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Metatron’s words echoed in the white of Castiel’s knuckles on the steering wheel: you are broken. The former scribe of God was a master manipulator but when every angel in creation described you in those terms… Well, that was just icing on the cake. No, that was the wrong metaphor. It’s all just more dung on the dungpile. Castiel peered at the fuel gauge on the dashboard. It pointed to half full and the car’s electronic systems were clearly functioning. Yet, the car would not move. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and switched the Lincoln Continental off and on trying to get the engine to turn over. Nothing.
Disgusted, he threw himself back on the seat and looked around. He was barely out of Omaha, nothing but ranchland as far as the eye could see. The sun dipped low in the sky. Castiel stroked the dash. “What did Metatron do to you?” He considered calling Dean but quickly discounted it. Sam and Dean were deeply involved in their hunt for Amara and that took priority over Castiel’s return to the bunker. He could handle car trouble on his own. He pulled out his phone. There were car repair businesses he could call instead.
No signal. Of course. He shoved the phone back into his inner coat pocket. Not a day went by when he didn’t miss his wings, but at times like this the longing came back to him like physical pain. It was, as Dean would describe it, crap.
In the films he had either seen or experienced through Metatron, the best way to get assistance with a broken vehicle was to prop open the hood and stand over it. Castiel opened his door, popped the hood, and walked around the front of the car to prop it open. He stood awkwardly, looking up and down the quiet road. “This may take a while,” he muttered and leaned against the car to wait.
An hour later a beefy truck roared down the road. Castiel lifted his hand as the truck summited the nearest hill. The truck sped past, then slowed and pulled over to the shoulder in a cloud of dust. A flannel clad man got out of the truck and approached Castiel. “Evening.”
Castiel jerked his head in a nod. He’d learned that humans preferred mirrored greetings. “Evening.”
“Car trouble?”
“Yes.” Castiel hesitated. “I’m not sure what’s wrong.”
“Well, let’s take a look.”
Castiel stood back, content to stand quietly nearby as the human poked around the inner workings of the Continental. Finally, the man rocked back on his heels, turned his head, and spat. “Not sure what’s wrong. Gonna need to call a tow.”
Castiel patted his coat pocket. “I don’t have a signal,” he confessed.
The man looked Castiel up and down, gaze lingering on his arms. He shook his head. “Tell you what. I’ll head home. Call someone up for you.”
“Thank you. What should I?”
“You stay with your car,” the human responded flatly. He shook his head and began to walk back to his truck. “Looks like you had a rough time. Better if you stay here.”
Castiel looked down at himself, seeing himself through the human’s eyes. His coat still had Metatron’s blood on the sleeves, some smeared on the lapel. He sighed and rolled his head back. He had been happy enough to reclaim his car and get out of Omaha quickly. But he had forgotten about the blood - how that looked to humans. He erased the blood with his grace, dissipating it into the air. The human said he would call for help. Castiel closed the hood, opened the car door, and sat inside to wait.
Two hours later Castiel began to doubt that help would actually come. A few vehicles passed in that time but in the absence of obvious signs of distress they rocketed past. He got out of his car and stretched his legs. The sun was down, the moon and stars circled the dark sky. Night settled in, clear and cold. Castiel pocketed the keys and began to walk down the road in search of a farmhouse.
He’d not gotten very far when he heard it: mewling. The sounds were high pitched and accompanied by scrabbling like mice running through walls. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the area. In the ditch, half hidden in tall grasses, sat a cardboard box. Castiel thought about walking on. Before he took a human vessel he had ignored these little ephemeral distresses easily. But he could detect misery in the box and it motivated him to approach it.
The top of the box had “free kittens” scrawled on top in marker and Castiel opened the flap to find seven small cats inside. How the distributor of these felines ever expected anyone to find them here in the ditch… Well, maybe their deposit here in the middle of nowhere was no accident. The kittens mewled and tumbled over each other in the moonlight. They scrabbled at the sides of the box.
Castiel reached a tentative hand inside. A black and white spotted kitten stepped onto his palm, tiny claws pricking into his coat. “Hey there, little guy,” he said softly. The cats were hungry, little bellies starved of food and water. “I’m sorry,” he told the bold little one crawling up his arm. “I don’t need to eat. I don’t have anything.” Except, Metatron was human. Maybe he’d left some food or drink in the car. It was certainly worth checking.
Carefully, Castiel tipped the box over so that it lay on its side. The black and white kitten leaped off his arm to join its siblings as they walked out into the grassy ditch. “There. I’ll check on food and water, and return.”
Castiel walked back to the car and rooted around the seats. He turned up a half drained bottle of water, a package of yellow crackers, and a few sticks of beef jerky. “Useful at last, Metatron,” he said. Pulling out the metal ashtray to serve as a water dish, he turned to walk back to the kittens.
Headlights crested the hill and a car barreled towards Castiel. Silhouetted against the light he saw the unmistakable shape of seven little kittens gamboling across the pavement. He gasped and began to run as the car blew past, just swerving to miss the felines. He tossed the water and food into the ditch and went after the cats. He grabbed one and then another squirming kitten and tucked them into the crook of his arm so he could reach for the others. They immediately launched themselves off, wriggling away and jolting off across the pavement. He spent a few minutes engaged in juggling cats, grunting in frustration. “It’s like you’re trying to kill yourselves,” he told them as they bolted down the middle of the road. He didn’t have enough hands to contain them all and began to understand why they had been sealed in a box.
In the far distance he could see the dim light of another vehicle. He needed more hands. He needed--
Wings. It only took a moment of concentration for his wings to emerge into this dimension bringing with them a faint whiff of ozone. He pulled his wings up in a great tall stretch before bringing them down and sweeping them like a feathered broom across the pavement. The kittens tumbled, grappling the primary feathers as he swept them into his curled left wing. Castiel took advantage of the kittens’ momentary shock to walk them quickly off the road. He leaned down and picked up the food and water and, still cradling the heap of cats in his wing, he carried them into the adjoining field.
Castiel settled on the ground under a spreading oak tree, wings folded down around himself as the car shot past and receded into the distance. He opened his left wing and the cats wobbled out onto the ground. “Now, here,” he told them firmly. Squashing the ashtray into the ground and pouring some water into it, he guided the kittens in to drink. They lapped gratefully, pushing each other out of the way, stepping into the dish and threatening to upend it several times. He peeled open the beef jerky and broke off small pieces of it, making a little mound on the ground. The kittens attacked the food and Castiel found that he had to snag several pieces and feed them by hand to a few shy kittens that never quite seemed able to push their way past their greedier siblings. When the jerky was gone they still mewled, this time turning to him, pricking their way into his lap and nosing his jacket, sniffing for food. He opened the packet of crackers for them and stroked their backs with his finger while they ate. “I’ll find you something better as soon as I can,” he promised.
Castiel leaned against the tree, wings loose against his back, wingtips trailing along his legs. The kittens, sated for the moment, burrowed into his soft feathers, purring masses of fur dotting his wings and tucking into his warm lap. Through the oak’s branches a river of light cut across the sky, the milky way bright even against the waning moon. All around him were crickets, the mathematical hum of insects droning over the sleeping cats. It felt good to wrap his wings around the cats, around himself. He hadn’t bothered to bring them into this plane for a long time, not since he first recovered his grace and found his wings useless, broken. Castiel looked down at the feathery embrace. They may be broken, he thought, but they’re still mine. He wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but something about their mere presence made him feel a little more like himself. Like an angel, even if he was an angel without purpose, without orders.
The night passed quietly and as dawn approached the angel cast his wings out of sight once more. Castiel poured more water into the little ashtray, trusting the kittens to cluster around the sustenance for the time it took him to gather up the cardboard box. He placed each mewling kitten into the box and, leaving the flap open to the sky, carried them back to his car.
By mid-morning, Castiel had finally gotten a tow back into Omaha where his car trouble was diagnosed as a clogged fuel line. They could get him on his way by the end of the day. With his car at the shop, Castiel walked to a nearby convenience store. He bought cat food, more water, and a plastic-wrapped package of tupperware. In a nearby park he set out food and drink for the kittens. He scratched their bony heads behind the ears as they ate. Castiel sighed. “I suppose I can’t take you with me,” he said. “I can’t imagine Sam or Dean would be fond of animals in the bunker.” He would find them a place to stay before he picked up his car but for now, he allowed himself the time to soak in the simple radiating joy that poured from the small creatures. Watching the kittens made him think of his wings tucked into the aether, an anchor to his true self. Castiel smiled for the first time in a long time. Broken, maybe. But not beaten. Not yet.