Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Castiel opened his eyes after the Empty swallowed him up and spat him back out, he knew immediately that he was no longer in his world. It was a subtle difference in the delicate folds of reality, invisible to the naked eye but noticeable to multi-dimensional beings such as himself. It wasn’t a glaring difference, and he was sure the shift would soon melt into the background layer of the world one tended to ignore, but at the moment it felt like his eyes were still readjusting. It was as if he had just taken off a pair of glasses, and the world was still a bit blurry.

After taking a few seconds to adjust, both to the new reality and to his lack of imminent death, he took time to mourn. For he may be alive, but he was no longer in his world, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back. Everyone and everything he had ever known and loved, and who had loved him and known him in return, was all gone. No, not gone, but separated from him. And that was enough for him to grieve.

He had known he had been about to lose it all when he had sacrificed himself for his son’s sake, for Dean’s sake, but he’d also thought he’d be swallowed into the deepest oblivion. He hadn’t thought he’d have the wherewithal to be sad or happy or anything after the empty came for him. But maybe it knew it would hurt him more this way, to be forced to deal with the consequences of his actions. To have to live in a world knowing that there might be a Dean Winchester out there, but it wouldn’t be his Dean Winchester, and he would be so close and yet further than ever from the one thing he wanted most.

He took the time to mourn and process his emotions, but he did not dwell for long. Grief was a natural and necessary part of life, but he had learned through hard-won experience that wallowing in one's pain was no better than pushing it down and ignoring it. So he pulled himself together and started walking, wondering what to do.

There was no way for him to know the state of this world, no way to know if there was another Castiel out there, no way of knowing what year it was or how many things in the history of the Earth might be different. Things might be almost exactly the same, or the line of Winchesters might have died out a long time ago. 

He supposed he could keep up ‘The Family Business,’ regardless of whether said family was still around. For he may not be a Winchester by blood, but family was more than blood, and he knew Dean would like it if he spent his second (fourth, maybe fifth?) chance at life helping people. And maybe it would begin to heal the hole torn into his borrowed heart.

It wasn’t long before his new mission of finding a hunt got completely and utterly derailed.

Something deep inside him recognized who he was seeing long before his eyes, the bright shining soul attempting casualty at a street corner, horribly familiar and yet painfully different. The boy before him was clearly Dean Winchester, and yet he reminded Cas more of Jack than the older version he knew.

His familiar eyes looked larger than Cas was used to, even if he knew it was just because his head was smaller. His cheeks looked sharp in an unnatural way, like they should still be holding some leftover baby fat. His limbs and figure held the lanky awkwardness of youth, and yet Cas could tell just by looking at him that he was underweight. He was so young, and yet he was already hurting, already attempting to hold the weight of the world on his skinny little shoulders.

He was also wearing clothing that was far too tight and revealing for the weather. The sun had set some time ago, based on the rotational axis of the Earth within its orbit, and with its absence the man-made stones of the city around them had cooled. It was far too late for Dean to be out by himself at this age, with how easy the monsters that stalked his bloodline would find him prey, and yet John Winchester was nowhere to be seen.

Castiel frowned, old frustration at the man’s failure in the area of his parental role urging him forward. This was not his world, and therefore, he could not ruin a timeline he wasn’t yet a part of. He could stop it all, or maybe he would try and fail due to fate or his Father, but nonetheless, he would make something better. Even if his brethren would think it pointless, he knew that attempting to help all while knowing it might not change the ending was the right thing to do. Even if it all ended the same, he would have tried, and maybe he will have shown Dean some extra love along the way.

This may not be his Dean, but that did not make him any less deserving of love and protection, and Castiel knew there was nothing he would rather do than try to give it to him.

Little Dean saw that he was coming his way, and he quickly perked up, trying to loosen his muscles despite the cold urging him to tense up and preserve heat, slapping a sly smile on his face and popping his hip out. Watching him paste on an act was familiar in a way, even if it was clear the young one before him had much less practice than the Dean he knew.

“Hey there, Johnny, lookin' for some entertainment?”

Little Dean waggled his eyebrows at him in a way that was more endearing to him than whatever the look was supposed to invoke. Castiel had to pause and think through the turn of phrase. ‘Johnny’ in this instance was not being used as a name, but as a word. It took him a moment to realize he needed to shorten ‘Johnny’ into ‘John,’ and then reference that with Little Dean’s clothes, demeanor, and health.

His entire being ached for the scars already scratched into this too-young soul, and his burning anger threw fuel onto the fire of his determination.

The lingering silence went on for longer than socially appropriate, and Little Dean started to fidget in a way he probably thought was subtle. It reminded him of Claire when she became uncomfortable and started to get frustrated, but shunted her anger off into a far corner of her being, attempting to appear more mature than she was.

Just as Little Dean opened his mouth, probably to deflect or backpedal, Castiel blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“May I touch your soul?”

They both blinked at each other for a moment, giving Cas just enough time to register his own words and come up with a plan. He wanted to show this Little Dean love, protect him, and get him off the street. This would do all three.

Little Dean stuck an attempt at a sultry grin onto his face, “You pay me enough and you can touch anything you want~.”

Castiel was going to kill John Winchester. No, that would make Dean upset. He was going to deliver retribution unto him until he thoroughly repented.

Cas shoved a hand into the pocket of his trench coat and found his wallet. He always kept it on him, ever since Dean had given it to him along with a fake set of identification cards. With his admittedly limited knowledge of inflation, he quickly calculated a suitable number of bills to withdraw.

“Here, go and buy a room for the night,” he said, handing the startled little boy the money.

Little Dean took the money, squinting up at him, “How’d’ya know I won’t just run off with this?”

Cas hummed, “I do not believe that you will, although I won't blame you if you do. However, I want to assure you that you are safe with me, and I will thoroughly reimburse you for your time.”

Little Dean squinted at him some more, no doubt thinking him ‘weird,’ but after a long moment, he seemed to think him truthful.

“Alright, I suppose. As long as you're payin’.”

And with a sharp nod, the boy turned on his heel and went to buy a room at the motel they were loitering by. Cas was certain that a small Sam was sleeping somewhere within. Dean wouldn’t venture far from his vulnerable baby brother, especially with his Father away.

Patiently, he waited for Little Dean to return, turning over different plans and sub-plans in his head. There was the plan, and then the plan for if that plan failed, and then the plan for if all the plans failed, and so on and so forth. He had to consider numerous factors, including various people and sides with competing interests, as well as several dangers that sought to harm him and his new charges. 

His success rate in protecting Winchesters was either very good or very bad, depending on how you looked at it, but he remained steadfast in his new plan. He would put his all into protecting these two boys —just as he had their older selves, just as he had his chosen children— until he saved them from their fates or died trying. Again.

Little Dean returned with a room key and more awkward flirting. Normally, Cas would be thrilled to have Dean blushing shyly as they walked into their motel room, but not now, with the youth clinging desperately to his bones and the air of quiet despair left in the wake of his every movement. This boy, this child, was climbing onto the bed because he needed to feed his little brother, not because he wanted to become closer to a longtime best friend.

“Gonna come over here and touch my soul, or am I gonna have to put on a show first~?”

Cas had to breathe through a bout of nausea, sickened by the painfully stiff attempt at seduction. He could tell that Dean was tired and apprehensive, and trying so hard to hide how much he didn’t want to do this. Cas could not blame him for it.

The boy clearly thought that his words had been a euphemism, which made sense but was still sickening. Although, this could work to his advantage. He knew that using his powers to shield Little Dean from his many, many enemies would scare him, possibly even cause him pain, but he knew it would be worth it. Even still, he sought some modicum of consent and aimed to frighten him as little as possible. The child was already bracing himself to be violated, so there wasn’t much Castiel could do to make his anticipation worse.

Touching his soul would still be a violation, even if he meant no harm, and he knew no warning would do his actions justice. It would be better if he just got it over with and then dealt with the aftermath. He’d need to carve into his bones as well, a better place to keep the necessary sigils than the skin, but that could wait until Little Dean was unconscious. No need to burden him with unnecessary pain.

He approached the bed slowly, not quite treating him like an injured animal, but still keeping his hands in clear view and his body language calm and respectful. Little Dean’s face twisted in confusion for a moment before he hid it behind a smirk once more.

“C’mon, don’t tell me you’re shy~?” The boy purred, crawling closer to him as he sat down on the mattress.

“Look at me,” he ordered gently, and the little soldier obeyed, “I am going to touch you, and it might hurt, but I will not do you harm. Do you understand me?”

Little Dean swallowed, curling his hands into the sheets to hide their shaking, clearly understanding that there was a magnitude to what Castiel was asking of him.

“I understand.”

Cas nodded, glad the boy had lost his false sexy tone.

“Do you consent to me touching your soul?”

Little Dean looked at him, really looked at him, and Cas was just glad he wasn’t trying to act or pretend. The boy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, peeking open one of them to gauge Castiel’s reaction, before he slowly nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered, licking his lips, and Cas nodded even though he couldn’t see him.

“Lie on your back,” Cas instructed, putting a hand on Little Dean’s shoulder to help him lie down.

He would need to restrain him. There was a high chance of thrashing, intentional or unintentional, and while Dean could not hurt him, he could hurt himself trying to get away. With minimum effort, he leveraged himself over Little Dean’s body and gingerly settled his weight just above his hips, being careful to pin him without crushing him.

The boy breathed in a sharp gasp, screwing his eyes shut and gripping tightly at the sheets. It seemed like he had realized he didn’t need to perform for Cas, which he was insurmountably glad for, but that didn’t mean the sight of his fear didn’t make his nonexistent soul itch. And, unfortunately, he knew what he was about to do wouldn’t help to quell that fear.

Dean would be protected. That would make it worth it.

Steeling himself, he put one hand on Little Dean’s shoulder and the other on the center of his chest.

“Breathe,” he commanded, before plunging his hand into the small human’s chest.

Chapter Text

Dean’s scream was more one of shock than one of pain. The sudden pressure and warmth reaching deep into his chest was the absolute last thing he had been expecting. When his eyes flew open and he caught sight of the man’s —no, the monster’s— hand disappearing into his chest, he screamed again. Or at least he tried. It was hard to draw in a proper breath, probably due to the fingers probing down into his lungs.

Training kicked in, but it did him no good. He kicked and scratched, bucked and twisted, but the creature was strong and kept him pinned easily. The single hand on his shoulder was enough to keep him flat on his back, and he had no way to get the leverage he needed to throw off the being’s much higher weight class. He might have been taught how to fight people and creatures bigger than himself, but there was only so much one could do with a hand sinking down steadily deeper into his body.

What the fuck, he’d thought the guy was weird, but he hadn’t thought he wasn’t human! He had been too busy looking out for red flags he’d find in the nastier guys who like to fuck little boys to look out for the signs of the supernatural. Fuck, how hadn’t he noticed? It was fucking obvious the guy didn’t know how normal people talked! Dad was gonna kill him if this thing didn’t carve him apart first.

There was a hand in his chest, but there was no blood. It wasn’t like claws had sprung up and dug into his flesh; it was more like the monster’s hand had turned immaterial, like a ghost. Except instead of biting cold, there was a scorching heat slowly worming its way inside him. It hurt less like a cut and more like a bruise, a deep ache like Sammy was sitting on top of his chest. The squeezing feeling made him gasp as he tried to keep air flowing through his lungs despite the intrusion.

At first, he thought the patient, good guy act must have been completely fake, but as he looked up into the creature’s otherworldly blue eyes he found no hunger, no desire, not even simple savage instinct. It looked down at him with something serene and somber in its gaze, and Dean knew without knowing how that this thing was being gentle with him.

Not that it particularly felt like it. As the creature’s limb sank deeper, it brushed up against something solid-yet-not, sending a lance of pain through him like touching a fresh burn. Or maybe like touching solid fire. He couldn’t really tell if there was a difference at the moment. The sensation pulled a distressed whine from his throat, much to his embarrassment, and he flushed as the thing shushed him. It was a gentle shushing, more like it was trying to comfort him than trying to shut him up, which was so strange he found himself blinking stupidly as he panted.

“It may hurt, but I will not do you harm,” the creature reminded him quietly, and he really just hoped that meant the thing wasn’t going to eat him.

“P-please-” he managed to gasp out, not entirely sure what he was begging for, but the thing just shushed him again and reached deeper.

Its hand curled around the burning, pulsing, fragile ball in his chest that he knew without knowing was a pretty important part of him, and a fresh yell that was half scream, half curse spilled from his mouth without his permission. It felt dangerous to move, and yet he couldn’t stop squirming, the panic he had been valiantly trying to keep at bay surging around him with a suffocating vengeance.

And then suddenly, there was warmth. Not warmth like heat, but warmth like feeling. Like joy or happiness or-or love. It was a light that he couldn’t see with his eyes, a star that had been liquified and poured into his chest. It’s heat soaked him through, and something inside him broke like cheap glass in a microwave.

“Breathe, Dean.”

He obediently sucked in a breath, clamping his gaping mouth shut for good measure, blinking rapidly up at the ceiling to try and brush away the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes. It was obviously a trick, some kind of venom or something, meant to make its victim relax. It wasn’t real love; it was fake monster love.

Unfortunately, that knowledge didn’t make it feel any less real.

Next came a feeling that reminded him of being shrouded in Dad’s huge coat, except the smell was purer and the protection more complete. It swaddled him like a blanket of feathers, settled gently around all of him at once, soft against his sensitive flesh and jagged scars. It cradled him like he was a baby, like a chick hidden beneath a hen, safe and secure in a way he hadn’t felt since… since Mom was alive. Since he was four and he hadn’t known monsters were real, safe in his ignorance.

His vision swam as the tears pooled past the point of stopping them, his precarious breath hitching as pitiful sobs crawled up his throat. He hadn’t been safe then, and he wasn’t safe now, but it felt like it. He had been scooped up into his mother's arms, and she had told him that angels were watching over him, and he had believed her. He’d learned a long time ago that she had been wrong; there was no guardian angel coming to save him, but that didn’t stop him from longing.

The creature pressed in feelings of worthiness, of righteousness, of being good enough, and Dean broke. He wailed like a baby, cried like he hadn’t in years, not caring that someone was watching. All of the fight he’d had left drained out with his ugly sobs and the snot dripping from his nose, and he clung to the creature like it was his only lifeline. 

It hurts, it hurts so much. Why couldn’t he just be loved? Why couldn’t he be enough? Why did the fact that the creature’s lures were fake hurt more than the pain of having his soul sucked out by some creepy crawly monster? He hated it; he hated it! He wanted to go home, wanted his brother!

The thought of Sammy snapped him out of it just enough for him to register the stream of soothing words pouring into his ear. He couldn’t just give up; he had to be there for Sam! His baby brother was small and weak and needed to be protected more than Dean needed to be comforted. He tried to push against the creature, but it felt like pushing against a brick wall. Like a toddler trying to break free from their parents' grasp. The possibly archaic being made Dean feel young, but he knew Sammy was even younger, and like hell he was gonna let this thing kill him!

Except he couldn’t get away, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop clinging to the creature bent over him like a grim reaper. He opened his mouth to beg or bargain, but all that came out were heartbroken sobs.

“Shh, it’s alright, Dean, you don’t need to fight. I’ll keep you safe, both you and your brother, I promise.”

He wanted it so bad, but he knew it was a lie, but it didn’t matter anyway, but he had to save Sammy-!

With a gentle press of the creature’s lips to his forehead, Dean fell into sleep like a stone to the bottom of a well. Despite all of the distress and the tears, he felt more comforted than he had been in years.

Chapter Text

Castiel kept up his soothing murmurs long past the point where Dean could hear him. He knew the poor boy was asleep, knew that not a word he said was penetrating his mind, and yet he whispered words of love to him as he brushed tears off his cheeks.

His young soul sang in his grip, already mutilated with blemishes and shying away from his affection just as much as the intrusion of his Grace. There were far fewer layers of painful, mangled scars than the older soul he knew, but while the burden the boy was carrying was lighter than his future woes, even yet, it was far too much for him.

Dean does not accept love easily, even at this young age, but Cas does not care whether it is accepted or reciprocated. He’d never cared about that. He only cared about keeping his good, brave, righteous human safe. And he was safer now than he had possibly ever been, with layers of loving protections cradling his very soul. Even as he released the little ball of light, the shields stayed, ensuring that Dean’s very being was completely surrounded by comforting supports.

It was good, but it was not enough. Not when it came to a Winchester. Making sure to keep Dean in a deep sleep, he began to run his hands along his bones, etching every ward and symbol of protection he could think of. He was achingly careful, going slowly and trying to account for the fact that Dean was still little and would therefore grow. It would be better than covering the boy’s skin with tattoos or scars, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thoroughly meticulous. It would pain him greatly to bring Dean any more distress than he already had.

Soon enough, it was done, and Cas sat and watched the little Dean sleep. He wanted this boy to be loved and to know that he was loved, and he was willing to go to great lengths to deliver that to him. Even if it meant things would never be the same for Castiel himself, he would do everything he could to save Dean Winchester. But if he was doing that, he needed a solid plan. And Sam.

Tucking the boy in, he went to find his younger brother. It wasn’t hard to find him, especially when one knew what to look for. The boy was asleep, thankfully, and was not disturbed by Castiel suddenly appearing next to his bed. He reached out and tucked a fringe of hair behind his ear, sending the tiny little Winchester into an even deeper sleep. He would need protection as well, and there was no need to have him waking up before he was done.

Cas did not need to drown Little Sam’s soul with love, for it was already shrouded in it. The defenses were clumsy and thin, torn and tattered in places, but it was achingly clear that Dean had done his very best to protect his little brother as much as he possibly could. Castiel soothed over the ripped, knotting tapestry with respect, weaving together the frayed edges and sewing up the holes. His own shields draped over the threadbare plaits with careful movements, wrapping around the sweet but fragile care that was already there to ensure none of it got trimmed by sharpened feathers.

Once he was certain Sam’s soul was properly swaddled, he moved on to his bones, marveling at how small they were in his hands. He wished he could help with the demonic taint in his blood, but there was nothing he could do. The poison lurking within the child before him wasn’t made of matter; it couldn’t be flushed out or cured with medicine. Both demons and angels left traces in the humans they inhabited, not because they left a physical piece of them behind, but because they were spiritual beings. They soaked the physical world in a spiritual essence, unmistakably real and yet not material in the way other things were.

If you did a blood test on someone who had been possessed by a demon, you would find little to no change in them. There was no marker or physical presence in their blood that could be singled out. And yet, when demon blood was consumed, it did something. It transferred the power it held and affected others, even if there was no physical change in the blood.

One would think that demonic energy could be counteracted with angelic energy, but it didn’t work like that. Castiel’s Grace didn’t, and couldn’t, burn away what was left behind by Azazel. Instead, it simply left another energy inside the young boy, layered over each other like a metaphysical cake. Cas could only hope it wouldn’t do him harm, having so much spiritual energy not his own within him. He’d keep an eye on him as best as he could, maybe see if he could find a cure or at least a way to help him manage such exposure.

Once he finished, he scooped the boy up into his arms, flying back to the other room and settling him down against his brother’s side. Sam curled into Dean’s side in his sleep, completely unconscious, fitting perfectly against him like he was meant to be there. Dean wrapped his arms around him protectively in turn, and Cas tucked the both of them in with loving hands.

He went back and forth between the rooms as he gathered their things, wanting to have everything he needed to care for them for as long as he had them. As much as he wanted to keep them safe indefinitely himself, he was not the best choice for a parent for the two. He would be traveling all over implementing anti-apocalypse measures, and he was not super familiar with the intricacies of how humans raised their young. He would not be able to raise them well. They needed to learn how to hunt and defend themselves, and learn how to grow and live as humans ought. They needed to be raised by someone supportive, which thoroughly disqualified John Winchester, but he couldn't risk the possible damage that would be done by raising them outside of the life.

Belatedly, it hit him. Bobby. Bobby Singer had acted as a pseudo-father figure to Sam and Dean in his world, and he was a talented Hunter and researcher. He would be able and willing to teach them how to hunt and how to live. He would support Sam's longing for higher education and maybe even fan the flames of Dean's intellectual potential. It might be too late for him to go to any higher form of schooling, what with him already convinced that his entire purpose was to serve everyone but himself, but if anyone could convince that boy to do something for himself, it would be Bobby.

Pleased with his problem-solving skills, Cas ensured that even if John came back tonight, he would find nothing but the weapons he’d left behind, and settled in to watch the children sleep. He would give them better lives, one way or another.