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Every Tuesday evening, Castiel makes a tiny paper crane and places it on the books Sam reads. He doesn’t stay to announce who made them, or hints their presence. He creates them using different colored paper, creases the lines sharp so they can stand tall.
Three Tuesdays ago, Castiel wrote notes on their wings.
The first note he wrote was a short cheer: “Research well!” It took him a few tries to get the folds right, the message scribbled in green ink. He left it there on Sam’s book, contemplating whether or not Sam will smile or ponder about its sender. Will he tell Dean about it? Ask him if he made them?
The second note was a little longer: “I know your case is difficult, but please don’t give up!” Same color ink, same color paper. Castiel set it on Sam’s legal pad, hoping Sam would see it. Later he found it toppled over on the edge of the table, ink blotted with coffee stains. The angel sighed and plucked the withered crane from the surface.
The third note didn’t make sense, Castiel thinks. Last Tuesday, he changed his strategy and folded a crane in blue paper; the ink dried red instead of green. “I know you’re busy,” he wrote, “but the day is strong. I know you will find what you’re looking for!” Now, looking back on that moment in time, Castiel was foolish. The day is strong? Pathetic. He didn’t bother going back to the library to check if it was still there.
Today, the paper creased with ease, folding in Castiel’s fingers like a baker kneading dough. He chose a loud color this time, red to bleed through Sam’s concentration. He would’ve made it sing and croon if he still had grace . . . now is not the time to grow desperate just yet.
Instead of writing on the wings, Castiel decides to write on a small piece of paper and tape it to the crane’s body. He reaches for the green fountain pen and scrawls in green his message. He glances up at the clock and sighs: five minutes before Sam returns from his nap.
Pen capped and message dried, Castiel places the crane in his hand and walks to the library. He puts the origami on Sam’s keyboard, the laptop humming in its sleep. He’s gentle with the placement; the head is facing Sam’s pile of research and the tail points to the hunter’s mug of cold coffee. Castiel stands back and stares at the display for another minute. There’s no way Sam will miss Castiel’s work this time. If he does . . . Castiel’s shoulders slump forward, his head turned away from Sam’s workspace.
He’ll come back tomorrow and apologize. Hindrances distract from one’s work after all.
Castiel looks at his work one last time and leaves.
********
The shrill rattle of pipes above wakes Castiel the next day, Wednesday morning loud and obnoxious as Dean’s singing. The shower’s on, Castiel thinks. He sits up in his bed and stretches kinks and lingering sleep away. He then takes in the stuff in his room. Trinkets of his humanity rest on table and dresser tops, on the floor, and on his desk. The hoodie Sam gave him two months ago when he arrived at the bunker drapes on the back of his chair. Dean’s old pair of boots, now Castiel’s, stand beside his dresser. Castiel’s cell phone sat on his desk; he’ll need to charge it soon. Wait.
Castiel’s gaze returns to his dresser.
On its surface are a note and ten playing card-sized blobs of green paper. The blobs were arranged six-four: six blobs in the back, four in the front. Castiel blinks, breathes when the scene was still there. He pulls the covers back and gets out of bed.
The blobs aren’t blobs at all. Origami jumping frogs folded in green paper stand straight against each other; the frog on the far right, front row pins the note under its right hand. Castiel plucks the note from its grasp and takes in the neat cursive in blue:
Ten frogs for the one who’ve made me smile when times were hard. Each frog given for each bright crane. Read the four that stand proud in the front and forgive the tiny handwriting.
--Sam.
Castiel reads it again for good measure.
Three re-reads later, Castiel stands closer to the dresser picking up the frog closest to him. He reads aloud the message inscribed on its back:
“There, in the corner of my eye is a light not quite blinding, warming my heart. / It illuminates my hope that struggles brewing will diminish; / I find my mind is brighter knowing bliss has cheered me on.”
Castiel swallows and exchanges the first frog for the second in line. He reads aloud:
“The sun is setting beyond my sights but behold the moon has gained its luster. / Fighting to find a cure for pain, the light wraps tight and changes view. / “To arms!” Fear not, I find your solace kind and reassuring; / the night’s still young, my mighty bliss, I fight.” Castiel holds the frog against his chest.
Not letting go, Castiel grabs the third frog with his other hand and reads:
Strength! Dear bliss has lifted fog from field and shown bright the hope I had lost. / The pangs of searching took toll on nerves of mine, I cannot even . . . / Until a crane had pointed toward the / tome I needed; bliss has shined once more.
Castiel hugs both the second and third frog. He places the third in his other hand and reaches for the fourth one. He can’t decide whether to read it to himself or aloud . . . he settles on the latter and searches for the text. Underneath the frog’s folded belly was a scroll loosely taped between the arms and legs. Castiel frowns and pulls the scroll free, unrolls it to make sure he’s not jumping to conclusions. His stomach bottoms out, flipping when he sees his familiar script.
Sam,
I understand if you’re busy. You and Dean have been diligent in finding a lead for the Topeka case, so I thought that perhaps this might bring a welcoming distraction whenever you feel frustrated or overwhelmed. I found out two nights ago that if you pull the head and tail of the crane the wings will flap. Please consider flight when you need a break. It does wonders to the mind.
--Castiel
Castiel squints, shakes his head when he realized the part of the note he erased was etched back in, in blue ink.
I apologize for my aggravations. I know I cannot help you as much as I would like, as my brothers and sisters have all declared vengeance upon my head, but I thought by making these cranes and writing notes it would spark conversation or help cheer you up. Forgive me for “being annoying” as Dean would phrase it. This will be my last.
--Castiel
Castiel places the second and third frog back in their original places and holds the note out in front of him. He thought he erased the last sentences well enough not for Sam to notice. Castiel scoffs at his ignorance and looks at the ceiling. He closes his eyes.
He didn’t start feeling like a hindrance until he made the last two blank cranes. He noticed Sam’s demeanor worsened after the first crane and stayed consistent when he got the second. Although the hunter didn’t respond to Castiel about the cranes before, the action now worried Castiel. He almost didn’t make the four cranes that followed after.
Castiel looks at his note. His fingers curl and wrinkle the note slowly, crumpling the green handwriting over the blue. The note’s almost balled up when he spots a message on the back. He flips the note over and reads aloud:
“My bliss has dimmed. I am at a lost.” Castiel scans the note for more ink but finds none.
“You weren’t annoying, Cas.”
Castiel crushes the note in his hands.
Sam leans against the door frame and looks down at his shoes. He holds a piece of paper in trembling hands. “Um--.” He clears his throat and gestures to the note. “I know you were expecting a happy frog, but when I saw the rest of your note—.”
“Read it,” Castiel says. He turns to Sam and tries to smile. It falters when Sam looks back. “Please,” he whispers.
Sam nods and reads aloud:
“Found in you a common friend / alike like two doves soaring in sky. / I often felt when I’m with you the thread that pulls and twines us stronger. / One night my mind locked and clacked with torrent screams, I press behind my walls; / no one will worry about my pain, no one will pick at festering wounds.
“That night I wasn’t prepped for corners creased and flapping on my ink. / My pages firm they do not mask the beaming in its wings—a crane! / The eyeless sees pain beyond my guard, I cry. / From there the days of Mars brought light, releasing pent up black and dark from parts of me I didn’t think / would disappear and I would wait each turn of Mars for flight and bliss . . .”
Sam glances up, the smile not quite there. He reads:
“For this, these nights, I wait for bliss to comfort and console me like drops of river water / pooling into / beds of healthy moss and stone. I wait for bliss, / he finds me. / I turn to shadows, he blots them away. And when I find within his cranes / notes to help me soar, I choke when my wings have sprouted, / tipped in white and gold.
“The latest crane have proven flight was worthy to climb above the dissonance / my thoughts would push to shut mind inside. But then I . . . / I find beyond the mirth and aid the black has stained you too and I . . .”
Sam huffs and looks to Castiel. “Castiel, I don’t think . . .”
“Finish it,” Castiel replies. He takes the fourth frog and cradles it in his hands.
Sam takes a deep breath and reads:
“I find beyond the mirth and aid the black has stained you too and I / can’t breathe when bliss has cried afoul of aggravation, / crime light didn’t commit.
“I, a coward, too afraid to complete the lines of console stayed in shadow; / making frogs with paper and hand. I made each one / each day the cranes have landed on the books and thought of shredding croaks when I felt the black / creeping up my spine. / A burden has more weight than I; I thought my frogs won’t be enough. / I wrote to you my soul the times the cranes had left me song, but I / couldn’t gather ample strength to give them to you, until today.
“Cas, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” Sam says. He lowers his poem and crosses the room to Castiel. He gingerly takes the frog from Castiel’s hands and put it in his own. He presses down on the origami’s backside springing the frog forward in his palm. “You cheered me up, kept me going.”
“Thank you,” Castiel says and smiles. He took the poem from Sam and placed it next to the other three frogs. “I hope you don’t mind me displaying your work here. I find it soothing . . . I’m glad I could help you, Sam.”
Sam shakes his head. “You should see the cranes in my room,” he says. “I’m missing one, the second crane you wrote on? I wrote a response before I lost it, but having it would’ve made the collection whole, you know?”
Castiel snorts and points to the ceiling. “A moment,” he says and walks to the hoodie on the chair. He reaches into the left pocket and retrieves the crumpled, coffee-stained crane. “I don’t think this will befit the ensemble. Perhaps another one will work?”
“No,” Sam takes the crane and holds it in his left hand. “It’s perfect,” he whispers.
They stand like that, Sam staring at Castiel, Castiel staring at the crane. When Castiel glances up and meets Sam’s gaze he fights the urge to move into Sam’s personal space. He shivers when Sam closes the gap for him and leans down.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, left temple nudging Castiel’s right. “Please, don’t stop making them.”
“Don’t apologize, Sam.” Castiel closes his eyes when Sam’s forehead rests against his. “Keep creating frogs and write more poetry.”
Sam’s laugh breaks their proximity. He steps back and watches Castiel’s face burn red. “All right, I’ll write more,” he says. “Do you normally blush like that?”
“Do you?” Sam turns away. “It appears blushing is contagious.”
“Cas, seriously?” Sam rubs the back of his neck and stares at his shoes.
“Okay, more cranes,” Castiel says. He plucks the frog from Sam’s right hand and puts it back with the others. He presses down on the frog and it jumps an inch to the left. “It likes you.”
Sam shakes his head and blushes again.
The following Tuesday, a crane leans against Sam’s laptop with a message on its wings. The Wednesday after, Castiel finds a frog next to his phone.
Castiel picks up the frog and reads.