It's my pleasure to meet you, Helena."
Cas bent and lightly kissed the hand he had taken. Dean's (and later he realized, everyone else's) mouth went dry. Where the hell had Cas learned that?! The guy learned how to kiss from a pizza man porno... had he learned that from one of those period dramas Sam liked to watch?
Why did the idea of Cas watching movies with Sam make him feel anxious and fluttery?
And lonely?
"Oh, um...nice to meet you too, uh..."
"Castiel. I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the concept of garage sales. Dean here is showing me around, and then he intends to buy some ropes. I hope you don't mind if we continue browsing?"
"No, um, of course not! Sorry again, Mr. ...er, Castiel."
"Not at all. Shall we, Dean?"
Dean nodded in silent shock, his eyes wide, and they walked away. He looked back once to see the other women on the block clustered with Helena, watching Castiel's retreating back with appreciation and awe. Hell, he was impressed. He couldn't have gotten out of that more smoothly, and he knew what he was doing with women. Cas was like some sort of savant or whatever. Cas meandered slowly over to the next garage sale, looking rather keenly interested in manly sorts of things. Tools. Okay, Dean could get on board with that.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but I seemed to have committed some sort of social faux pas. I am not certain I understand. Is it because the nightgown belonged to her? Or because she objected to me specifically looking at it? She did not seem to object to me by the end of our conversation."
Dean looked at Cas in flat out amazement.
"Okay, dude... you're a guy. Guys do not look at women's nighties, except in very specific circumstances. But not in public. What did you even say to make her slap you, anyway?"
"I simply inquired as to whether she had the male equivalent of the garment in question."
Dean blinked. Twice.
"What? Why?"
Castiel regarded him sombrely. "I enjoy the idea of sleepwear. I do not presently own any."
Later, when he replayed the scene in his head, Dean would wonder what on earth possessed him to ask. And the answer was destined to haunt him for a good long while. But in the moment, the question drove itself out of his mouth before he could put on the brakes.
"What do you sleep in now?"
"Nothing."
"Damn it...we'll get you some pajamas, okay?"
"Can they be blue?"
Dean was NOT going to think about Cas in blue silk pajamas.
"Yeah, sure, we'll order them online or something. Just… just be normal, okay? Don't look at clothes or lady stuff, stick to books and guy stuff, yeah?"
"Yes, Dean. Is kitchenware considered unisex?"
"I-- yes. Okay. Stay close, okay?"
Cas smiled and nodded, and wandered off again to look at a bread maker. Dean slowly shook his head, and walked back to his negotiations on the tool set.
Under the breathless gaze of at least four crush stricken soccer moms, Castiel continued to peruse and consider the items laid out in front of him. There was a stuffed Bugs Bunny doll (he smiled at it and pondered if he wanted it, but decided against. It had too clearly been loved by someone else), a tattered copy of Hoyle's Rules for Cards, dishes of various descriptions, a box of cheap magic tricks from a child's play set. He began to wonder about the child who had played with it, where they were, if they still had a trick or two up their sleeve. Were they adults now? Were they aware that someone else would buy the kit, and then know all their tricks? And who would that person be?
It could be me, thought Castiel. I could learn to do magic. That could be...fun. Then again, I could leave it on the table and never think of it again. That could also be my choice.
The liberation in the thought made him giddy.
Knitting needles, garlic presses, worn out shoes, used once and never looked at again fondue pots, records like the ones Dean played on the gramophone in the bunker, picture frames, flower vases. The more he looked, the more he wondered, the more his imagination shaped a story behind each object. Where did one even acquire a clay sculpture of a naked man in a sombrero? What was the significance of that item? He stopped short of asking Dean. It would probably anger him.
Dean. Would he be pleased if Castiel bought one of those records for him? He walked over to the milk crate they were stored in and began flipping through. The Best of Queen slid into his hand, and he recognized the title as the cassette Dean had been playing in the car. Cas liked the music, mostly. He found Bohemian Rhapsody a bit troubling but the rest of the songs were engaging. He pulled the album out, but put it back slowly. Dean had said to come find him if he found something he wanted. If the record was to be a surprise, he needed to be able to purchase it for himself, without assistance. He needed a practice object first. Castiel began to wander in earnest among the detritus of human lives.
Meanwhile, Dean was practically humming with glee. He’d been right. The tool kit belonged with Baby. Maybe if Sam was still out when they got back to the bunker, he could take some time to play with his new toys. Tools. Tools, not toys. Man, I am over-tired, he thought.
He cast a practiced eye over the next sale. He’d kept this little escape to himself over the years-- John wasn’t exactly up for casual weekends after Mary passed, and Sammy always preferred new things to old; he had once told Dean that he found old things inherently suspicious, and made the point that you never bought a cursed object at Wal-Mart. New was safer. But Dean was always drawn to cracked leather, faded colours, things that had belonged to many hands, as though passing through a stream of humanity an object picked up a life and character of its own. Perhaps they did. It was a comforting thought to him that objects could be cursed, yes, but also blessed. He just never expected to get hit with a blessing. That wasn’t the Winchester luck. But he’d stopped at yard sales and garage sales and trunk sales and sometimes a church sale or two, always looking for a treasure. Once in a while he got one. His favourite belt, for one thing. He had never seen such a rich depth of colour in department store leather. He found it at a rummage sale and could tell that it had been hand crafted a long time ago, and crafted very well. It suited him, and he cared for it, as the person before him clearly had. The belt had lasted, and that meant something. Even if it only meant something to him. Fifty cents was a small price to pay for satisfaction like that.
He was kneeling on the concrete, rummaging through a box of odds and ends when he found a rawhide bull whip. He grinned, picking it up, and hummed a snatch of the Indiana Jones theme music in his head. He’d always wanted one of these... and if he were going to be honest, he had always wanted a bomber jacket and fedora too. They were just a little too conspicuous, was all. And he had no idea what he would do with a bull whip. Ah, unless he put an iron tip on it! Fighting ghosts with a bull whip, awesome! He flicked his eyes up at Castiel and felt his palm tingle and sweat around the handle of the whip. That butterfly knife that kept flicking around in his chest was going to cut him someday if he didn’t stop whatever this madness was. No, he was not going to flick the whip out to snake around Cas’ waist like Willie Scott at the end of Temple of Doom. He was not going to even let the thought touch down in his mind. He dropped the whip and looked around for something, anything else to occupy his brain, and started digging through a pile of t-shirts.
Suddenly, a sunny yellow spatula with a business end shaped like a honey bee filled up his vision.
“What the hell?”
“Dean, I’ve found an object that I would like. Will you help me buy it?”
Dean turned, a grey AC/DC t-shirt grasped loosely in his fist. Cas looked like a puppy on vacation- stupidly happy and overexcited.
“A pancake flipper? Seriously?”
“I would remind you Dean, that you indicated kitchenware was in fact unisex and therefore an acceptable category of item to consider. Also, I promise to use it for its intended purpose. I will make a great many pancakes. Perhaps also crepes.”
Castiel’s eyes were practically glowing, and his entire body seemed to hum with pleasure at his find. Dean sighed, unable to say no.
“Come on. Does it have a price on it?”
“No.”
“Then we find the owner and do like I do.”
The negotiation was straightforward and simple-- Cas didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Dean offered the slightly harried young mother a quarter, and in a moment the spatula was his. Castiel beamed, miming his pancake flipping technique as they walked away.
“That was so easy, Dean. I can do this, I’m sure.”
“Well, it was easy because it was a small thing Cas. It's harder and more fun with a big thing, like a tool set or a TV or something. Something with more value.”
“Like that?” Cas asked, pointing. Dean’s blood suddenly ran cold.
“You do not want that, Cas.”
“I feel that I do. They are pretty cool, as you say. And I have always wanted my own vehicle.”
“No. You don’t. You’re not getting it.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re too dangerous, that's why!”
“More dangerous than the armies of hell?”
“Yes! You are not getting a motorcycle and that is the end of it, Cas.”
Cas pretended to pout, just a little, but was secretly more than a little glad of Dean’s overprotective reaction. It felt so good sometimes to be watched over. It made him miss his Father, but it comforted him too. Dean cared, Dean would watch his back, Dean would never give up on him. That was all that mattered.
“What about that?”
Now Cas was pointing at a lap desk, hard blonde maple with a built in pencil ledge. It was clearly handmade, and beautifully so. Dean appreciated the craftsmanship, but the object itself puzzled him.
“Why would you want one of those, Cas?”
“For Sam-- I remember once we were in a motel that had them, and he found it very useful. It would suit him, I think. He could use it in bed; I often find him asleep with his head on the library table. This way he could work in bed and sleep comfortably. Yes, I think this should belong to Sam.”
“Gotta agree with you there, Cas. Okay, it's got a price tag on it, see?”
“Yes, but Dean, I don’t have--”
“I know, that's because this is overpriced. You’re never gonna sell something like this at a garage sale for fifty bucks, no matter how nice it is. That means whoever is selling it has an emotional attachment to it, so we’re gonna have to work with that.”
“But it's just a lap desk, why would they feel so strongly about it?”
“Well, lotsa reasons. Maybe it belonged to someone they loved, or they made it themselves and are proud of it. Maybe they don’t really want to give it up but were told they have too, or, and this is the situation we don’t want, they really think it's worth fifty.”
“What is with worth?”
“The same as anything else in life, Cas. It’s worth what you’re willing to give for it.”
They looked at each other then, each with the feeling that the sentence was heavier with meaning than either of them knew how to handle. Even the air thickened and sank between them, pressing on their secrets. The scales were starting to tip, to turn, to tumble out the truth, and Dean broke the gaze before anything... bad, could happen.
“Come on.”
They found the owner, a short, barrel-chested man with a face that could have belonged to one of Tolkien’s dwarves. He was pleasant, a good man, and another lover of the game. Dean had a fine time talking him out of his daughter’s lap desk.
“Made it for her myself,” the man said. “She loved it, made it for her for college. She’s a… she was a good girl.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cas, genuine and pained. “We cannot, of course, ask you to part with something that you value so.”
“No, no,” the man said. “It's all right, young man. Time to let her go. I have the things of hers that were really important. She wouldn’t want this to collect dust, have me moping around looking at it all the time.”
Dean nudged Cas a bit, trying to keep the contact to a minimum while still getting the angel back on track. Former angel. Oh, who gave a shit?
“Its ah, it's for Sam. His brother. He studies-- a lot, and keeps falling asleep at the table. I thought this might be better for him.”
“How much would you like for it, sir? Sticker says fifty, but that's a little steep for us,” said Dean, trying to keep things strictly business. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. Cas was starting to look truly perturbed.
“Oh, no, that’ll be my wife. She’s having a harder time with all of this. What were you thinking?”
“Fifteen,” said Dean, “We didn’t really expect to be coming out today, ‘fraid we didn’t bring that much with us.”
“But Dean--”
Dean just raised an eyebrow, not even looking at Cas, and Cas was quiet.
The gentleman sucked on his lower lip a moment, half considering, half playing the role. Dean knew they would come out somewhere around twenty five, and he was happy with that price. But the whole point of this was to teach Cas how to haggle, and so they would play.
“Dunno about that. It is maple, after all, and a good piece. Cost me over fifty just to put it together. Plus, that's premium stain and seal, good for at least another five years before you’ll need to even touch it.”
Dean made "hmm" sounds, looking the piece over carefully. “Heat rings though, here and here. I could do an even twenty.”
“Well, I’d hate to part with it for less than twenty five. It's a good piece, like I said, and it’ll last.”
“That's over half up from where I was. Sure you can’t come back down to twenty?” Dean and the man regarded each other with mutual liking, two players at a friendly table. A good guy, thought Dean, reminds me of--
Dad. Reminded him of his father. Before everything.
“Sorry son, but I think twenty-five is pretty fair.”
A small, sad smile appeared on Dean’s face, and he looked away for a moment. No matter how many times Cas saw him do it, it never stopped aching. His human was looking back when he did that, and Cas knew what lay in the shadows of what had come before. If only he could wipe it away, he would. All he could do was bring Dean back to the now.
“What if--” said Cas, the sound of his own voice surprising him a little, as it always did, “what if we went up to twenty-five, but you included some of those t-shirts as well?”
“We could do that, sure. How about three t’s and the desk for twenty five?”
Dean looked at Cas with mild surprise, and not a little approval. Cas turned away, trying not to blush with pleasure. “I think that’s a deal,” he said.
They paid the man, and Castiel tucked the desk under his arm while Dean picked out a navy blue shirt with a local sports team on it, and another grey t-shirt from the local university. Might be handy to have as a disguise sometime. Or at least for blending in. The AC/DC shirt he tossed to his friend.
“Here Cas, this one is for you.”
He caught it, and grinned. Things eased a bit, the tension of earlier fading away. “You did good there, asking for the t-shirts. That was going to be my next move, how’d you know to do that?”
Castiel shrugged. “It seemed logical. Those things had no tag, so they were not valued. But you had one in your hand, so you wanted one. It just seemed to... balance. Seemed fair.”
“You might just get good at this, angel. Nice play.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
The rest of the mid morning and early afternoon was spent in little treasure hunts. Dean found a little zen-sandbox thing that looked Kevin-ey, if a little stereotypical, and picked it up for the kid. He geeked out a little bit over a second generation Gameboy, and considered getting it for himself, but knew it belonged with Charlie. Guess they were going to have a little Christmas in June. That was all right by him-- Christmas was always good, whenever it was. It appeared that Castiel had a similar idea, though the ex-angel had enough foresight to purchase a small tote bag to place his other purchases in. Dean had managed to rescue him from an exceedingly tacky tissue box cover made of seashells and macramé, claiming that those were specifically an item meant for the elderly however pretty the shells themselves might be. Cas was turning out to be a bit of a magpie. It was exasperating.
It was also the most endearing damned thing in the world.
The sales finally picked over, they silently nodded to each other and turned to leave. From the corner of his eye, Dean saw a little kid-sized table being brought out, then a chair and a cooler. He smiled a bit.
“Be right back, Cas.”
Cas nodded, and leaned back against the hood of the Impala. He watched his human interact with the child, crouched down to the girl’s level. Dean Winchester. Treating children like equals and angels like infants. Cas smiled ruefully and shook his head at the thought. He practically was an infant. But it would be all right. Dean would watch out for him. He would learn quickly. And then, they could watch out for each other. Family.
Suddenly Dean stiffened, and Cas was off the car like a flash. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He took two steps toward Dean before the other man stood and turned, and began to walk deliberately back to the car, his eyes flashing anger and--fear?-- as he strode toward the door, a small paper cup in his hand. He passed the cup to Cas without looking at him, and slid into the driver’s seat without a word. Cas felt his stomach drop. Dean was angry. Why?
And why had he given Cas a cup of lemonade?
Cas stepped slowly into the passenger side and closed the door gently but firmly, buckling himself in and juggling the cup. The instant he was settled, Dean brought the engine to life, and left the cul-de-sac a bit faster than perhaps he had intended, staring straight ahead at the road. The silence stretched the minutes out, and Castiel shifted his shoulders, phantom wings aching a little in the discomfort of the moment. He cleared his throat, then raised the little cup questioningly.
“This is for me? I mean, I would assume it is. You hate lemonade.”
Dean kept his growl in check, and his eyes on the road. “How do you know I hate lemonade?”
“You’ve said so.”
“What, you listen to every fucking thing I say?”
“Well... yes, Dean. I mean, when you want me to. When you were praying to me, or I was physically in the room. Or sometimes not physically there, but you were quite loud. Or sometimes--”
“I get it.”
“So why did you buy it, if you hate lemonade?”
“Because that's just what you do, Cas. When little kids sell lemonade, you buy it from them. It's just... you just do.”
They sat in silence then, while Castiel thought it over.
“So they can also learn about commerce? The way I did today?”
“Or so they can go buy an ice cream at the end of the day, or whatever. It's a little kid, there are just things you do with little kids. It's just a quarter, anyway.”
Castiel shook his head. “No, it's not. It's an investment,” he said, smiling slowly. “You are adding to their happiness. You are investing in humanity.”
Dean said nothing, but tightened his jaw. The silence returned, and Castiel’s trepidation with it.
They spoke no more all the way home.
⧫
Dean’s anger exploded when they hit the door, as though the thin lipped silence of the car was a spell broken by the bunker. He raced down the stairs, throwing his bag on the table. Cas followed in quiet shock, confusion etched in the lines of his face as Dean hollered in the library.
“Garth, Kevin, get in here!”
A sleep tousled Kevin and an anxious Garth tumbled into the library, Kevin looking for the holy water super-soaker and Garth reaching for the salt. Cas stopped halfway down the stairs, deciding he was probably safer from the wrath of the elder Winchester there. He had that horrible feeling, Sam had called it anxiety, in the pit of his stomach again. Whatever Dean was angry about, it was probably Castiel’s fault. The thought made him almost physically ill.
“Knock it off, it's not demons. It’s angels. We’ve been made.”
Kevin stopped cold in his tracks, his face a mask of terror. Garth sucked in a breath, but settled himself and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. The skinny hunter glanced up at Castiel, but the baffled expression in the blue eyes told him what he needed to know.
“What d’you mean, Dean?”
“I mean the angels know we’re here. In Lebanon. No one goes in or out that door until we figure out what to do, you understand me?”
Garth rocked back on his heels thoughtfully. “Well, I understand you Dean, but how do you know they know we’re here?”
“Because they are selling lemonade at garage sales. We got really fucking lucky that the angel who made us has broken angel radio from the fall or every wingnut in the tri-state area would be banging down our door right now.”
“They know where the bunker is?!” screeched Kevin, a hand running across his chest in an attempt to massage his too-quick heart.
“I don’t fucking know, Kevin, but they know we’re here and they know Cas is here and that is a very, very bad thing for all of us.”
“I’ll go,” said Cas, quietly. The three humans looked up, and Cas nodded solemnly. “They don’t want you, they want me. I’ll draw them off, lay a false trail. What exactly did she say, Dean?”
Dean turned the rest of his body, his shoulders set and his jaw squared. “You are not going anywhere, angel, especially not out into an episode of Heaven’s Most Wanted.”
“I’m not an angel anymore. And I’m warded, they can’t see me. Hardly any of them know my face. What did she say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter what she said to me, it matters that we’re not safe! The bunker is only warded against evil, not angels, and we can’t put up any warding because of... because Ezekiel might come back and help some more!”
“Dean!”
All three humans jumped. It was a simple by-product of Castiel’s personality that when he did use his full voice, the others paid attention.
“What did she say to you?”
“Um... that she knew who I was, and who you were, and that she wasn’t alone, others were nearby, and not to try anything. She couldn’t call them but she would blast every last human there if she thought I was trying anything funny. Then she said she’d be watching, and we got out of there.”
Everyone stood quietly, thinking things through. Mostly. Kevin had crept back against a wall and was wedging himself between it and a bookcase.
Garth looked up again, head tilted in speculation. “Now boys, if she had wanted to do either of you a harm, she could have done it, y’know. What was stopping her? For all she knew, Castiel there could have made her a fluffy white pincushion in three seconds flat. Sounds like a lot of bluff to me.”
“It is true, Dean, that as far as we are aware, only Metatron knows that I am now mortal. I do have something of a reputation, and it is unlikely that a single angel would wish to engage me physically. It would be unwise."
"Unwise. This whole friggin' day was unwise. It was stupid to think we'd be safe anywhere. It never fucking ends, not since the minute I met you."
The room was suddenly silent. Cas rarely had to struggle with his facial expressions, but staying neutral in this particular moment was difficult.
Garth cleared his throat. "Like I said, it sounds like she was far more scared of you than you of her. It's probably nothing. We can get on the wires, put it about that you've been seen on the move, or that you've solved a case far away, make sure that the angels hear it and we're set. You're overreacting, Dean."
"Overreacting? Overreacting?! Have you met these dickbags?"
"Well... just Cas, actually. But if we settle in for a week or two, I'm sure this will blow over."
Kevin chose that moment to come out of hiding. "He's right. We can just ward certain parts of the bunker. If we have to we can move Sam into the warded part. Otherwise, we're fine. She didn't make any outright threats. And no one knows where the bunker is."
"And we have to keep it that way!"
"Dean, I said I would go, I--"
"You don't move, Castiel! Not an inch!"
"Enough."
Sam stood at the top of the stairs that lead to the sleeping quarters, pressing his burning forehead against the cool tile of the wall. Dean moved like silk through water, and was under his arm less than a moment later.
"Sammy, you gotta get back to bed, it's all right, we're dealing with it."
"No, you're shouting. That's not the same thing." Sam grunted, but let Dean take a little of his weight. "Kevin's plan is good. Let's go with that for now and talk about the rest later.”
“But--”
“Dean, I’m either going to puke or pass out on you if you don’t stop arguing. Pick one.”
Four against one. Dean’s lips thinned, and he shifted so that Garth could prop up Sam’s other side.
“Fine. Let's get you back to bed. Kevin, set up the wards.”
“I can help--”
“No, Cas, you can’t. You’ve got no angel mojo, you’ve got no wings, and you’ve got less than half an idea of how to get around in that human suit. So why don’t you just go chill out or something?"
Stricken, Cas nodded his head. Sam tried to throw him a look before being shepherded to bed, but the slight man wouldn’t look up. Damnit Dean, Sam thought for only the billionth time in his life. When are you going to stop letting your mouth ruin everyone’s lives? He grimaced, but let himself be led away.
Kevin, for his part, went to the bottom of the steps and looked up. Pain and confusion and resignation shifted and stirred and stilled on Castiel’s face, and for a moment Kevin thought he might cry. He was afraid of Cas most of the time, especially when he had been an angel, but now... well, now he looked pretty damn miserable. And pretty damn human. And so alone that Kevin couldn’t help but recognize their kinship. They were both at the mercy of the Winchesters.
“Castiel?”
Nothing. Just a man gazing at the spot where Dean had been a moment before.
“He doesn’t mean it. Ok, maybe he does, a little, but running into an angel out there wasn’t your fault. Things just happen sometimes. Things we don’t ask for. I mean, c’mon man, I’m the poster boy for that. Don’t let him ride you just because he’s scared. Thats his problem.”
Kevin reached up then and tugged on the khaki trenchcoat. It woke the other man up a bit, and Cas let out a heavy sigh.
“Angels don’t feel guilt the same way you-- we-- humans do. We --they-- are... more mathematical. We can measure and absolve according to the sin, and our Father told us that nothing is unforgivable. But... how does one become forgiven for a sin that isn’t even his own? And why do I feel such a heaviness of guilt? As though it were depthless and narrow and eternal. I don’t understand, Kevin. And I don’t know what I did wrong.”
The boy and the fallen angel stood on the steps, and took each other’s hand.
“I know, man,” said Kevin, wishing harder than anything that he knew what to say. “I know. Come on, let's go put up some warding.”
“But Dean said--”
“He’s not your father, or your brother, or your master, or anything!” Kevin snapped, his eyes flashing brightly. “He’s just a man with a bad attitude when he doesn’t have control. So don’t let him push you, Castiel. You’re better than that.”
Castiel pulled the boy into a brief hug, and then they went down the stairs together to do what they could against trouble and strife.
“Kevin?”
“Yes?”
“I got you a yo-yo.”
“... What?”
“It is a human trinket meant for fun. I thought you might want some fun.”
Kevin smiled sideways, looking his age for a moment.
“You’re a funny guy, Castiel.”
“Call me Cas. My friends do.”
⧫
It was late. Maybe around 3 am. Sleep was not going to happen. Dean rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, hating sleep, hating the necessity of sleep, hating elusive sleep, hating himself for not being able to sleep, just hating. Today had been such a good day. He had been just... not happy, but relaxed. He’d laughed. Things had been almost pleasant, almost normal. He had nipped the golden edge of the afternoon with his fingertips, and it had nearly been perfect until he bought that stupid cup of lemonade.
Angels possessing seven year olds. How could they get so low? Because they don’t give a shit about humans, and they never have, whispered the rage in his heart. We’re going to shove them back in and shut it all down, fuck the consequences. No more angels.
Except for one.
The one standing in his doorway, looking contemplative.
His angel.
“Cas?”
“What happened today was not my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The angel, with the lemonade. I mean… in a way, yes it is my fault. It's technically all my fault. Angels, Heaven, Earth, all of it. But I did the best I could, and you told me you understood that.”
Cas swayed a bit on his feet, and Dean swung his legs over the bed to get up. Castiel raised a hand to stop him, and placed it on the other side of the doorframe for balance.
“Cas, what the hell?”
“Shut up, Dean.”
He did.
“I did the best I could. I made my choices. And the choices that I made resulted in my problems. Just like the choices you make result in your problems. And right now, you are choosing to be angry with me for something I didn’t do. And that is your problem. I will leave. In the morning. I will draw the angels away from the bunker, and from you, because the angels are my problem. But they are my problem because I choose for them to be. Because they are lost and hurt and destroying themselves out of fear and misery and taking innocent humans with them. But do not for a second, for an instant, think that their choices are my fault. Just like your choices are not my fault. Do we understand each other?”
Dean only had a second to nod before Castiel started to pitch forward, fingers grasping uselessly against the smooth tile. The hunter managed to catch his friend before he hit the floor, but the entanglement was awkward and ended with Dean pinning Cas against the wall. Cas’ eyes were glassy and too bright, and his breath sharp and dark with liquor. A papercut of pain sliced its way through Dean’s heart. God, what had he done now?
“Cas? Cas! Wake up Cas. You’re not an angel any more, you can’t just shrug alcohol off, how much did you have?!”
Castiel struggled fiercely, suddenly, anger spiking through the haze of drink and giving him enough clarity to shove Dean away.
“No, I’m not, am I?! Not an angel. Not a man. Not an anything except someone for you to bark at and berate. I’m doing my best, I’m doing my best and you will not give me redemption!”
Castiel sank to his knees, face concealed by the long artists’ hands that covered the stains of his tears. His back was bare, and Dean could see his shoulders shaking in the dark. It was too much to bear. Before he could think about the possible consequences he drew Cas to his feet, and slammed him against the wall, hard enough to snap him out of it Dean hoped. What could he say, God what could he say to that?
The truth. I gotta tell him the truth.
“Look at me Cas, look at me!”
Castiel flinched away at his command, and Dean’s heart finally ran out of room to crack. It was dust, all of it, everything, if this is what they had finally come to.
“Cas,” he said gently, quietly, in a voice he had never used before. “Look at me.”
The eyes were bruised and blue and grey and were without depth or life when they looked at Dean. He brushed a hand over the hot brow, ran his fingers over the slackened jaw, the damp cheek, and lowered his forehead to Castiel’s. He couldn’t look him in the eyes, not yet, but at least he could give him the words.
“I was afraid. Fear makes me angry. I should never have taken it out on you. I’m afraid of you half the time Cas-- one minute you’re practically an infant, everything is new and fresh and awesome and you can’t wait to try it all and walk straight into trouble, and the next minute you’re a fighting machine, or kissing women’s hands, or a timeless being with centuries of wisdom and memory in that noggin of yours. And I don’t-- can’t-- know which one you are at any given time. If you’re worried about me forgiving you, Cas... it takes me time, because I am a stubborn jackass, but I will get there. There’s nothing you can do that I can’t forgive because I know you only do what you think is right, even if it's wrong. A lot of the time it's wrong. But it's not wrong because it's you. Fuck, I don’t know what that even means. Damnit, Cas, snap out of this, how much did you drink?”
A little spark came back to his eyes, those calm and haunting eyes that chased Dean in his dreams, and Castiel looked down, ashamed.
“For a human, I don’t think much. Kevin and Garth only had one drink before they got sleepy. I had two, but I just got... this. Angry. Hurt. I am hurt. My vessel... no. My soul hurts.”
Dean almost laughed, and cupped both of Cas’s cheeks in his hands. Cas was safe, no alcohol poisoning. This was madness. Castiel jerked away in anger.
“Why do you always laugh at me, it isn’t fu--"
“Castiel.”
They both stilled for a moment, just looking at each other.
And then, a storm.
There were hands in his hair, hands that were still learning to use cell phones and credit cards and touch screens and all the other modern marvels that everyone else took for granted, yet they knew precisely where to pull and press and revere as Castiel kept Dean’s mouth close upon his own. The lips that always said Dean’s name as though it were its own sacred word were moving against his, and he found himself pressed against the wall, barely aware of how he had gotten there. Castiel was a long line of heat and pressure, healing hands on a soul that was always twisted and bent under the weight of its pain. No, it was too good. Things this good didn’t belong to him, to them. Not now, not yet. Dean tried to pull away, only to be brought back again by his own hands on Castiel’s waist, drawing him closer, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting in response to his fingers. Too much. He was drowning. He couldn’t breathe. He never wanted to breathe again.
Dean pulled his face away, keeping Castiel’s body tight against him, and he could feel Cas’s fingers curl into the softness of the shirt he had bought that day. Dean brought his hands up to cover Cas’, and squared his shoulders, looking all his fear straight in the eye. Cas’ eyes.
“You will always be an angel, Cas. You will always be my angel. What happens to you is not what you are. Your wings, your grace? Not you. Fuck ‘em. Get them back, don’t get them back, save Heaven, save Earth, let it all fall apart. You don’t stop being what you are because of what happens.”
Stillness, silence. And then, a release, as though a string had been cut, and all of Cas’ muscles let go of their strength.
“Then what I am is yours, Dean Winchester.”
Dean felt Castiel’s lips on his own again, sweet and chaste and full of the love that neither could yet voice.
And then almost before he could open his eyes, Cas had gone.
⧫
When Dean found him in the dungeon, later, it was with no small relief. Thank God. He had been terrified that Cas had followed up on his drunken promise to leave. He tamped down immediately on anything that even remotely felt like anger. He wasn’t going to hurt Cas like that again, not if he could help it. Well, soon, anyway. It was a piecrust promise he knew, but God he wanted to keep it. He leaned on the shelving, making a little bit of noise to let Cas know he was there. He probably already knew anyway. His Cas was a ninja.
His Cas.
He shoved the thought away. It was too dangerous to think or talk about. They were still embroiled in war. The day would come when they could talk, but the day wasn’t now.
“I know, we can’t talk about it.”
He jumped a little. It was creepy that Cas still did that sometimes, read his mind so clearly... and then it wasn’t creepy, because Sam did it too. He blamed it on Dean’s inability to think quietly. (“It's like your brain shouts, man. Through your face and body, just... all of it. Shouty brain.”)
It was still a little creepy though.
“Cas, listen, I--”
The angel turned, and Dean felt everything he was going to say fly out of his mouth with a rush of breath. He was too beautiful. It wasn’t fair.
“It's okay. I can wait. I stood in one place through an entire ice age. I’m very good at waiting.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the time when this can be the only thing that matters.”
It was Dean’s turn to shake.
“What if... Cas, man, what if that time is never?”
“I refuse to believe that. I have faith.”
“You know I don’t do faith Cas. I gotta have something to go on.”
“And I can’t make you believe. I could tell you everything, and you still wouldn’t believe.”
“What everything?”
That I love you, Cas wanted to scream. That I only keep going because you’re here, and I’m here, and that's enough for now because we’re soldiers and we know that we can’t have more.
“Everything that you desperately need to believe but won’t let yourself. Because it's all true. All of it.”
“Cas--”
“No, no more talk about this. We can’t anyway, I’m making pancakes. The others will be up soon and hungry. Just tell me-- even if you can’t believe it, even if you can’t,”
love me back
“accept it, promise that you’ll let me stay next to you, fight with you?”
Dean wanted to. Wanted nothing more. Wanted to cut out his traitor tongue for the next words out of his mouth. But they were true, and he had promised himself that he would tell Cas the truth.
“When I have a choice, I will always want you here. I won’t always have a choice. I hate it Cas, I hate it, but that's the only thing I can say that I know is honest.”
He closed the distance again, pulling Cas tight and wishing he didn’t have to let go.
“I want you here.”
“I know.”
It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. But it was all there was.
⧫
The pancakes were delicious.
Ezekiel returned.
He demanded that Castiel leave, or Sam would die.
And Dean Winchester, for love of his brother, broke his own heart all over again.
Cas didn’t understand, didn’t protest, didn’t say a word. He just closed his eyes and his fists, and left without a sound.
The others didn’t ask, for fear of what it meant. Dean was fine, played at being fine; but for weeks and weeks, the phonograph played quietly, on an old vinyl that an angel bought at a garage sale, asking--
“Can anybody find me... somebody to love?"