Chapter Text
First off!
A million and a half thanks to my artist, dreymart, who created the most incredible art that left me screaming internally for days. Check out her masterpost and leave her all the love! A million and a half more thanks to Athenae, who fought through motion sickness and my bad grammar to beta this fic on a five-hour bus ride, and made me laugh with all her comments to go along with her edits <3
No real other notes to go with this one, but I really hope you enjoy; thanks for checking it out!
“We held onto hope of better days coming, and when we did, we were right.” -The Mountain Goats, “You Were Cool”
Cas is woken up in the middle of the night by shouts and whoops coming from outside his tent. He sits up on his elbows, ignoring the scratchiness of the sheets, and swings his legs over the side of the cot. He glances over to where his uniform is draped over a chair, but decides against changing, opting instead to just grab his boots and pull them on as quickly as possible. He looks up just in time to see a parade of lanterns flash past the tent’s walls and immediately picks up the pace, scrambling to his feet and almost tripping over his untied laces.
He yanks open the tent’s flap and peers outside. The lanterns have slowed down, giving Cas a chance to catch up, and he stumbles toward the scene, trying to stuff his laces into his boots as he goes.
He’s not the only one with this mindset; several of his fellow soldiers are making their way toward the large main tent in the middle of camp, which is where only the most important meetings and conversations happen. It’s also rarely used, which is why Cas has to do a double take when he hears several different voices yelling that that’s where the group is heading.
Whatever’s going on, it’s big.
A few others are scattered around the tent when Cas arrives, and he scans for any familiar faces before making a beeline toward Gabe, Raphael, and Balthazar. They’re not exactly friends to Cas, more like acquaintances if anything, but they all went through basic training together, and they’re part of the select few in the Station who aren’t constantly haranguing him about being more assertive and working on his shooting skills.
They’re rubbing sleep out of their eyes and smacking their cheeks to try and wake themselves up when Cas sidles up next to them. The only one who seems to notice his presence is Gabe, who always seems to be awake--it’s like he’s got a direct line to all the energy in Station 1237.
Gabe flashes Cas a wide grin. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he says, leaning over and slapping Cas on the back. “Talk about a wakeup call, huh?”
“Do you know what’s going on?” Cas asks, bending down to finally take a few seconds and tie the laces of his boots.
“Nobody knows,” Balthazar mumbles through a yawn. “I would've been fine sleeping through the whole damn thing, but this wanker decided to poke in and throw his boot at me,” he adds, jerking his head toward Raphael, who grins smugly.
“What else are neighbors for?” he says. Balthazar flips him off.
Gabe laughs as Balthazar and Raphael start bickering all over again, which is when Cas starts to let his eyes and mind wander. He’s never been in the main tent since arriving at Station 1237, and doesn’t understand why his fellow soldiers aren’t more unsettled at being there. Of course, if Cas hadn’t known its reputation beforehand, he would’ve been relatively unfazed--the main tent is, well, just a normal tent, thick canvas walls and roof with a couple of wooden chairs and a table, as well as some candles and a few gas lanterns for nighttime use, but somehow it seems more menacing. Cas breathes slowly against the uncomfortable knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach as he rubs his arms, trying to get some warmth. His pajamas are too thin for the cold, and he’s already regretting his decision of not changing first.
There’s a chorus of shouts from outside the tent, and suddenly Michael and Lucifer burst inside, a struggling man between the two of them. They’re each gripping one of his arms tightly, and all the thrashing he’s doing reminds Cas of a wild horse. The man’s wrists are bound behind his back, and Cas can hear him yelling incoherently, tossing his head back and forth to try and shake loose the hood that had been thrown over his head. Station 1237’s lieutenant, Alistair, strides in behind them, and Cas automatically feels his back straighten at the sight of the lieutenant. He keeps his eyes averted, not wanting to call attention to himself, but Alistair is preoccupied by their new captive. He glares at the man who is still fighting against Michael and Lucifer, and delivers a quick punch to his stomach that makes Cas wince and the man cry out in pain.
Another soldier Cas vaguely remembers from training grabs one of the chairs and positions it in the middle of the tent, taking advantage of the man’s disorientation and forcing him down into it, binding his ankles to the wooden legs and adjusting the ropes around his wrists so that they’re tied to the chair, as well. Once they’re sure that he’s secure, Michael and Lucifer step back and they all watch as Alistair reaches forward and yanks the hood away.
All the air in the room seems to disappear at once as everyone pulls in a shocked breath. Cas’ eyes widen as he takes in the soldier in front of him. He’s not even a man--he can’t be much older than Cas himself, at 22.
“Holy shit,” Gabe breathes. “Dean Winchester.”
Winchester looks over at them, his eyes narrow and brimming with anger. There’s a deep purple bruise already building under his right eye, which is almost swollen shut. His lip is split, and there’s a deep gash at his hairline, slowly dripping blood down his face. Cas is sure that Winchester would have regaled them with every curse word in the book if he hadn’t been gagged, the thick cloth that’s been forced between his teeth digging into the edges of his mouth.
Alistair’s lips curl into an unpleasant smile as he approaches Winchester. He makes to untie the gag under his captive’s contemptuous glare, but at the last second, he grabs a fistful of his hair and jerks his head back instead, exposing the long column of his neck. Winchester lets out a pained grunt at the unexpected movement, but keeps his gaze fixed on Alistair.
“You try to scream and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Alistair says softly, showing Winchester the gleaming knife tucked away in its sheath at his hip. With that, Alistair releases his hold on Winchester’s hair, tugs at the knot at the back of his head, and pulls the gag out of his mouth.
Winchester rotates his jaw a little and licks his dry, chapped lips before taking in everyone gathered around him. Cas is careful to avoid eye contact, opting instead to take a sudden interest in the dirt at his feet. Despite his current ragged appearance--and his notoriety throughout the Company--Cas can’t help but acknowledge Winchester’s... attractiveness . He’s all subtle muscles and chiseled bone structures that make warmth blossom in Cas’ gut, and Cas can’t risk Winchester, or anyone else for that matter, noticing his reaction.
“What, no fruit basket?” Winchester says, smirking. Next to Cas, Raphael takes a step forward and smacks Winchester hard across the face. He grunts as his head snaps to the side, but he quickly rights himself, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground the way Cas remembers his father doing with chewing tobacco when he was young.
“The infamous Dean Winchester,” Alistair says, studying Winchester with his arms folded across his chest. To his credit, Winchester stares right back, apparently not at all intimidated by the lieutenant’s icy eyes.
“Always nice to meet a fan,” he says, his green eyes sparkling with mischief in a way Cas is surprised, but not entirely opposed, to see in his current predicament. Winchester’s got nice eyes, and for a split second despite how ridiculous it sounds, Cas wonders if they’re part of the reason why he’s such a deadly shot.
The Company and the Battalion have been at war for as long as Cas can remember, and he’s heard stories of Dean Winchester, the Battalion’s most notorious sharpshooter, for just as long. His expert shooting skills and apparent inability to get caught had turned him into the equivalent of a ghost story in all Stations of the Company, someone new recruits were warned of the second they were assigned to their Station, and seeing him sitting there in front of them makes the hair on the back of Cas’ neck stand on edge.
Alistair bristles at the laid-back nature of Winchester’s voice, but doesn’t physically respond with another punch or a slap. “You were much easier to capture than I’d anticipated, boy.”
Winchester glowers at him, tugging at the knots binding his wrists together behind his back. “That kind of thing tends to happen when you catch someone off guard.” His eyes scan over everyone in the tent again, and he grins at Alistair. “Rematch?”
“Maybe later.” Alistair leans down and grips Winchester’s jaw hard between his fingers. “You’re going to be worth a pretty penny, Mr. Winchester,” he says, tilting Winchester’s face from left to right as the boy struggles against him. “I’m sure your friends across the River are dying to get you back. Literally.” He releases Winchester’s jaw, and Cas watches as those green eyes of Winchester’s widen, a bit of panic starting to well up in them.
“Fuck you,” Winchester growls, tamping down said panic so quickly it makes Cas wonder if he’d even seen it at all. He’s careful to make eye contact with everyone who’s looking at him before continuing, “Fuck all of you.”
Alistair tuts disapprovingly, like someone might do to a misbehaving child. “Now, is that any way to talk to your hosts, boy?”
Winchester smiles at him, exposing his blood-stained teeth, before repeating himself. “Fuck. You.”
Alistair studies him before reaching for the knife he had used to threaten Winchester just minutes earlier, and smacks its hilt hard against Winchester’s temple. Winchester grunts and his head snaps to the side at the contact, and he goes limp in his restraints, unconscious.
Alistair looks down at Winchester’s unconscious form and wipes the hilt of his knife against his shirt, as if it had been contaminated just by touching him.
"Watch him, Novak," Alistair growls, casting a quick glance Cas’ way before marching out of the tent, the rest of the soldiers falling in line behind him. Cas starts at the surprising mention of his name, but stands at attention as he watches the group leave. Gabe softly punches his shoulder as he walks by, and Balthazar gives him a discreet thumbs up that Cas thinks he’s supposed to take as encouragement, but instead just makes him even more nervous. Cas watches everyone leave before hesitantly turning his attention back to their newest captive.
Winchester’s head is lowered, chin resting against his chest, and even though Cas knows enough about trauma to the head to know that the blow in combination with all the other injuries he’d sustained was enough to keep him unconscious for at least another half hour, Cas is still half-expecting him to toss his head up and try to fight him.
He stands awkwardly near the entrance to the tent, glancing around hesitantly before edging toward the vacant chair in the corner. He collapses into it and drops his head into his hands, covering his eyes with the heels of his palms.
He isn’t supposed to be here. He isn’t supposed to have to deal with this.
Cas has never liked the feeling of a weapon in his hands.
Everyone starts young in the Company, being unofficially trained to fight from the day they’re big enough to properly wield even the smallest of pocket knives until they turn 18 and are accepted into one of the Stations surrounding the main residential and governing area of the Company--in Cas’ family, it had been no different. When he turned four, Cas’ parents had started buying him knives with fancy embroidered handles, rifles customized just for him...all in an attempt to ignite the spark of combat they were convinced was there .
Despite all their support and gentle prodding, though, Cas never took to the idea of combat. The weight of a weapon in his hands filled him with an anxiety that nothing else did, and he’d refuse to use it on anything, even the air during practice sessions at school.
School, though, is where he first met Missouri Moseley, a woman dedicated to everything Cas would soon realize that he loved--the medical field and keeping his ass out of the line of fire. He did have a spark inside him; it just wasn’t for fighting, and that’s the exact opposite of what his parents had been hoping to hear.
They’d insisted that Cas would grow out of this infatuation, that he’d find his niche with archers or marksmen or sharpshooters, and worked as hard as they could to discourage his interest in one of the least admirable trades in the Company. They’d been thrilled when, on his 18th birthday, he’d been accepted--after more than a few strings had been pulled, he’s sure--into Station 1237 of the Company, to report to when he turned 21. Located on the outer fringes of the Company’s land, it doesn’t see much action and isn’t the most battle-hardened Station, for sure, but after spending years fearing that their son wouldn’t be accepted into any Station at all, thus securing them as the latest laughingstock of the Company, Cas’ parents took what they could get.
When Cas had heard the news, he’d been relieved. The last thing he’d wanted was to have to fight in any way, shape, or form; being assigned to Station 1237 meant that he’d be away from his parents’ opinions while still having plenty of time to perfect his medical skills, and it practically guaranteed that he would see little to no action.
Which is part of why everyone had been so shocked that they , Station 1237, had managed to get ahold of the Battalion’s most infamous sharpshooter.
The Company and the Battalion had been at odds for years, ever since the Battalion had refused to allow the Company to take over their land west of the River. The Company had made giant strides in acquiring land surrounding the Battalion, but the Battalion itself held tough, and war had been officially waged between the two nearly six years ago.
Suddenly, all the fighting skills Cas and his peers had spent their lives learning became necessary, and Cas saw more and more members of the Company come back with wounds--some mild, some fatal, but almost all at the hands of Dean Winchester.
Cas spent his life seeing Winchester’s handiwork; finally seeing Winchester himself nearly turns his world upside down.
Cas is dozing, half-asleep in his chair when he hears the rustling of grass and someone entering the tent. He jolts awake and quickly tries to compose himself while making it look like no, of course he hadn’t been sleeping on the job, of course not .
“Novak,” Michael says, looking at Cas stonily. Michael’s family had started training him and his brothers for the Company almost immediately after they learned to walk, so it’s no surprise that he takes this shit even more seriously than most, and of course he’d be the one to catch Cas nodding off while watching the most attractive--no, impressive, impressive --captive the Company has ever managed to attain.
“Good morning, Michael,” Cas says, getting to his feet and stretching a bit, trying to alleviate the awkward tension both in the air and in his muscles, and praying that Michael doesn’t call him out on anything.
Michael nods toward Winchester, whose head is still hanging down, resting against his chest. “Has he been like that all night?”
Cas nods. “He could just be asleep now, although Alistair did hit him pretty hard.”
Michael snorts. “Piece of shit deserved it.” He sidesteps around Cas and sits down in the chair, kicking his feet up onto the small table nearby and crossing them at the ankles. “You can go,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the tent’s entrance. “Get some food and some sleep, if you think you need more--” Cas can feel the blush building in his neck and cheeks at the jab “--and then get back here so I can head out.”
Cas nods again and heads for the exit. “Thanks, Michael.”
“Mhmm.” He doesn’t look at Cas when he says it, instead focusing on Winchester, a predatory look in his eyes that makes Cas’ stomach twist. Cas picks up the pace and leaves before he can think too much about it.
It takes all of thirty seconds after Cas leaves the tent for him to start being peppered with questions about Winchester.
“Did he try to hurt you?”
“How'd they catch him?”
“Is he awake yet?”
“Has he said anything to you?”
And Cas’ personal favorite: “I've heard his eyes are black, is that true?”
Some are stupid, some are concerned, and all are more than Cas wants to discuss, but no question is more unsettling than, “What's Alistair gonna do to him?” and the inevitable follow-up of, “D’you think I can help?”
Although Cas hasn't been directly affected by Winchester’s handiwork, he knows plenty of people who've lost parents, siblings, significant others, and friends to the pull of Winchester’s trigger, and would be more than willing to exact a bit of revenge. He’s been the equivalent of a ghost story throughout the Company for years, and now that he’s actually within their midst, people’s curiosity--and anger--is definitely getting the better of them.
“Spit on him for me, Novak!”
“Hey, you think you could sneak in a little…” The voice falls away as its owner pretends to jab something into his own side. “C’mon, he’ll be so beat up by the time Alistair finishes with him, no one will have even noticed you started the party!”
“Make him suffer .”
That last remark had been mentioned softly, quick and ominous as he passed by, and Cas takes care to avoid as many people as possible after that. It takes him a few extra minutes to make it to the mess hall, but it’s worth it not to have to deal with the death wishes of his fellow Company members.
He grabs a bowl and scoops himself up some oatmeal, grabs a few pieces of bacon, and makes his way to his regular table, arriving right in the middle of a conversation.
“I heard he killed his whole family,” Balthazar says, his spoon scraping against his bowl as he scoops up the last of his breakfast. “In the middle of the night, too. Just-- bam bam bam .” He claps his hands together with each bam , and Cas has trouble trying to hide the way his body jolts at the noise as he sits down between Gabe and Samandriel. Gabe nods at him, and Samandriel gives him a soft smile.
“Oh, come on,” Raphael says with a roll of his eyes. “It was broad daylight, not the middle of the night. Everyone knows that.”
Cas swallows hard and keeps his eyes trained on his food. Winchester had looked so peaceful, he found it hard to believe anything his fellow soldiers were saying about him.
Then again, anyone would look peaceful while unconscious.
“Cas, you’ve seen him,” Gabe says, jerking Cas out of his reverie. “Has he woken up yet? Has he said anything?”
Cas shakes his head. “He was still out when I left. Unconscious or asleep, I don’t know.” Whatever he is, though, Cas hopes, for Winchester’s sake, that he stays that way until Cas returns. With Michael having taken over watch, Cas has no doubt that the older soldier would have no problem using even the slightest snark from Winchester as an excuse to kill him right then and there.
“Ah.” Gabe nods once, then shrugs, what can ya do. “Kid’s smart, then. Once he's awake, you know Alistair is gonna go to town on him.”
Everyone around the table murmurs in agreement.
“I'd hate to be him,” Balthazar says with a sigh. “The shit that he's got coming for him, god damn. ”
“You all are talking like the bastard doesn't deserve it.” The group looks up to see Lucifer standing above them. He flashes them a grin before dropping his bowl onto the table with a careless clatter. “Motherfucker should be dead already, for all I care. That fucker’s got it out for each and every one of us, and if we hadn’t caught his sorry ass, you know he wouldn’t rest until he’d killed us all.”
Cas tries to push his bowl away from him as inconspicuously as possible and he takes a deep breath, trying to get his nerves under control. He’s just being naive; he knows that Winchester is the enemy, that there’s no redeeming qualities to his name, not a single one. At the same time, though, he can’t completely force his doubt about the validity of Lucifer’s statement from his mind.
And that scares him.
“Even still,” Raphael says, clapping Samandriel on the back as he attempts to get the heat of Lucifer’s stare off him, “make sure you keep yourself in check, Luce. You know Alistair wants the honors, and you’ll be even worse off than Winchester if you kill him before Alistair gets his playtime in.”
Lucifer doesn’t respond, instead gripping his cup a little too tightly and downing the rest of his drink. He drops it back onto the table with a thud and grins at them all. “Doesn’t mean I can’t have mine first.”
After giving up on his attempt at eating breakfast, Cas heads back to his tent, Lucifer’s words still ringing in his ears. He slides stiffly under his blanket and stares at the ceiling, trying to force himself to fall asleep for even just an hour or two, but his mind is running a mile a minute. He groans frustratedly and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes before letting his arms drop to his sides, pleading his mind to just leave him alone. He’s already the laughingstock of the entire goddamn station; the last thing he needs is sympathy for a fucking hostage, especially one as mouthy and dangerous and attrac-- awful , as awful as Winchester.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
Cas gives up on getting any sleep after an attempted fitful nap that lasted less than an hour, and heads back to relieve Michael of his guard duties. Anxiety builds on itself in the pit of his stomach, hot and squirming, like it’ll burst out of him at any second. He sucks in air through his nose and tries to right himself. He can do this, he just can’t let himself get distracted in any way. The rest of his fellow soldiers do it, so he should be able to, as well.
Easy.
The tent is quiet as he approaches, and Cas can’t decide if that’s a good or bad sign. On the one hand, no screams of pain or terror is good, but what if it’s silent because Michael had already killed Winchester?
No, no . There’s no way anyone’s getting a piece of Winchester before Alistair, not even Lucifer. Cas takes one more deep breath before grabbing the edge of the tent flap and pulling it open, peering inside before entering.
Winchester’s eyes are the first thing Cas sees, and he notices the subtle way they widen when he finally enters. Cas finds himself intrigued by the way they’re still bright and defiant, even after last night; if he were in Winchester’s position, he’d be on the verge of tears right about now.
Michael’s focused on Winchester, his back to Cas, and doesn’t notice him until he realizes that Winchester’s attention is elsewhere. “Hey,” Michael says sharply, reaching out and grabbing Winchester’s jaw roughly, forcing Winchester to lock eyes with him. “Did I say you could look away, asshole?”
Winchester keeps his eyes on Cas for as long as possible before darting his gaze back to Michael and glaring at him. Michael keeps his grip tight as he turns around, but his hand goes slack when he sees Cas standing there.
“Hey, Novak,” he says cheerfully, brushing his hands casually on his pants. “Breakfast good?”
“Fine,” Cas says with a nod, watching the way Winchester rotates his jaw. “Bacon today.”
Michael closes his eyes and grins. “Perfect.” He grabs his overcoat and heads for the tent’s entrance, clapping Cas on the back as he goes. “He’s all yours, Novak. Enjoy.”
Cas waits until Michael has exited the tent before glancing at Winchester, who’s staring at him defiantly. He shifts a little in his seat, but doesn’t make any move to try and loosen his bonds, which, in a way, just makes Cas even more nervous.
“Uh, good morning.”
Winchester narrows his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. Cas clears his throat uncomfortably before nodding to himself and taking a seat in the chair in the corner. He can feel Winchester’s eyes on him as he sits down, and when he glances up, he catches Winchester’s eyes darting away, his cheeks going slightly red at being caught looking--or maybe that’s just the general exertion of being held captive. Cas keeps his eyes on him, curious as to how Winchester will react to that, and his eyebrows raise in surprise when Winchester looks back up at him.
“You gonna keep the party going, or what?” His voice is rough and hoarse, but against his better judgement, Cas likes the sound of its huskiness in his ears. “It’d be nice if you just got it over with, so I can pass out without worrying about you goddamn jumpin’ me.”
“I...I’m sorry?”
“Pick up where your friend left off.” He tries hard to keep his voice unfazed and casual, but Cas doesn’t have to listen hard to notice the way Winchester’s voice breaks near the end of the sentence.
It’s then that Cas notices the fresh bruise making itself at home along Winchester’s jaw, the way the skin around it is an angry red, and he can feel his stomach twist with discomfort.
“No,” he finally says. “I’m not.”
Winchester’s shoulders sag and he sucks on his lower lip, eyes closed. “Don’t expect me to thank you for this,” he says, “for treating me like a fucking human and not kicking the shit out of me right now.”
A remark like that is probably what earned him the new bruise in the first place, and if Michael were still here, Cas is sure that Winchester would have a broken finger or two to add to his collection of injuries. Michael’s not here, though, and Cas has no interest--or knowledge--in breaking fingers, just setting them, so he sighs and shakes his head. After a few seconds, though, a thought occurs to him that he voices before he can think better of it.
“You hurt us, too, you know.”
Winchester snaps his head up, fire in his eyes. “I what ?”
Cas bites his lip. “No. Nothing.”
Winchester scoffs and grins humorlessly before edging forward in the seat as much as his bonds will allow. “Fuck you--what did you say ?”
Cas sighs and runs a hand through his hair, cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut. “You said you wouldn’t thank me for treating you like a fucking human, and I just thought it was funny, because I know plenty of people here who have had to grieve for their loved ones because you killed them, because you didn’t treat them like fucking humans. I have no expectations of you thanking me, especially because I know that you won’t be apologizing for what you’ve done, either.”
Winchester is silent at that; Cas can practically see his mind turning over the words in his head, trying to configure the best response. Finally, he just shakes his head. “Fuck you.”
“Original.” Cas’ eyes widen, and he wonders where this attitude is coming from; he’s almost never this snarky and short, but something about Winchester makes him want to completely match his attitude and speaking style.
Winchester almost seems just as surprised as he is. He scoffs once more and rolls his eyes. “Fucking dick.”
That hurts more than Cas had been expecting it to, and he knows that Winchester can tell. He grins smugly at Cas, and almost on impulse, Cas leans back and stretches out, crossing his feet at the ankles and lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Sure is nice to be able to stretch out,” he says. He feels like an idiot the second he says it, but it’s something he has that Winchester doesn’t, something he can hold over him.
And it works.
The effect is minimal, but Cas can see the way that, for a split second, Winchester looks longingly at the way Cas is stretched out and relaxed, and Cas’ chest bursts with pride as he flashes him a quick grin.
He’s almost disappointed when Winchester doesn’t come up with another comeback. Despite the fact that it came paired with verbal abuse, it had been nice to hear his voice.
As the days pass, Cas realizes that he hates being on watch over Winchester, but not for the reason he’d expected.
Spending the majority of each day with someone who hates him isn’t how Cas would choose to spend his time, and being forced to do so is a nightmare for his anxiety. He and Winchester spend the time awkwardly staring at nothing--and sometimes with passing glances at each other every so often, Cas has come to notice--and occasionally Winchester will throw some kind of barbed remark Cas’ way, but otherwise, things are only one word: boring.
Cas has always had trouble dealing with it when people dislike him, and Dean hates him, which is slowly but surely driving Cas insane. He wrings his hands awkwardly in his lap and takes a deep breath before plunging into something he’d thought about venturing into for a few days now: small talk.
“How did you get here?” Castiel asks. “I mean, how did they...capture you?”
Dean studies him for a few seconds, then huffs out a sigh. “What makes you think I want to fucking talk to you?”
Cas can feel the flush building, running up his neck and filling his cheeks, and he averts his gaze down to the dirt. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m here for the next four hours, and we’ve got nothing better to do.” He pauses, then adds, “Unless you’ve got a better idea. The main topic of conversation at lunch earlier had been a new interrogation method we’re trying to perfect, and we need some test--”
Winchester coughs suddenly to cut him off.
“What was the question?”
“How were you captured?” As he repeats it, Cas realizes that he’s actually more interested in the answer than he thought he’d be. He’s never been in battle, doesn’t know the proper protocol for these things. He finds himself feeling like he’s getting ready for Winchester to tell him a bedtime story, full of strange people and customs and far-off lands.
Winchester licks his lips thoughtfully, and Cas finds himself zeroing in on them. He shakes his head quickly and waves his hand in front of his face, pretending to shoo away a bug. Dean shifts in his chair, giving another futile tug at the ropes binding his wrists.
“I’m a marksman,” Dean starts. “Or, was, I guess. But I’m sure you know that.” He spits out the you with such venom that Cas would’ve taken a step back had he been standing. “I was supposed to have people watching me, making sure I didn’t get ambushed. That obviously went great.” He looks away and takes a breath. “Your pals snuck up on me, nearly bashed my goddamn head in, dragged me to your five-star camp, and voila, here we are.”
Cas doesn’t respond. Instead, he gets to his feet and walks over to Dean, approaching him as if he were a wild animal. He reaches out a hand hesitantly; Dean’s eyes follow his fingers as they trace a fading cut along his hairline that obviously hadn’t been properly cleaned.
“Was this from them?”
“You catch on fast.”
“You’re lucky this hasn’t gotten infected yet,” Cas says, ignoring Dean’s attitude. He uses his thumb to push Dean’s hair back so he can see the wound more clearly.
“Yeah, and what would you know about it, Clara Barton?”
“More than you,” Cas answers. Dean tries to pull away from him, and Cas quickly brings his free hand to the back of Dean’s head to steady him. “Don’t move,” he says. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Sure you are,” Dean mutters, and his words hit Cas like a rough punch to the gut.
“Look at what Missouri gave me!” a young Cas says excitedly, running into the living room and waving his new stethoscope in the air. It’s obviously not completely “new”--Missouri had given it to him as a gift after she’d bought a new one--but Cas is infatuated with the device, and views it as the first step towards becoming a medic, like he’s wanted for years.
His mother looks up from her writing and gives him a half-hearted smile, but his father doesn’t bother to fold down his newspaper.
“Why are you wasting your time with that, Castiel?” he asks boredly, licking the tip of a finger before turning the page of his paper.
Cas tries to hide the cringe; he hates his full name, and his parents are really the only ones who use it.
“Missouri said I--”
“Last I checked, Ms. Moseley isn't one of your parents, is she?”
“Castiel,” his mother says patiently, “it's wonderful that Missouri is letting you spend time with her, but don't you think you should be spending more time preparing for the enlistment?”
Cas’ stomach twists uncomfortably, and he studies his shoes before glancing back up from under his lashes. “I don't think I'd be a good fit for the Company’s troops,” he says softly.
“Honey, everyone is a good fit for the troops; that’s the whole point.”
“I want to be a medic.”
His mother frowns, and an uncomfortable silence permeates the room. “I'm not sure that's the best path for you,” she repeats uncertainly. “All the other boys your age are training to join the fight; don't you think you'd be better off joining them?”
Cas shakes his head, swallowing hard and fighting past the nausea churning in his gut and winding its way up his throat. “Missouri already said I was welcome to practice under her as an apprentice until I'm good enough to work on my own. I'll still be able to contribute to the effort, but not as a soldier.”
“Absolutely not.” His father barks out a laugh, but still doesn’t look up from his paper. “Do you understand how much of an embarrassment you'd be to the family? To your mother? Her only son, insisting on wasting his time as a medic, one of the least honorable jobs in the Company,” he says, “nothing but an excuse used by cowards to stay out of the line of fire. You're going to be a medic.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass around for a few seconds before scoffing again and taking a swig. “Sure you are.”
Suddenly, Dean’s words are interchangeable with his father’s, Cas finds himself staring into his father’s cold blue eyes while looking at Dean, and before he can think any more about it, Castiel snaps. He grips a fistful of Dean’s hair and jerks his head upright, staring into his wide green eyes.
“I don’t think you’re following,” he says, barely above a whisper. “The whole point of you being here is to be tortured for information and to get a ransom. Maybe not even that; maybe Alistair just wants the satisfaction of killing you. And I could be killed if anyone finds out that I’m trying to lessen your suffering, especially when I should be doing the opposite. So I recommend that you keep your backtalk to yourself from now on, understood?”
Dean’s lips part in surprise, but he stays silent, offering Cas a quick nod of his head.
“Thank you.” He releases Dean’s hair and continues to inspect the cut, making a mental note of what he would need to clean and sanitize it. It doesn’t seem too deep--not deep enough for stitches--and he’s confident that he could get the dirt out with some soap and water.
When he takes a step back, Dean is staring at him with a mixture of anger and anxiety that Cas is surprised to see. He purses his lips, then offers Dean a wry smile; he can’t resist. “Don’t move.”
Dean opens his mouth, presumably to argue, but closes it instead and tilts his head back with an exasperated sigh at Cas’ poor attempt at a joke. “Sure thing, douchebag.”
No matter how hard he tries to keep it burning, Cas’ anger only last for a moment or two after he leaves the tent. At first, he's indignant, wondering where Dean Winchester gets the nerve to talk to him like that, but he's quick to realize that he's Dean Winchester--he doesn’t need to have known him long to know that he'll talk like that to anyone, even Alistair.
Maybe even people he actually likes .
Cas sighs and runs a hand through his already-messy hair as he makes his way through the camp. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need those thoughts right now. He can’t have been the only one in the Company to notice how good-looking Winchester is, but he’s undoubtedly the only one who’s considered the fact that maybe Winchester thinks the same of him.
It’s more of a fantasy than a consideration, but Cas likes to keep it in mind all the same.
Not much is going on as Cas makes his way through the camp to the infirmary; almost everyone is already in bed, not wanting to scout out enemy territory the next day on a poor night’s sleep. Cas wonders if they’ll take something of Dean’s with them to show that they’re not kidding; they’ve got one of the most dangerous sharpshooters in the Company and the Battalion combined, and there’s nothing he can do but talk smack and hope he doesn’t get killed.
As he walks, Cas starts to think about the feeling of community and sense of home that the camp gives him. Even though he hates where most of the camp’s priorities lie, it feels like he’s spent more time here than in his actual home, and despite his parents’ insistences that he’d feel the opposite, he actually feels more at home and welcomed here regardless of his disinterest in becoming an actual soldier. They’ve got plenty of those, and they like the idea of having someone there who has their backs if things go to shit. Most of them don’t know how to stitch up even the simplest wound; Cas can stitch even the most complicated wound in the most tender spot with pinpoint accuracy.
The person who most took a shine to Cas from his first day at Station 1237 was the camp’s medic, Hannah. A smart, soft-spoken woman, she’d taken him under her wing when she caught him admiring her supplies and essentially picked up where Missouri left off, encouraged his passion, and taught him everything he’s learned since his absorption into the Station.
The dim light of Hannah’s lamp is shining through the canvas of her tent despite the late hour, and Cas wonders why he’d expect anything else. Hannah is known to keep irregular hours, and even if someone needs help during one of the rare times she’s asleep, she’s quick to wake up and offer her help.
“Hannah?” Cas asks, ducking under the flap and into the infirmary tent.
Hannah pokes her head up from a pile of supplies and flashes Cas a warm smile. “Evening,” she says brightly as Cas starts ambling around the inside of the tent.
“Hello,” Cas says with a soft smile.
“You’re out late.” She keeps her eyes on her work, sorting some bandages and checking on supplies.
Cas sighs. “I have a patient.”
That gets Hannah’s attention, and she looks up at him with raised eyebrows. “And who might that be?”
Cas hesitates before walking further into the tent and taking a seat across from Hannah at the table. “I...he's the captive Alistair brought in earlier. De--”
“Dean Winchester,” she finishes. “I heard we’ve had a guest of honor in camp the past few days. What's he like?”
The question takes Cas off guard. “What's he…” He’s goddamn gorgeous is what he is, but Cas has a feeling that Hannah isn’t interested in how Winchester makes him feel , so he fumbles to include some other description. “Well, he's haughty and full of himself, and he’s got an attitude.”
Hannah grins, a pleasant, knowing sight that Cas loves. “Well, I imagine we'd all have a bit of an attitude after becoming a hostage in an enemy’s camp.” She shakes her head solemnly. “The poor thing.”
Cas’ eyes widen in surprise. “Poor thing?” he repeats. “Hannah, he's killed--”
“That doesn’t matter,” she interrupts. “The only important thing here is that he, like all of you, is practically a child, and has gotten his entire life taken away by this war.” She pauses, and Cas can tell how uncomfortable she is with the idea of arguing. “And now he's hurt, correct?”
Cas chews on his lower lip, then nods. “Someone smashed his head with something; he's got a decent-sized cut at his hairline,” he says, gesturing with his hand toward his own hairline.
She nods, then gestures vaguely around the tent with her free hand. “Help yourself.”
Cas begins searching through the supplies, digging around until he finds cotton, alcohol, and a few bandages. He’s got the entirety of Hannah’s tent memorized, he’s been in there so many times, but he doesn’t rush; instead, he lets his fingers run over the cool instruments used for more intense wounds, maybe even for surgeries--scissors, tweezers, knives, scalpels. He knows that they come as part of the package with being a medic, but at the same time, he hopes that he never has to use them.
“Thank you, Hannah,” he finally says a few moments later, after he’s figured that he’s left Winchester alone long enough.
“Of course. And Cas,” she says.
Cas looks up at her, his hands full of medical supplies.
“Don't go judging him for what he's done before thinking about what he's been through. This war is making us all do terrible things, things we never thought we could be capable of doing. Understand?”
Cas doesn't have to pause long before giving her his reply. “Yes,” he says. “I understand.”
Hannah nods before turning back to her supplies once more. “He could surprise you.”