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His life changed on a Thursday.
An explosion cut through the marketplace's thoroughfare, exchanging auction for screams and leisure for running feet. Castiel ducked behind his booth as the ground shook with the aftershock, as his clockwork trinkets—cats and bees—rattled and fell to the cobblestone street. He didn't have time to think or—
The unexpected force of another explosion blew him to the ground. He landed hard, rolled into a fetal position and threw his arms over his head. His ears rang with a high-pitched whirr, the quiet echo of the crowd's screams awash with the frantic throb of his heartbeat. Another rumble of sound. Cobblestones trembled beneath him and the hail of dirt and debris bit at the bruises on his skin.
In the chaos and confusion, something slithered in the dark.
Billowing, yellow smoke crept toward him like a thief, bringing with it the stench of putrid, rotten eggs. Sulfur bombs. Not known to be lethal, but as a distraction…
Castiel clawed his way up from the ground to peek over the booth. Men and women ran by in a blur of humanity. A little boy fell to his knees and cried out, only to be rescued a second later by his swooping mother. The mustard smoke chased them, devouring abandoned booths and wares like a monster; a relentless beast with yellow, reaching tentacles—reaching for him. He jerked back from it and turned, intending to throw himself over his booth and escape—
The flash of a blade caught his attention instead.
He ducked down and peeked over the booth. A hooded figure stood in the murk, illuminated by the light of steam-powered lanterns. One of the Unredeemed, a group synonymous with terrorism and murder for the greater good. Castiel followed the point of its eyesight to the frantic crowd, to a trio of its hooded brethren, carrying... a man toward the dark mouth of an alley. The reason for the sulfur bombs, the commotion; another senseless act of violence. He should’ve looked away, ignored it, but couldn’t. He didn't save her when he had the chance. That man—he could help.
He deserved to be saved.
The hooded figure exploded into action. Castiel snatched his lead pipe and bounded over the booth’s table with one hand. He landed right in front of the Unredeemed and twisted back, using the momentum to follow through with a two-handed swing. The pipe smacked against bone and the hooded figure staggered back. Stood motionless. Then fell.
The figure didn't move again.
He stared and swallowed down a lump of guilt before turning, charging toward the alley. He pushed through the undulating mob, riding its wave of fear and desperation. Ahead of him, the alleyway opened up to him like a snake hole, deep and dark, the threat of danger—even death—lurking in its belly. He stepped inside, cautious, and squinted. The alleyway stopped at a nest of vipers, a dead-end with the trio of hooded figures. Two of them surrounded their victim—a dazed, confused man—while the third held a blade to his throat. With the gut-punch of his heart, he rushed forward. Something hard hit his foot and skittered, flashing silver in the low light. Castiel stopped. Held his breath.
Three sets of eyes turned and glared at him.
He didn't think. Dropping low, he scrambled and reached for the silver object. He expected a blade, some sort of second weapon he could use against them. Instead, he found a silver gun. He didn't have time to marvel at it, only jump up and cock the hammer. Two of the hooded figures ducked instinctively, opening a clear shot for the third; the one holding the man at knife-point. Castiel fired off a single shot and it went wide, taking out a chunk of wood framing. Another shot clipped the third hooded man’s shoulder, causing him to howl out in pain, his arm dropping limp at his side. Wounded, but not letting his victim go. Castiel raised the gun again—and someone slammed against him. He crashed against the wall. The gun and lead pipe fell from his hands. Castiel took a hit to the stomach, an elbow to the back, and lost his ability to breathe. He sucked in empty, putrid air as his lungs ached and burned. Another hit grounded him, cobblestone cold against his face.
The wind had been knocked out of him, but not his will to survive.
Before the hooded figure could react again, Castiel swept his leg out, low and quick. He took the feet out from under his opponent and lunged forward, grabbing at clothes and limbs and using them as leverage—to put him in an advantageous position; on top with fists flying. Castiel punched until the hooded figure stopped moving, until he found his own breath again and the world stopped spinning. He left behind a still shadow as he struggled to stand, to stumble toward the man he was desperately trying to save. The blade flashed menacingly as it began to cut his throat.
Time had run out.
The second hooded figure came out of nowhere, leading with the sweep of a knife. Castiel threw himself to the side, fell to the cobblestone, and reached for fallen silver. His fingers closed around the gun and raised it, firing off a shot. The hooded figure stood still, eerily still, and looked down at its chest, then crumbled to the ground. It breathed raggedly as Castiel stood on shaky legs, twitched as Castiel stepped closer. A jack-o'-lantern smile warped its face, black-dead eyes staring at him. It laughed a disjointed, haunted laugh.
"We'll... hunt you for this... you'll suffer... oh, how you'll suffer... then..." Blood caked its razor-toothed grin. "... we'll kill you."
He abandoned his moment of horror and whirled away. The words clung to him as he rushed toward the third hooded figure, toward the man whose throat was being slowly cut. Blood trickled down his neck from an angry-red line, staining his cream-colored shirt. Instinct drove him to react, to raise the gun and shoot. The hooded figure jerked and dropped his arm, and the man fell to his knees. Castiel didn’t hesitate. He raced forward, hand reaching for the man's shoulder, then for his throat—to assess the wound, to stop the bleeding, anything. With a growl, the man pushed him away, hard enough to make Castiel lose his balance. He landed hard on the cobblestone street with wide eyes. The man paid him no heed, nor apology, and grabbed a blade from his boot, yanking it out; an intent to kill written on his face. Not him, Castiel concluded, but the Unredeemed—
"The Righteous Man," the hooded figure whispered, eyes half-lidded. It slumped against the wall, holding a bloodied hand to its neck, and took in shallow breaths. A horrid grin stretched across its face. "We... were going to make an example... out of you... kill you..."
The man stared at him blankly.
"We have to leave," Castiel said.
Heavy footfalls thundered in the distance.
"War... is upon us all..."
Castiel switched the silver gun to his other hand and grabbed the man’s shoulder, lifting, lifting him up. The man jerked away from him and swung his head. Green eyes. Strong jaw line and cheek bones. There was delicacy in the freckles on his face, brutality in the blood staining his cheek. The iciness of his glare contradicted the subtle brokenness that slipped under his skin. A man both strong and fragile, confident and uncertain.
The man's deep frown softened, smoothed out, and for a second, he smiled. It was neither kind nor unkind, but guarded like a child with a stranger. Then it was gone, replaced with a wide-eyed stare of alarm. Wider. Directed over his shoulder. His mouth fell open. "Stop!"
Castiel whirled.
A Revenant stood in front of him, tall and straight-backed, leather armor as black as raven wings. Face twisted with a sneer, cadaverous gray eyes burrowing into his skull. Without warning, the Enforcer raised his mace and swung it low. Castiel tried to take a step back, but pain stopped him dead. He screamed and fell shoulder-first onto the cobblestone street, clutched his leg and made a soundless noise...
Then nothing.
:::
That day, several months ago, marked an unkind change. The city of Rising grew more aware of its terrorist underbelly and increased the number of its peacekeeping forces. Guardians ruled West Rising's clean streets, enforcing its walls and protecting its Citizens. In East Rising, Revenants swarmed and festered, watching the poor suffer, disease-ridden and starving. Trespassers were arrested. Petty criminals hung. Deals made.
In the middle, between Heaven and Hell, Central Rising engorged and profited on the strife.
The scent of greed and opportunity stung his nose as the marketplace bustled around him. Castiel sat in his booth on a Thursday—like he did every Thursday—and held one of his clockwork trinkets. It gleamed smoke-silver in the oppressive sunlight, thin wings an iridescent blue. The clockwork bee sat with its brothers and a lone cat made out of tin, staring out from under the shaded booth. Castiel rubbed at its thorax with a cloth, polishing away fingerprint smudges and leaving a metallic shine. Primed for a new home—if home ever came.
The potential for a home came with the interest of a little boy. His eyes widened past floppy brown hair, his tug at his mother's brocade skirt impatient. Castiel straightened his posture and lifted his chin as the woman—blonde and pretty—looked over her shoulder at the booth. At his wares. At him. Her eyes narrowed. Castiel struggled to plaster on a smile. With a shushing, the young woman pulled the little boy away and the pair of them walked out of sight.
Castiel lowered his eyes. To his wares. To himself. He licked his thumb and dabbed at a stain, smearing it across his tan waistcoat with the missing wooden button, the pocket-seam hole and loose threads. The same waistcoat and dirty-ivory shirt ensemble he had worn yesterday—and the day before. And the entirety of last week.
But it wasn't his appearance that had chased them away. It was an unseen stigma, a truth about him—about what he did—that had been spread among them like a common cold. He rubbed at his wrist and fumbled with the wrap-around blue ribbon, tugging at one of its ends. To make sure it was tight, to make sure he wouldn't lose it. He smiled at its stains and frayed edges, then turned his attention elsewhere.
She sat at a small cafe across the market's small thoroughfare, staring blankly at the delicate teacup in her hand. A stranger to him, this high-born woman, a Citizen who lived in clean, wealthy West Rising. Not a refugee, or born to refugees. Not like him; one of the poor. The starving. They were restricted to East Rising and forgotten.
The woman sipped from her teacup, proper; three fingers holding the handle, pinkie raised. The saucer clinked when she set the teacup on it, then just like that, she dropped them—to test the extent of gravity or just because she could, he didn't know. Glass shattered and tea bled from the pieces onto cobblestone streets, drawing various sets of judgmental eyes. The woman double-flicked her gold-satin fan as the color of embarrassment flushed her cheeks.
West Rising, home of the fed, the privileged. The bored.
She swallowed down her faux pas and shot a timid smile to a young looking man. Handsome and strong-jawed with charcoal-gray brocade waistcoat, tall boots and dark-lens goggles hanging around his neck. The whitish dirt of the Wilds—the dead, barren territories beyond Rising's walls—dusted his shoulders, his dark hair, and clung to his long black coat. A Wildsman then, a hunter and trader of goods found and killed in the most dangerous regions. A thrill-seeker. A hero.
The woman fanned her face as he stooped low in front of her, smiled at her, and began picking up the pieces. She moved her three-tiered skirts out of the way—gold, brown brocade and black-stripped green—and crossed her legs; knee-high boots the newest fashion craze. The gold corset and black leather straps breathed with her as she laughed behind her fan—he must have said something witty or charming, as those types often were. Together, they sat at her small table, talking among themselves as if the rest of the world never existed.
Another connection made, as powerful as a surge of steam-powered energy.
Envy slipped through his skin like a knife.
Central Rising’s marketplace devoured them with its fervor of high-fashion and early afternoon tea for the privileged. Men lurked around booths, shouting out bids for a hunk of meat while young children squeezed through the crowd; a pocket picked here and there with no one the wiser. A cart of spiced foods clattered down the cobblestone lane, every bounce and jostle sending out a pulse pungent with herbs and meat.
His stomach rumbled. Ached. Twisted. He bit his bottom lip as a sharp needle stabbed at his insides, as his mouth salivated. Shoving his hands into his empty pockets solved nothing and his strained smile, shot to a potential customer, only made matters worse. The stern-faced man walked away without another look.
Castiel closed his eyes and let the hum of the marketplace take him away. Away from the sweltering heat, the churn of his stomach, and the ache in his bones. To somewhere good; where delectable foods—fresh fruits, breads, and roasted wild boar—were piled high on tables decorated with linens and candles. Somewhere good; where he could be with—
"We will no longer be the oppressed!"
He opened his eyes. The voice belonged to a young boy, no older than fifteen years. Ragged clothes hung from his malnourished frame, his freckled face a picturesque study of innocence. Hunger had settled in his sunken cheeks and bare ribs, and abuse etched his legs with whip marks and bruises. He held his head high, shoulders straight, and spoke with a loud, booming voice. It was a badge of inner strength, his voice, and his message was clear. Dangerous.
Deadly.
"We're forced to live in filth with no jobs and little to eat!"
The power of the boy's propaganda caused a ripple in the market's murmur, then a crack. Eyes turned and stared, the heated back-and-forth of auction stopped. The walls themselves held a breath.
Castiel swallowed.
It began as distant, white noise and grew louder with each passing second. Hurried footsteps. Not from one single direction, but many. Weapons—clubs and maces—slapping against hard leather armor.
Revenants.
One by one, they spilled from the crowd like black ink, congealing into a front of solidarity. Black armor glossy like volcanic glass, shadowed faces and taloned hands the fuel of nightmares. Their march, steady and certain as death itself, had been likened to a funeral's drum by children; their formation a swarm or a murder of crows. They swooped down the lane with dark eyes and darker expressions, their target a boy whose mouth spat worms and twisted lies.
"Join us! Refuse to live in squander!" he shouted.
The young boy turned and ran, but didn't get far.
They never did.
He smacked face-first into the tallest of the formation, grunted in surprised when the man grabbed his frail shoulders. The young boy jerked away and tried to squeeze by, but it was too late. The Revenant swarm fell upon him, surrounded him, and the struggle earned the boy a bloody nose. He fell to his knees with a scream.
The market was drained of its color.
Castiel dared to take a breath. His eyes gravitated to the people, to the frightened faces, to children hiding behind ruffled skirts, to the men and women shocked silent—a hero decidedly not among them. They stood still. Then, collectively, the crowd shrunk back.
Castiel didn't need to look to know it was him. Didn't need to see the scar or the cadaverous gray eyes cut into his face. The air had chilled, the steam-powered portable lights had flickered—and the clang, clang, clang of that mace... He shuddered as his leg began to ache.
The Revenant swarm parted to let him through. Alastair lifted the young boy by the throat, to his feet, and yanked his wrist toward him. The boy squirmed, yelled, then thrashed, but was quickly subdued by the swarm. They held him still with taloned fingers as Alastair ripped back his tattered sleeve and exposed his wrist. Nothing.
Castiel rubbed his wrist and fiddled with the ribbon.
"You spout the unsanctioned message of the Unredeemed, child," Alastair hissed.
"Because I am one of them," the young boy said proudly. "War is upon us!"
"War?" Alastair echoed. The swarm laughed behind him. "What war?"
A challenge, coated thick with ridicule. The young boy bristled and squared his shoulders. "A war that will bring us food, water, shelter—"
"Led by whom? You?" More laughter. "And what of your army? Is it the poor, the crippled, the diseased? How would you inspire them to slink out of their filthy holes?"
"The sacrifice—"
"You failed that attempt months ago," Alastair growled. "Your spotless lamb still lives."
"We won't stop," the young boy hissed. "War is upon us. "
"There won't be a war," Alastair growled. He grabbed the boy's throat and jerked him in. "Why him? Why your spotless lamb?"
Castiel's blood ran cold when the boy spat in Alastair's face. Unflinching, with the calm of a storm's eye, Alastair ran a hand down his cheek to wipe the spittle away. Then, he smiled—a horrible, terrible smile. A nod set the swarm in motion. One of Alastair's Revenants unhooked a mace and swung it low. There was a scream, a crunch of bone. Like an empty sack of skin, the boy fell to the ground, writhing in the dirt, clutching his leg. Castiel closed his eyes, but couldn't block out the sounds of his screams or his pain.
"Why him?"
"Because he's... the Righteous Man!" the young boy growled out, his voice breaking over agony. "The loyal son, the unfailing hero! These people—all of them... . they see strength in him; strength... they don't see in themselves." The boy gasped, whimpered. "It... has to be him. Our messages of... change fall on deaf ears. But with his sacrifice, his death—they would finally listen and fight! They would have reason to hope—"
"Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment," Alastair said gravelly. "And no matter how many people they enslave, no matter how many people they kill—the Unredeemed will always amount to nothing but crazed, delusional fanatics."
"Ironic that you speak of slaves—" The boy laughed breathlessly. "—when you yourself bear the mark—"
"Enough of this," Alastair growled. "Hang him for treason.”
The sound of hard leather armor creaking like old bones—and a squeal of pain.
“You may kill us, torture us," the boy grated through steel teeth. "But we'll never be silenced! We'll show you. We'll show all of you."
“Silence him."
The command cut the air like a guillotine's blade, followed by another scream. A gurgle.
Then laughter.
Castiel clenched his jaw, his fists. A young boy's life taken—and they were laughing. The noise scraped his eardrums, churned his stomach. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on something else. Not the drag of the boy's body, but the stifled crying in the crowd; the unsettled murmur that took root among the people. It sprouted and blossomed, giving shaky breath to the life cycle of the market—the stilted auctions, the hushed conversations, the back-and-forth trade of caution and hysteria. When he looked up, he found him staring—Alastair—with his dead, soulless eyes burning a target on his cheek. Castiel held his gaze for as long as he could, treading the line between what was acceptable—and what was forbidden by law.
'Always the rebel, Castiel,' his mother used to say.
He dropped his eyes before the Enforcer could find reason to arrest him; to the cobblestones, to the blood stain on the lane. Castiel tightened his jaw, enough to break teeth, and waited. Shouts of "Thief!" filled the in-between spaces, the tell-tale clang, clang, clang ringing out then fading altogether.
Alastair and his Revenant swarm had disappeared, down the lane, into the crowd. Castiel let the tension out of his shoulders, easing out a breath he’d held for too long. But the knot in his gut didn’t go away. He had witnessed a cruel act, the venomous bite of his own reality. People like him, that boy—
Nothing would ever change.
The oppression, the filth. No food. He faced his own starvation as the northerly wind blew, carrying with it the scent of spiced meats. His stomach growled, turned, twisted. Tighter than a wound-up clockwork spring. Castiel draped an arm over his belly and curled in on himself. When the pain subsided, he let out a breath. Gradual. Easy. Afraid to make a false move. All the while, the marketplace hummed with rising conversation; of deals and rumors, secrets stolen and traded in quiet tones. No pity nor heed for the dying.
Nothing would ever change.
Castiel scooped up his bag and opened it. There would be no sales today. No coin to fill his pockets; no food to fill his mouth. He packed up a little beetle, the tin cat, another insect—
“It’s Thursday.”
That voice punched the air out of his lungs. Castiel froze. Like Alastair, he didn't need to look up to know—he could feel it in the way his heart pounded in his chest, strong and healthy like a new steam-powered engine. His stomach twisted, but not because of hunger. It flipped and flopped out of pure elation, excitement, because the very sight of him sent a surge of energy up and through him.
Castiel swallowed hard and closed his eyes, struggling to gather his composure. He wanted so much to look up, to look directly at his face again. Instead, biting down on his lip, he angled his eyes up. Discreetly. His brown-and-copper brocade waistcoat fit him snugly, doing nothing to mute his physique, his strength. The grip of a silver pistol peeked out from the folds of a long leather coat; a reminder of that fateful day months ago.
Since then, Dean Winchester has never missed a Thursday.
Castiel grabbed his walking stick—
"Cas, no. You don't have to get up for me."
—and struggled to his feet. His leg brace squealed under the pressure and pain lanced up and down his bones. Castiel let out a slow breath to deal with the discomfort, and then offered a small smile.
"I'm fine, your Lordship."
“Dean,” he corrected. “You know you can call me Dean."
There was a richness to his voice, a warmth and earthiness that he could only begin to place. Colored mahogany, low and deep like a trade secret at the black market. As heady—and illegal—as whiskey and tobacco. It sapped the strength from his knees and made his head swim. He tightened his grip on the walking stick to keep himself from falling over.
"It's good to see you on your feet."
“Thank you," Castiel cleared his throat. "... Dean."
“How are you?”
An upskip in his tone. He had pleased him.
“I’m fine—“
"Don't tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me the truth."
Stern correction, dropped off like a lead weight. Castiel exhaled through his nose and narrowed his eyes. He should tell him the truth; that he hadn’t eaten in days, that he was losing his struggle to survive. But to be that burden? Castiel shook his head at no one and said—
"I'm fine, your Lordship."
—in a whisper that betrayed his lies. Green eyes drilled cracks into his armor, studied the broken pieces beneath—Castiel could almost feel it. In the end, Dean exhaled sharply. The sound itself stabbed him in the chest and hurt more than starving. It was disappointment, disapproval. It was a little death.
His finger came into view, pointing at the blue-winged clockwork bee. “Is this new?”
“It is.”
Castiel smiled like a proud father and set his walking stick aside. With two hands, he scooped up the trinket, holding it up for display. The iridescent wings flickered blue and purple in the sunlight, its body shining a bright silver.
“When it's wound up—here—" He pointed to the small knob. “—the tiny system of gears and wires work together to flap its wings. Its little legs work too."
Because his own didn’t.
He twisted the tiny knob until it clicked and then opened his hand. The clockwork bee whirred to life, fluttering its wings as it walked around in a circle. His greatest creation—and his greatest excuse. He lifted the bee up, leveling it with Dean's eyesight; a ruse to steal a legal glance at him. The stubble on his strong jaw, the smudges of whitish dirt on his tanned face and collar of his pale shirt, the way his hair shot up every direction; all signs he'd spent days in the Wilds, searching—just as he had every week. And every week, coming back empty. The quiet pain in those eyes... The silent suffering of the Righteous Man. The spotless lamb.
Dean wasn’t looking at the bee, but at him. Staring at him, smiling.
"The blue matches your eyes."
His hearted skipped a beat with the flop of his empty stomach. In that shared breath between them, Castiel fought to memorize every line of his face, every shade, daring a few more precious moments before looking away. He cupped a hand over the bee, pulling it away. Dean reached out, fingers wide as if he were about to touch him, wanted to touch him, then hesitated—found restraint and lowered dirty knuckles flat to the booth's table.
His heart fluttered inside his chest.
"I'll pay you three silver letters for it."
“Dean..” he forced out in a single, surprised breath.
"You saved my life, Cas." A beat and then, "Let me help you."
He read let me save you between the lines and flinched back as if Dean had struck him—a reaction so visceral, so abrupt that it left both of them staring at each other and frowning. He had heard those words before, spilled from oily mouths and soiled with false promises. Promises that had ended in tragedy.
"I don't need to be saved," Castiel grated.
"Saved?" Dean narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell said anything about saving?"
Castiel stood there silent, unable to look away. He wanted to say something, anything, but his voice refused to function, grinding to a stop like old rusty gears in a clock.
"You don't think you deserved to be saved?"
No.
The raw truth of his answer didn't rock him back on his heels, didn't strike him with profound realization. It settled like a disease in his bones, like a wooden beam across his shoulders. He slouched and his neck curved, the weight of his eyes dropping down, down. Dean followed him, caught the descent of his eyes with the tilt of his head. Their eyes met.
"Trust me, Cas. You deserve to be saved."
It was a single note of honesty between what was said and what went unspoken; a second between two people who had found something beautiful and free in the drawn-out silence. The moment seemed to last forever—and ended with a stuttering breath.
His world spun out of control.
Quick as lightning, Dean drew his silver pistol. It startled him. He lost his grip. Somewhere in the confusion, between a gasp and someone grabbing his shoulder, there was a clatter of metal. Castiel winced as fingernails bit into his skin, flinched as the barrel of the gun pointed at him accusingly—no, not at him. At—
"You're under arrest for raising your eyes to a Citizen."
The slur in his speech, the haunted weight of it.
Alastair.
"Let him go. Now."
Castiel dared to glance over his shoulder. Alastair’s scarred face stared back at him, the heat in his dark eyes indicative of righteousness. A Revenant swarm formed behind him, starved animals hungry to drag away another kill.
"It is against the law—"
"I am a Man of Letters. My word is above the law."
"The Righteous Man."
It was a whisper of awe, three words that had the swarm falling to their knees one by one. A title of power—royalty—that didn't faze Alastair in the least. The Enforcer stood there, disobedient, gripping skin and bone until Castiel couldn't help but let out a grunt of pain.
Dean cocked the gun.
Alastair curled his lips into a snarl and let go.
The descent to his knees was gradual, defiant, like cutting down an oak tree with a butter knife. Both the Enforcer and the Righteous Man glared at each other, waiting—praying—for precisely the wrong move. No one breathed. No one moved. The tension crept toward needless violence.
Castiel cleared his throat. "Your Lordship."
Dean's eyes swung like a bladed pendulum. Castiel swallowed hard, his heartstrings cut, and dropped his eyes to the ground.
"Leave us."
The swarm rose to the command with a shuffle of feet and, soon, they were alone. The chill of Alastair's glare gone; the Revenant swarm blending into the shadows so completely, they might as well have been born from them.
Castiel took a deep breath. "My apologies."
"Do me a favor, Cas?" Angry. Razor-sharp. "Don't you dare take his fucking side. Not in public. Especially not in front of him."
"Dean, he has the power and the resources to kill you."
"I should kill him for what he did to you," Dean growled back.
Castiel’s leg throbbed as if on cue. “Maybe he thought I was attacking you. The gun, grabbing you—“
“Doesn’t matter, Cas.”
Castiel sighed. "Dean, what you did to him—"
"A scar?" Dean asked incredulously. "That was the least he deserved."
"I just don't want you hurt," Castiel shot out.
The weight of his own words struck him. Raw, unguarded. Inappropriate. Castiel closed his eyes to deal with the embarrassment, internally shrinking away. Admonishing himself wordlessly.
"I'm not going anywhere."
It was a simple declaration, said with an unfamiliar gentleness he likened to a soft touch; the brush of a thumb across his cheek, the graze of lips against his ear. Castiel opened his eyes and stared at him boldly. Dean cracked a half-smile and it eased the tension. Then, out of habit or even self-consciousness, Castiel dropped his eyes—and that was when his heart sank. Dean mumbled something, maybe even asked a question, but he couldn't hear it, too preoccupied by the tiny clockwork bee; its wing broken, one of its legs bent. Loss spread through him like rot.
He scooped up the bee and held it gingerly in his hands, daring a glance at Dean as if he were the only one who could save it. Dean looked at it, then at him. Social proclivities drew Castiel's eyes down again, back to the bee; its brokenness relatable.
Broken and unwanted repeated over and over in his head.
"I'll throw it away," Castiel whispered.
"What? No—why?" Dean demanded. "Cas, it's not broken."
Castiel frowned at him, confused.
"I'll take it the way it is." Dean said, reaching for his hands. "Bent leg and everything."
His skin heated under Dean's touch; a bolt of wild energy running through every circuit in his body. Castiel swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest, and lowered his eyes. He couldn't help but study his hands, folded so gently around his own that he almost didn't recognize them. Cracked and dry, they spoke of endless days in the Wilds under brutish conditions. The calluses born from holding a weapon that killed without question, the scratches an indication he lived for the danger of the hunt—all characteristics that suggested he was a brutal man, not tender. Not like this. When Dean brushed a thumb over the back of his hand, light and soft, his preconceived notion of who Dean Winchester really was—changed.
He stood there, dumbfounded. Dean opened his fingers and plucked the bee from his hand. In his breast pocket it went, safe and sound.
“Here,” Dean said, folding three silver letters in his hand.
“But—“
"Cas," Dean warned. "Not another word about it."
Castiel nodded, gripping the coins tightly. "Take care of him."
“I will,” Dean whispered.
Dean didn't let go, cupping his hands while the world continued around them. Stretching out time and the limits of appropriateness. He lost himself in his warmth, the simple weight of those hands—when the sound of a raven’s wings wretched him out of the moment. The bird settled on a wooden beam and stared at him, silently accusing, bringing with it a sinking feeling, a deep superstition that where there was a raven, death surely followed. It ruffled its feathers, squawked and flew off, toward the crowd, then up and disappeared.
A sixth sense kicked in, an alarm that blared in the back of his head. Castiel’s eyes gravitated to the shadows of the marketplace. There, among a group of people arguing over a sale, stood two hooded men, watching them, cold eyes zeroed in on Dean. Sizing him up. Waiting.
Unredeemed.
Castiel took in a sharp breath and withdrew his hands, balling them into fists at his side. “Next Thursday?”
Dean frowned a little. Castiel looked at the group of people, then back to him; a pointed gesture that Dean seemed to notice. With a nod, Dean pulled out a golden pocket watch and opened it, angling it to capture the crowd in its mirror shine. Dean snapped it closed and smiled.
“Next Thursday.”
Dean rapped his fingers on the booth twice. A woman screamed and scurried away as two men—Wildsmen by the looks of them—rushed the hooded figures with a voraciousness that left him surprised.
The Righteous Man winked and slipped the watch into his pocket, walking away. But the watch didn’t make it. With a flash of gold, it tumbled down his waistcoat—presumably to the dirty cobblestone street below.
“Your Lordship!” Castiel swallowed his desperation. “Dean!"
He was gone.
Castiel nearly bent himself in half, peering over the booth in search of the pocket watch. Nothing. Time was of the essence. He pocketed the silver letters and grabbed his walking stick, keeping an eye out for mischievous children and thieves—oftentimes one in the same. Pain crept down his leg as he wobbled, rounding his booth. The telltale shimmer of gold in a small puddle led him to the watch’s whereabouts. He positioned himself over it, glanced at the crowd, then exhaled a laborious breath. A moment of hesitation—and that was all it took.
She came out of nowhere with her quick bare-foot legs and nimble fingers. No more than seven years old, the little girl snatched the golden watch from the puddle and ran off. Red hair blazed a trail down the market's lane, clothes in tatters on her tiny frame. She ducked into an alleyway before he could make a sound of protest, before his heart jumpstarted with a bang against his chest. His lungs burned with a lack of air, so surprised—so panicked—that breathing had become a luxury. Shock took over. Then it sunk in.
Dean's watch... it was gone.
He couldn't move, glued to the spot by his confusion, loss. Fear. If he couldn't get it back—
Castiel took a deep breath. He grabbed his things, shoved them in his bag, and tightened his grip on the walking stick before limping toward the alleyway. His heart echoed in his gut as he rounded the corner. If she had escaped, if she was nowhere to be found—
The alleyway stared at him blankly. Huddled in the darkness was a garbage cart, discarded crates and buzzing flies. No little girl. His gut tightened and ripped in half. Castiel let out a strangled noise—a grunt of pain, a growl of anger, he didn't know.
A startled gasp answered him.
Castiel froze. Listened. Something fell at the back of the alley. The tumble and roll of a tin can. A flash of red sped across the end of the alley, exchanging one side for the other. No escape. It was a dead end.
"Hello?"
His voice echoed. The sound of it made him flinch.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
He inched toward the end of the alleyway, every tap, tap, tap of his walking stick, every squeal of his leg brace magnified in the tiny space. There, in the dark, between two abandoned crates, huddled the little girl. She trembled, gripping the gold watch in her small hands. Warm gold flashed along her throat and on the underside of her chin like a buttercup flower. Innocent and delicate. Frightened.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Castiel repeated.
She stared at him, shrinking at the sound of his voice.
What he must look like to her; loud and towering, carrying a large stick and lame with a squeaky leg. A monster more than likely—or another man bent on abusing her. Bruises mottled her legs, her cheekbone ripe with purples, yellows and blues. Another mishandled child in this hellhole of a world they lived in.
"My name is Castiel," he said softly. He kept his distance, leaning against the wall, setting his stick aside. He lowered his gaze to the ground. No eye contact. Less intimidating. "What's your name?"
She said nothing.
"Do you have a name?"
No answer.
"Do you know what I think?" He smiled. "I think... you're probably a princess who's escaped from West Rising—and you're afraid that if you tell me your name, the Revenants will come and take you away."
"I'm not a princess," she said quietly. A pause and then, “I’m a queen.”
“A queen,” he echoed, raising his eyes to her.
She shifted, partially hiding her face, and smiled a shy smile. The little girl clutched the watch tighter in her hands. Smiling a little, Castiel looked down again. "My apologies. I would bow to honor Your Royal Highness, but—"
He lifted up his trouser leg to reveal the metal brace underneath. Her face didn't twist in shock or horror. Instead, her eyes widened... out of curiosity. A sort of child's bewilderment.
“It’s—it’s okay,” she whispered, inching out from the darkness. The little girl stared at the brace for a long time, then looked up at him. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
She nibbled on her thumbnail, looking from his face, to his leg, and back again. Intelligent beyond her years; the way her eyes took in every detail, studying. Processing. She didn’t say much, but when she did—
“Hurts get better.”
—it was simple and profound. If this little girl could smile in spite of her fears, her bruises—her own hurts—then why couldn’t he? Castiel cleared his throat, angling his eyes down again. He took in a deep breath and said, “You remind me of my sister.”
"Was she a princess? Or... a queen?"
"No, she wasn't a princess or a queen, but she should have been. She was very important to me... and very smart like you," he said, twisting the blue ribbon around his wrist. "Her name was Anna."
“Anna,” she said quietly. She looked at him again, took a deep breath, and said—
"My—my name is... Charlie."
—as if it were a guarded secret.
"Charlie," he repeated. "A very pretty name for a queen."
She smiled behind the golden watch. Its yellow light bounced off her pretty face and set fire to the sparkle in her eyes. Letting out a breath, Castiel rubbed his temple and closed his eyes. “You have something I need, Charlie.”
The stale air in that alleyway dropped a couple of degrees; from a guarded understanding between two strangers, two people cut from the same tattered cloth, to a cold reality. Castiel opened his eyes when she said nothing. Charlie had retreated fully into the shadows, in her fortress of forgotten crates. Her light-colored eyes stared.
“Charlie—“
“But I found it,” she whispered, falling back on the rule of the streets; new ownership by way of discovery.
“And it’s in your right to keep it,” he said. “But I’m asking for your kindness and mercy. I need it—“ Castiel swallowed. “—to take care of someone.”
Charlie watched him, processing with her big-saucer eyes. She tightened her grip on the watch and peeked down at it. “Is she sick?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. “But he’s sad—or will be. Sometimes that’s worse than being sick.”
She nodded, possibly agreeing, but said nothing. Didn’t make a move. His stomach coiled and tightened, partly out of hunger, but mostly.. nervousness. Dread. If she decided to run, if she decided the watch was hers—
“Will it make him not sad anymore?”
“Yes,” he said, voice cracking under the tension. “He would be happy.”
Charlie nodded again and looked down at the watch. She brushed her fingers over it and smiled at its shine. When she looked up, that bright smile disappeared. A shiny object, a new toy, possibly even a new future—she must have known she would be giving it all away by the sadness, the hurt, written on her little face. Reluctantly, clutching the watch to her chest, she slid out from the crates. One careful step, two... then twelve until she stood in front of him. She bit her lip—he held his breath—and extended her little hands.
The watch smiled at him with a flash of light.
“I don’t want him to be sad,” she whispered.
Castiel smiled and cupped his hands around hers, the watch warm between them. “He won’t be,” he choked out. “He’ll be happy.”
She nodded, keeping her eyes to the ground.
“I have something for you. It isn’t much—“
He took the watch from her hands, dumping it in his bag. Blind, his fingers fumbled for something, anything; a small gift for her kindness, a token of his appreciation. Clockwork trinkets of all kinds bumped against his fingers, and something smooth and round. From his bag, he pulled out the small clockwork cat—and a silver letter. He wound up the trinket until the cat wiggled its tail, its legs moved, and its head looked curiously from side to side.
The buzzing noise drew her attention up. Through her tears, she gasped and grinned from ear-to-ear. Charlie plucked it out of his hands and held it close to her face, inspecting, eyes wide in amazement. “She’s pretty,” she exclaimed. “Can I call her Anna?”
Castiel swallowed hard and an ache settled in his chest like a cold. “Yes—“ he said almost too quietly. “Yes, of course.”
She smiled at the small cat and hugged it to her chest. Then she looked up—and froze still. The silver letter beamed like a beacon in the sunlight. Unscarred by the daily wear and tear of trade, its polish was nothing short of miraculous.
“This is yours,” he said. “You found it. Hide it if you have to. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”
She nodded her head a hundred times and closed her hand around it. Charlie stood there dumbfounded and stared into the coin’s brilliant shine.
“And if anyone ever hurts you again… you come find me.”
Charlie clutched her things in her little hands, looked up at him, and nodded. She gave him one last smile before running down the alley and into the market’s population in a fiery streak of red hair. Vibrant little girl, full of vitality and innocence—just like Anna had been.
Left behind, Castiel pressed himself against the wall and let his hurts wash over him; a hollow ache that could only come from losing someone. He allowed himself a second for guilt, another for grief, then, with a breath, pulled himself together. He had the watch in his possession, safe and sound, and for that he was relieved. Thankful.
Happier than he'd been in months.
:::
Castiel didn't visit North End often, but when he did, it was for a reason. Law had no place here. Those who had silver and gold spoke the loudest, and with it, could buy anything. Alcohol and tobacco, illegal substances, firearms. No discrimination. His need was simple. His stomach growled.
A fight broke out at one of the stalls; two men throwing punches over a chicken—rare in a city where fresh meat was a luxury. The auction raged on without them, hopeful buyers holding up their silver letters like glittering stars. The chaos ensued, nearly reaching killing violence before they were torn apart—just in time for a pretty lady to walk between them. Exotic, this woman, with her olive skin, blue-painted eyelids and hair that had been unnaturally colored both white and black. They whistled shrewdly and she turned, pulling a gun quicker than he could see. He hadn't seen two grown men run away faster than he did right then.
Castiel smiled at the woman as she passed by. She ignored him, as did the rest of the market's patronage. He limped among them, his walking stick an extension of his own body. His dirty clothes, his unkempt hair, the way he smelled—what they must think of him. A beggar or worse, a liar; acting as if he were crippled when in reality, he was as healthy as a horse. If only they knew the truth. Nothing would change even if they did.
Two children barreled into him, jostling his thoughts right out of his head. The impact made him put undue pressure on his leg, and the pain—God, the pain. Castiel sucked in a breath through his teeth and clutched his walking stick, leaning heavily against it. His leg throbbed, his bones rattled, but that suddenly didn't matter anymore when panic set in.
Thieves.
He jerked a hand into his bag, exhaling fitfully when his fingers touched nothing. Frantic, he shoved around, fingertips searching for his silver letters and, more importantly, Dean's golden watch. He found both hidden in the deep dark corners of his bag and let out a sigh of relief. A watch and two coins. Nothing stolen. Just rambunctious children, then; too high on life to care about personal space and still too innocent to steal another man’s treasure.
Relief turned into agony when a rolling cramp started low in his gut and surged. Castiel grunted and winced as the culprit of his discomfort—the scent of meat—invaded his nostrils. He stood there, eased out a steadying breath, and took stock of the vendors, eyeing the slabs of cooked meat hanging from hooks. The vendor gave out skewers of food while accepting letters with his other hand. The line ran long, but moved at a quick pace.
The meat... hellhound, by the looks and smell of it; an overgrown dog of a beast prominent in the Wilds. His stomach roared again, impatient. With the means of affording it and the will, he wouldn’t go hungry tonight.
When it was his turn, the vendor extended a meat skewer and a hand, took one look at him and wretched them back as if he had bit him. His ruddy face screwed up with a frown. "Whoa. We don't serve your kind here."
Castiel clenched his jaw and frowned. His kind.
“If you ain't no friend of theirs, ain't no friend of mine.”
Without hesitation, he held up a silver letter. "But I have coin—"
"I don't care. Your coin ain't no good. Now, get outta here before I get the Revs on ya."
Castiel narrowed his eyes in challenge. The vendor stared him down. With a frown, he tucked the coin back in his bag, grabbed a hold of his walking stick and turned—to face a man with accusing blue eyes. Late-thirties. His face dirty and rough, his attitude rougher. An upstart with a heroic streak in him.
"You heard the man. You get yourself outta here."
"I don't want any trouble."
"You don't want any trouble?" The man echoed, scratching his beard. He chuckled, but there was no amusement in it. Bitter, resentment, anger—the thickness of his southern accent couldn't hide it. "You shoulda thought of that a long time ago. Right before you took everythin' from us."
Castiel flicked his eyes to the line, to the hard gazes, the nodding heads. A storm brewed in their body language, in their stiff chins and the balled fists at their sides. If he made the wrong move here, said anything at all, lightning would strike. There was only one target.
"Let me tell you somethin'. My wife—my girls.. they're starvin'. I ain't got no job an' no way to take care of 'em... because of you."
"I did what was right."
"Right?" His voice trembled, as angry as an earthquake. "Savin' that man over women an' children—your own people? You call that right?" He closed in, his accusatory finger leading the way. “They say killin' 'im would've started somethin'—a war. Said it'd bring us food and shelter—and jobs!"
"You can't possibly believe that."
“Best to believe in somethin',” he growled out. “All I know for sure—is that you came along and fucked it up. For all of us."
From the heart of the mob rose an angry murmur of agreement. Castiel swallowed hard. Logic told him to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t. “Killing him would've brought a war on our heads—a war we couldn't survive. Look at us!” The starved and feeble surrounded them, looking on with weary eyes. “We can barely stand on our own two feet let alone win a war that would surely kill us," Castiel growled. “The Unredeemed are nothing but a disorganized, cowardly bunch of thieves and murderers, liars and fanatics. Are you truly going to follow them into a war you can't win?"
“You sayin’ there’s no hope?”
It sounded deadly, his question, primed with challenge, dripping with hatred. Although this man had supporters behind him, soured and fight-ready, Castiel didn’t back down and leveled him with an even stare.
The man growled low in his chest, his jaw steel-strong. Through clenched teeth, he grated out, "They should do us all a favor an' kill you."
"Benny... they're starvin' him out. S'good enough," someone said.
"Yeah? Well, him starvin' ain't gonna fill my girls' bellies, now is it?"
"You have my apologies—"
"Your apologies ain't gonna feed my kids!"
Lightning struck.
With a hard shove, Castiel fell backward and landed flat in the mud. The unforgiving earth punished him with pain; up and down his back, his leg... his pride. All of this—because he had saved Dean's life. He should have shrugged off starvation and ignored the humiliation soaking through his clothes. He should have let his anger consume him and fought injustice with wailing fists. Instead of fighting back, he sat there in the mud, kept silent, and stared at him. He—this Benny—changed right in front of him. His hard face, etched with a deep frown, softened and his shoulders drooped. His eyes... they were no longer cold or angry, but warm with a recognizable regret. This man wasn't a monster; he was a person with needs and worries. His anger and violence had come from a good place, born out of love for his family.
Defeated, a tornado sapped of its power, Benny turned and stepped away.
"Wait." Castiel fumbled for something in his bag. "Take this.. for you—for your family."
Benny stopped and looked over a shoulder. The shine and brilliance of a silver letter stole the color from his face. Benny's eyes went wide, his mouth open in disbelief—then, like that, it all changed again. His scowl returned, the spark in his eyes turned glacial. He seemed to remember who he was; Benny, the tough man with an unforgiving heart. Sure and heavy-footed, Benny stomped over and snatched the coin out of his hand. He turned it over and over in his thick fingers.
The coin glimmered with the promise of food and water.
"You have my sympathy," Castiel said.
Benny clutched the coin in a fist. For a moment, Benny looked at him, really looked at him, like he was a human being, like a person who wasn't the sum of his crimes. A second of shared humanity that was cut short when Benny turned and walked away. Several people glared at him, then followed Benny out of the crowd.
Castiel watched him go. Left behind. Dirty, with strange eyes burrowing into his flesh.
"They are going to make you fall in every way imaginable..."
"Hester," someone chided.
He looked up to find a woman, stern face dirty with soot, broad shoulders straight-lined and proud. The coal dust didn't take away from her crystal blue eyes, but certainly drained the color out of her blonde hair. A miner, as strong-willed and confident as any man.
"And when they do, we won't help you," she said. "We can't... not after everything you've taken from us."
Castiel looked from her to the faces in the crowd. Some of them looked down, regretful, while others frowned, bolstered by her statements. Quietly, he nodded. Because in the end, he understood.
Hours crawled by. The day lulled into a late, hot afternoon with the sun heavy on his head. Despite having coin, not a single vendor had taken a kindness to him. Some turned him away gently, others with a hatefulness that left him staggering on his heels. The only forgiveness he found was in the shade of a tree and a lonely, empty bench.
Castiel slumped back. A soft breeze cooled his face, but it didn't feed his empty stomach or soothe the ache in his feet. Closing his eyes, he sat there, too determined to give up, but too tired to move. Hunger gnawed at his bones and, with a whimper, he bent over, holding his stomach, riding through the unbearable pain. He had to eat. Had to eat now.
He readjusted his bag and grabbed his walking stick, desperation leading him to the alleyway between two vendor booths. He stopped dead at the alley's mouth and jerked back to flatten himself against a wall. His heart thundered in his chest, his leg ached as if it knew evil lurked just around the corner. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, Castiel looked into the face of darkness. At the end of the alleyway stood Alastair, gripping a little boy’s wrist bone-crushingly tight. In the boy’s hand, a pristine apple, shiny and red. The little boy whimpered, his gaunt cheeks indicative of starving; the dirt caked on his skin evidence that he was homeless. It was clear to him, then: theft and punishment.
“Please, sir,” the little boy said tearfully. “It’s for my sister.”
Alastair stared at him hard, for a long time. The little boy sniffled and bowed his head, choking back a sob, trying to stay brave. Fear trembled down his frail body, his hand quaking, the red apple shaking and blurring like an old photograph. First, there was nothing but a silent stand-off between unmatched opponents. Then, piece by piece, Goliath fell. The ram-rod rigid posture turned slouching and less defensive; the hard line of Alastair’s shoulders weakening. His face, once stone-cold, softened just a touch. His frown was less… intimidating, not as heartless. Then, without a word—
Alastair let go.
The little boy ran down and out of the alleyway as quickly as he could, disappearing into the crowd to leave Alastair, staring blankly at a wall. Just staring and absently pushing a thumb into his wrist. Castiel hustled away before he could witness the end of that story, rushed as much as he could to another alleyway, ducking in to hide—to reflect, to decipher what he’d just seen. A more pressing matter winded him, forcing him to lean heavily against a wall. Another surge of hunger, twisting him from the inside out. So much pain that he could barely breathe.
Then, he smelled it—salvation.
At the alley's end, several crates of garbage sat rotting, days of refuse baking in the sun. The staunch smell made his stomach curl in on itself; not out of revolt, but out of promise. Several feet stood between him and his next meal. Unashamed, Castiel rooted through the garbage. He tossed aside pieces of wood, ripped cloth, and a broken piece of glass that nipped at him angrily. The cut hurt, but he ignored it in favor of digging deeper and deeper. Deeper until—squish.
Castiel pulled his hand back. Covered in red mush, sticky and sour; a tomato possibly, spoiled but no less fitting for a meal. He plunged his hand back in, grabbed and pulled it out. Half-rotten, black sores all over its pretty red face, a fuzzy mole instead of shiny, waxy skin. Castiel ate it then and there, choking it down with fervor. Greedy, he searched more. The first crate yielded nothing else of value. But the other two—gold mines.
Castiel packed up his bag with a bitten apple, a whole cabbage, a potato covered in ants, and another tomato, pristine and ripe. Discarded wires, a tiny spring and a piece of scrap metal too. Garbage in the eyes of others, but in his? Treasures.
Satisfied, he turned out of the alleyway and began his long journey home.
:::
East Rising greeted him with a familiar blast of heat, with sounds and smells different from the marketplace in Central Rising. Instead of the constant chatter of auction and conversation, a continuous hum and rumble of steamwork engines vibrated in his ears. The sweet aroma of baked breads and meats had turned to garbage and human filth, watering his eyes as he made his way through. Colors too had changed; from the marketplace's vivid turquoise teapots, orange dresses and burnt-gold jewelry to darks of varying degrees. Even fresh blood took on a shade of black ink.
Here, in East Rising, the poor couldn't even afford peace—or color.
Castiel kept to his own business as he moved through several Districts, most of them nondescript with their derelict buildings and shadowed figures. Mazes of pipes and steam vents hung overhead, marking technology's centuries-long rise and the strengthening of humanity after the Fall. They scabbed over the burnt skeletons of houses and decaying walls, twisting and winding to stretch to the far reaches of the city.
A pipe shuddered above him as he reached the next district, no doubt carrying heat or water to those that could afford it. Here, in District 3, red lights illuminated rouge-painted faces and supple bare skin. Tight corsets pushed up their breasts, tiny waists and long legs offered up like slabs of meat at market. Middle-aged and older, even girls barely into womanhood; each of them hoping for someone to take them home. Shelter them. Love them. Maybe even feed them a little bit of food.
Their dead, pitying eyes watched him as he passed by.
He rounded a corner to escape their medusa gazes and almost ran into her. She bounced off him like a balloon, higher than the red-orange moon. Young face with blood-shot eyes and a masquerade smile. Red hair. Blue ribbon. His body shuddered, his past drudged up.
"Take me home with you," she whispered, touching his face with a finger.
Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but only a raspy breath came out. Without a word, he shuffled by her and kept his head down. A delirious giggle faded in the background.
Let me save you, said an oily mouth with spoiled promises. You and your sister.
Castiel swallowed down his guilt.
The air grew colder as he ventured toward District 9, the smell of death on the tip of his nose. Castiel shivered as a cold blast hissed from the pipe's open vent above. Shivered because corpses hung like ornaments and tortured screams rose up from the ground. He'd planned long ago to find a new way home, to avoid District 9 altogether. It was a freezing sort of Hell, where sinners and deviants served their time for crimes done; a place where the missing were never found.
Castiel turned his back on the Pit, on the executions, on the screams of isolation. He kept his eyes on the shadows as his arduous journey moved him through the higher Districts, to the lower, dirtier areas housing the poorest, the most unfortunate of Rising’s population. It was a black hole, known as the Scraps, lacking adequate steampower to light its cracked streets. The stench of fecal matter and urine stung his nose, the shadows thicker than night.
And rats. So many rats.
He swallowed down the bile in his throat and walked on. A steam-powered light pole flickered overhead, buzzing and fizzing before snapping off and then on again. The dull glow cast a spotlight on a macabre play, of a corpse sat upright against a crumbling wall. Thin, nearly translucent skin covered bone, dead eyes and wiry hair a picture of death by starvation. He looked at his fate square in the face and turned toward home.
District 17. The Last Stop, Eden's End, where the dying went to die.
Small fires peppered the wide-open square, drawing scores of sick, small and otherwise homeless to its heat. Over one of them roasted a skewered rat, those around it staring dead-eyed into nothingness. Broken, all of them. Robbed of their livelihood, their health, and their very spirits. They huddled in garbage, close together, to share what little body heat they had left.
Into the alleyway he went, to the end, around the corner and out to a small circle of shacks. Home was four walls and a roof that would collapse any day now. The old, crumbling bricks seemed to sag more with each day, the thin metal roof groaning with each breath Rising took. One more backfire from the Steam Well’s numerous hulking engines would have it come tumbling down around his ears.
Castiel approached the door and fumbled for his key. The metal over-hang, held up by a stick, shook with the vibrations of the steam engines in District 10. It kept him dry when it was wet, kept him cool under in the oppressive heat. It creaked when danger loomed over him.
This time, he didn’t need to hear it to know they were coming.
“Castiel.”
The voice accused him of a thousand sins.
He turned and was met with a hard glare. She stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, her cheeks blushing red-hot. Her hard jaw line could cut through steel, her blue eyes through flesh and bone. Behind her stood cunning and brawn, able-bodied henchmen with moral compasses more crooked than a poor man's spine. Ion and Esper glowered at him.
They weren't here for a polite chat.
“Naomi,” he greeted.
“I need your rent, Castiel. You're months overdue.”
Castiel opened his mouth—
“Search him.”
Ion reacted first, clearing the few steps it took to reach him. Castiel jolted when he took the bag, kept his tongue when Ion dumped the contents onto the street. Silver and gold colors sparkled in the dim light as his trinkets fell to the stone, some of them bouncing away while others broke. His half-rotten food cowered in the graveyard of sentiment and scrap.
“Have you been holding out on me, Castiel?”
Castiel didn't answer, couldn't bear to look up. Ion tossed aside the rotten food and broken treasures, sorting through them to find the potential valuables underneath. When he found nothing, Ion stood, wiping his hands together to rid himself of the filth.
“Nothing of value,” he reported.
Castiel lifted his eyes. Her expression was one of torment, even fear, quickly calloused over by a frown and a cold stare. He didn't back down—a deadlock of defiance and will.
Her smirk was as cold as District 9.
“His pockets.”
Castiel nearly jolted away. “Please.”
The word fell on deaf ears.
Ion grabbed his shoulders and held him still as Esper came forward. Esper wasn’t gentle in the way he searched him, jerking his arm aside to paw at him, to sink greedy fingers into his pockets. The first one yielded nothing, but the second—
Esper grinned a horrible grin and shot a look to Ion. They stepped away from him, leaving him in the shadow of quiet grief and loss.
Castiel couldn’t bring himself to look at her face. He didn’t need to see the metallic glitter and shine in her eyes, her lips curling with satisfaction. He could feel it.
“I've been beyond generous and this is how you repay me? With deceit?”
Castiel raised his eyes. She gripped a silver letter in her fingers, jaw clenched enough to break.
His only silver letter.
“Search every inch of him!”
“That's all I have! Isn't that enough?” Castiel sucked in a ragged breath, desperation cracking his voice. “Won't you let me keep my dignity?”
“Dignity?” She balked, closing the distance between them. “You sold your dignity long ago.”
“Because I saved a man's life?”
“Because you sacrificed our chance at equality!”
“We will not gain equality through violence,” Castiel growled out. “Nor bullying.” He glared at Ion. “Nor theft.” To Esper. Castiel settled his eyes on Naomi. “Certainly not ignorance.”
Her nostrils flared. He didn't flinch when she raised her hand to strike him. Didn't yelp or call out as the pain of her slap spread across his cheek. He steeled his jaw and turned his head, meeting her eyes head on. A silent challenge.
Naomi inhaled sharply and huffed out her rage. He caught her second strike by the wrist, frowning when his fingers brushed against scarred skin. She jerked on her hand but he held on tight, peeling his fingers back just enough to—
The U glared at him accusingly. A horrible brand, carved by a dull blade. A tag, a cursed symbol given to the unlucky few who had wronged the Unredeemed.
Slaves.
“You speak of dignity.” Castiel looked at her wrist. “What did you do to lose yours?”
Her face fell. The anger, the hard authoritative line of her shoulders, and the chill in her eyes faltered and melted away. She stared back at him with unspeakable torture—in her eyes, her face. The pain and regret told him everything he needed to know. She had fallen, had become human in that moment; a woman with needs, full of desperation. Like him, like all of them, she suffered.
Naomi clenched her jaw and jerked back on her wrist. She turned away before tears could stain her cheeks, high-heels an angry click, click, click on the uneven cobblestones. Dutifully, saying nothing, Ion and Esper followed.
Castiel exhaled, the full-bodied release doing little to send the tension out of his muscles. He stared at the darkness for a long time, waiting, expecting them to rush back out of the shadows like a pack of starving hellhounds. When they didn't, he began the long, painstaking task of gathering his things. He waded through the gripes and pains of his body, the pops and creaks of his joints. His bones groaned as he shuffled inside his home, sighed as he locked the door behind him. Castiel leaned his back against the doorjamb and stood there. Quiet. Unmoving. Just enough to gather his wits, to convince himself that he was safe—or as safe as he possibly could be.
His small hovel was as dark, as empty, as the giant maw of a monster.
Castiel reached out to his right, to where he knew the lantern sat idly on his shoddy wooden workbench. Fingers touched cold metal, then glass, down to the very base where metal blended into wood. Across the rough grain to the box of matches that lurked nearby. A few match-on-box strikes yielded nothing, the third sparking and blossoming, producing a small flame that nearly chased his stomach butterflies away. And then there was light, a warm flood of yellow, stretching to the far corners of his small, but respectable home—light that, try as it might, couldn't seem to touch the dark emptiness in his chest.
His home wasn't built on emptiness.
A broken mirror glinted in the soft light, catching the shimmer of a rumpled piece of tin; focal points that made the transition from a bleak and dreary outside world a little easier. Loud and comforting, his walls boasted color in the form of discarded fabrics, full of holes and wild patterns. Green-and-black stripes grounded him while the parade of orange and bright yellow cottons kept his heart pumping. While the outside world had died, turned yellow and brown, his small tomato plant brought with it a promise of hope; that maybe the world could bounce back from its plague of desolation and rot. A tiny green-yellow tomato smiled at him from its nest of healthy, happy leaves.
With a grunt, Castiel flopped in his chair, his leg brace squeaking, his hands going limp at his sides. A second of rest, of pure abandonment, before he straightened again, casting off his bag like an anchor. Something pinched against his thigh—then he remembered.
He yanked up his trouser leg, and inch by inch, exposed the metal leg brace in all of its worthlessness. Leather straps fused metal to his skin while two rods kept his bones in place. The knee bolts had rusted long ago and prevented him from moving with ease. The contraption itself had been created hastily, by a man with a black soul who had taken all of his savings for a product worse than cow manure. A man who had died not even a month ago by a vengeful employee with a penchant for good aim and a gun.
Another pinch of skin. With a wince, Castiel slipped his hand between the thigh band and muscle, fingertips bumping against a block warm and smooth, like creamy yellow butter. Dean's watch flashed gold in the low light, safe in his open hands. If he hadn’t hidden it, if he’d lost it—
If he'd sold it.
He ran a smooth hand over it, slow and easy, and got lost in its reflection. What he held in his hands would set him up with a comfortable life. Food, clean water. Clothes. A home whose feeble walls wouldn't crush him in his sleep. There was no real temptation there, selling it, but if he were a different man—
Castiel shook his head and lifted the watch to his ear. Hollow. Dead. No ticking of its mechanical heart. He looked it over again, opened it, closed it, and ran his fingers over its smooth sides and intricate patterns. On the back, elegantly engraved, were the initials 'J.W.' Castiel brushed a thumb over the letters. John Winchester, Dean's father, a name well-known to the people of Rising and a man who had been missing for years. Lost to the Wilds, or worse, dead.
Inspiration buzzed in his bones.
The watch would be important to Dean. Essential. Castiel grabbed a tiny tool and popped the lid open with little effort. Gears and tiny parts, as expected. Red rust indicated a debilitating disease, the very reason the watch had stopped working entirely. Something lurked deeper still, slipping between the damaged parts as easy as—
He frowned and tilted the watch, face-down. From its open wound oozed water, brown and dirty, likely from its quick bath in the rain puddle earlier that morning. He soaked up the water with his shirt, then started picking apart the watch, gear by gear, layer by layer. Many of them he could salvage, some of them beyond repair. Fanned out in a crowd, the gears huddled together, waiting for judgment, both the saved and the damned.
Castiel settled back in his chair, eyeing them with a critical frown. Replacement parts… He reached for his bag, nearly toppling his chair over, and lifted it to his lap, dumping out the contents with a clatter and thump. Rotten vegetables rolled to a stop somewhere at the edge of the world; clockwork trinkets falling and settling in a pools of color and scintillation. Each piece—vegetable, fruit and clockwork toy—bent or bruised in some way.
His attention swung like an executioner's axe to his clockwork trinkets, zeroing in on a tiny beetle with a bent antenna and a twisted leg. Tiny pearlescent buttons for eyes, its red-and-green enamel body made from a lady's brooch. Hollowed out and filled with gears and small parts, it moved and danced like the rest of them. He had toiled nights over this piece, proud when it was finished.
It’d serve another purpose now. A better purpose.
“My apologies, my friend.”
He turned it over and opened it at the seams. With careful hands, he began taking apart its insides, working well into the night.
:::
He knew the sewers well, could navigate the endless maze of underground tunnels better than he could the city itself. He knew where to hide once he had broken through to West Rising, where to clean himself and which houses hung out their fresh laundry to dry on any given day. He had memorized the paths of the Guardians’ patrols like the insides of a watch, knew which nooks and crannies would shield him from view.
But that was months ago and all of it had been easier when he was able-bodied.
He arrived by dawn like always and shuffled to the first hiding spot; a tight alleyway between two squat greystone houses. Castiel tried to ignore the incredible sunrise in favor of alert and readiness, but found himself staring at it instead. It crested the horizon with a splash of color; of reds setting clouds ablaze; of intense purples and blues bleeding into soft yellows—a beautiful backdrop to West Rising's timeless portrait of clean streets and whole buildings. Wealth could be found everywhere here, in the fresh air and sunlight streets, even in the sky itself. If only the citizens of West Rising knew how lucky they had it.
Pain tremored down his leg as he hustled, as much as he could, from spot to spot, ducking into a shadowed alleyway as a Guardian rounded a corner just down the street. Heavy footfalls against cobblestone, armor shining like a mirror and sounding of silver bells—Castiel held his breath as the Guardian marched by, thankfully unaware of West Rising's newest intruder. When he had gone, when the sound of righteousness had faded, Castiel let out a sigh and sent a wordless prayer of gratitude above.
He had arrived on a day surprisingly scarce of laundry. Clean water was precious, each district of West Rising designated certain days for cleaning, bathing, and most important of all to him, laundry. He had categorized and memorized every district, their laundry days, their off days. Somewhere in the last three months he had been debilitated, something changed. Days shifted. Times rearranged. No laundry. No time to search every district for abandoned clothing.
In an alleyway, Castiel took a quiet moment to look down at himself. His ivory shirt had lost a little more of its creamy color, his trouser legs wet and grimy. Without proper clothes, and smelling the way he did, he wouldn't be presentable. Then and there, he should've given up. Something in the back of his mind told him not to.
He gathered his bruised pride and stepped out of the alleyway, shuffled down the empty street toward the small park that he hoped would still be there. Like the rest of West Rising, the tiny park—a patch of green grass, a bench and a fully-functional fountain—stood empty, waiting for leisure enthusiasts to rise for the day. The sun peeked around one of the taller greystones as if it were keeping tabs on his misdeeds. Castiel shielded his eyes from its glare, confirmed that the park was still empty, and stepped out into the light.
The sound of righteousness caught him by surprise.
Castiel threw himself back into the shadows. Bright spots burned the backs of his eyelids, the halo-outline of a Guardian haunting him. The sound of footfalls. Closer. Cautious. There was nowhere to run. No hiding spots, no easy escapes. As the Guardian approached the tree, took in a deep breath, his heart ricocheted off his ribs like careless gunfire. Silence. Nothing. His brain panicked over the possibilities.
Don't even breathe.
A force jolted the young tree, like a brunt of weight had fallen against it. The sound of teeth breaking through an apple's skin, a contented sigh—not an investigation into odd shadows or suspect persons, but an early morning break by an otherwise diligent protector of West Rising. Castiel relaxed, though barely, and waited. Waited and waited some more until the Guardian went on his merry way, humming a baritone tune.
For a second time, he checked the park and slunk from the shadows. He didn't have time to register the dull pain climbing up from his leg, the ache in his knees, or the pitter-patter of his heart. He couldn't afford the time to think. Just scoop, scoop, splashing the water over his head, his face, anywhere he could get it in enough time. He shuffled back to the tree with wet hair matted to his head, face presumably nowhere near clean. The faint odor of the sewer still lingered and his clothes hems were thick with grime. He wasn't a human being but a monster from the deep, a creature often whispered about in children's tales.
Like the monster he was, he darted from shadow to shadow, from house row to tree, past rose bushes and dead-eyed statues. The massive double-door entrance of the West Gates towered over the empty square. Beyond the West Wall stretched the Wilds, an endless void of skeleton trees and dead flora. Birds didn't sing, insects didn't buzz—didn't because there were none. Not out there, at least. Out there, the plants and animals of long ago were just that—from long ago. Fairytales. Myths. Swallowed up by death and hellacious beasts.
Most men kept away from the Wilds.
Dean Winchester was not most men.
The sputter and roar of a steambike marked the Friday ritual; a rumor that had led Castiel to West Rising in the first place. A rumor about the hunt, a journey that would take Dean far into the Wilds in search of his missing father. Every Friday like an unfailing clockwork toy, as faithful as a war-torn hero.
The streets woke with a veritable symphony of noise. Not church bells, delicate and soothing, but armor, a chorus-clang of pots and pans, loud and disruptive. It was a formation of Guardians, a Veneration; chins held high and backs straight. They flashed like justice, silver and polished, their war-drum march thundering toward the West Gate. In the middle of the Guardian Veneration, of judgment and pride, stood Dean, powerful and strong. He wasn’t wearing the fabrics and colors of his station, a Man of Letters, but of a Wildsman; all rugged leather and dark, earthy colors. In all his glory, Dean took his breath away.
His heart pounded in tune with the pocket watch's ticking, keeping time with his dread, the risk, and the disappointment if he didn’t find the courage to act. Dean wouldn’t hear him over the thunder of the steambike, but if stepped closer, he'd be seen and caught. As Dean drifted farther away, he panicked and that alone made him move. He took a step, then another, sucked in a deep breath and limped out from under the tree.
“You there!”
It had only taken a second.
“Stop where you are!”
Dean turned and his eyes grew wide.
Castiel didn’t stop.
“You're not supposed to be here!”
The point-lead of the Veneration, the Intercessor, glanced back at his Guardians and pointed to him. “Arrest him for trespassing!”
Quickly, Dean grabbed the stocky, bearded man and jerked him back. They exchanged stern words, animated with hand gestures and frowns. The Veneration stopped with a hand signal, the Intercessor giving Castiel a glare before looking back to Dean. In the end, he nodded.
Dean smiled and clapped him roughly on the back, leaving the man behind to scowl and mutter. That smile faded when Dean looked at Castiel, leveled him with a stare. There was something unkind there, so cold that it made the blood in his veins freeze. He was a force to be reckoned with, muscled legs a storm of fury. In that second, Castiel had become a Wildbeast, a dangerous animal that had earned Dean's bloodlust.
The impact of hunter and beast left him breathless.
Dean grabbed ahold of his arm and turned him, dragging him toward the tree. Castiel tried to keep quiet, biting his bottom lip to keep himself from yelling out in pain. When Dean pressed him roughly against the trunk, it was the first time he’d ever feared for his life under Dean’s touch, and now his glare. Fear that quickly began to melt away when Dean didn't move, hands fisted in his dirty shirt collar. Their bodies... almost touching. His head whirled with it; how close they were to each other, just inches apart, their eyes locked together. The warmth of Dean's body, the hot puffs of air against his skin. He allowed himself a moment in bed with him, skin-to-skin, warm with Dean panting against his neck. So blissed out, so satisfied, that Dean had turned to jelly against his body.
Castiel took in a breath, the smell of leather and oil, whiskey and Dean sending a shiver up his spine. All Castiel wanted to do right then was to touch him, breathe in his skin, taste his lips. Instead of finding the courage, of taking the chance, Castiel stood there, a slave under Dean's grip, under his intense study. Green eyes that seemed to gravitate to his lips as if he himself were trying to find the courage, too. And when Dean touched fingers to his chin, thumb gliding along his bottom lip... Castiel held his breath. Dean leaned forward, their lips almost—
"Dean."
Not here. Not now.
Dean took in a sharp breath and let him go, taking a step back. Seemingly dumbfounded as if he'd been under some sort of trance, so drunk on the moment that he'd forgotten his place—and who was watching. On cue, Dean peeked around the tree trunk and surveyed the area. When his eyes came back, softer, kinder, Castiel let the tension roll off his back.
"What the hell are you doing here, Cas?" Dean whispered. "What couldn't wait until Thursday?"
Castiel began to lower his eyes when Dean tilted his head, catching his gaze before it hit the ground.
"Are you in trouble?" No answer. "You know you can't be here, Cas. For fuck's sake, they've hanged for less."
Anger, irritation, disappointment—whatever it was, something dark shaded his voice. The weight of it made Castiel bow his head, eyes to the ground, to tufts of vibrant green grass. In that horrible moment, subjected to Dean's disappointment, he'd forgotten why he was here at all.
Dean brought him back from guilt with a single touch, a palm against his face, a thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. When Castiel looked up, Dean smiled and said, "I just don't want you getting hurt.”
Castiel opened his mouth, but no words came out. He'd lost his voice somewhere between a breath and a heartbeat, between a touch and a smile. Dean thumbed his cheek again, soft and gentle, and Castiel held his breath. Relaxed. Then leaned into the touch. Dean smiled at him and it was warm, affectionate. A moment he'd remember for the rest of his life—
A moment stolen by a flash of gold.
It drew their eyes downward. The pocket watch flashed again in his open hands, announcing its new-found health with the thrum of its mechanical heart. Tick, tick, tick. Rapid and strong. It matched the beat of his own, both hearts—human and mechanical—playing the same musical note. Dean, Dean, Dean.
With nothing to say, Castiel lifted his hand. Golden light kissed Dean's face and shimmered in his wide eyes, stealing the glory of surprise from his face.
“Where…” Dean whispered, breathlessness cutting him short.
“In the Market. You dropped it," Castiel said. "I thought it was important. I felt—I felt it couldn't wait.”
Dean took the watch from him and ran a thumb over it. Turned it over and over in his hands as if he'd never seen it before. Its heartbeat seemed to tick louder, its gears and inner workings finding familiarity in his touch.
“It's my father's.” He cleared his throat. “Was—was my father's.” Dean tilted his head like a curious little bird and brought the watch up to his ear. “It works.”
The grin on his face, so wide and happy— Castiel swallowed around the lump in his throat. “S—some of the gears were rusted. I cleaned them, salvaged them as best I could.” But Dean was displeased, the frown on his face— “Are you angry?"
“No. No, not angry. Just—" Dean finally looked at him again, studied him as if he were trying to solve puzzle. He licked his lips, lifted the watch up and said, “Cas. Selling this could've set you up for—months." His voice was so small. "Anyone in their right mind would've hocked it to the highest bidder.”
Castiel looked at the gold watch, its smooth polished finish—the way Dean held it, cupped and safe in his hands like something precious. He could've sold it at North End, ate wealthy for months, had a home with four solid walls. To betray Dean like that, whether he knew it or not—
Anyone in their right mind would've...
"I'm not anyone." He gave a small smile, looking up at Dean. A shrug. “Perhaps I've never truly been sane.”
Dean smiled, then looked down at the watch again, rubbing a thumb over the 'J. W.' engraved on the back. Castiel watched him, cataloging every shade of his face and the emotion he went through. Loss being one of them, the most prominent, sharper than a blade and deeper than the frown on his face.
With a swallow, Dean opened the watch then closed it. Idle movements to keep him distracted while— "He gave it to me before he disappeared..." Dean shrugged, looking out toward the West gates. He clenched his jaw.
"Disappeared?"
"Yeah, figured he'd left Sammy and me behind because we were too much for him.” Dean let out a breath and his whole body deflated with it. "All I can remember is this... rage. Me, sure, I could see how he wanted to leave. But Sammy?"
Dean looked down at the watch again. "I threw all I had left of him in the stream outside our house. Stayed there for—"
It ended there, punctuated with the clench of Dean's jaw, hanging unfinished in the long silence between them. Castiel studied him in that stretch of nothing. Watched him turn over the watch in his hands, lift it to his ear to marvel in the sound of its mechanical heartbeat. Dean looked at him finally, swallowing harshly. The jagged scar line on his throat—what could have been—mesmerized him. If he hadn't saved him—
"Was it worth it?"
"Saving you?" He asked without thinking. "Yes, Dean. It was worth it."
Dean's brows arched, a beat of surprise before his whole face tightened. He lifted the watch and a golden flare reminded him where he was—and what they were talking about. "Fixing it. Was it worth—"
"Yes," Castiel coughed out, balling his hands into fists at his side. "That, too."
Dean's smile relieved the tension, the embarrassment; the two of them hovering between want and shouldn't. Castiel sucked in a breath and braced for another touch when Dean lifted his hand. Again, another sweep of a thumb across his cheekbone. To rub a smudge off his skin, as far as he could tell, because it was less affectionate and with more purpose. “Why did you save me?”
When Dean pulled his hand away, Castiel closed his eyes and ached quietly. An undercurrent of lavender on Dean’s skin made Castiel drunk on him all over again, dizzy with a warm feeling he couldn’t describe. “I… I—don’t know,” he lied. “But saving you… it felt… right.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Dean whispered.
Just outside the Gates, the steambike revved. Their time was over. To validate that harsh reality, the Intercessor approached, stopping just a few feet behind their tree. There was a huff, the sound of a throat being cleared.
Castiel yanked something out of his pocket and handed it over. A pocket watch chain, though it wasn’t a chain at all. Just a thick, coarse thread with a metal scrap looped and tied to the end; a makeshift protection bar to poke through a buttonhole. “It’s not worthy of your station—“ He began. “It’s so you won’t lose it again.”
Dean smiled down at it, bright enough to warm the cold places in his soul. He plucked the pocket watch chain from his open hands. “Thanks, Cas. For everything.”
“Your Lordship,” the Intercessor barked out.
Dean glared at the interruption, and looked back to him. “How will you get home?”
“The way I came; through the sewer—“
“No,” Dean shot out. It sounded like a command, as if the very idea had been absurd. “Bobby here will escort you home. At least,” Dean glanced past him again, to Bobby. “As far as he can manage.”
The Intercessor—Bobby—narrowed his eyes. “The hell I will. He has two feet. He can get to whatever hole he came from—“
“Bobby,” Dean intoned gravelly. “If he's harmed in any way, it's on you.”
Bobby smirked and rolled his eyes.
Castiel found Dean's smiling face again. “Thursday?”
“Thursday,” Dean agreed.
Dean gave him a wink and turned, patting Bobby roughly on the back before joining the waiting Veneration. Castiel watched him go, out the West Gates, to his steambike; sleek and black, spotless in its absence of the Wilds' whitish dirt. Well-taken care of, maybe even Dean's pride and joy. With a roar and rumble, the bike—and Dean—sped off into the Wilds. Castiel smiled to himself. The smile collapsed under Bobby's glare.
“After you, princess,” Bobby grumbled, motioning ahead.
They wound through the streets, past greystone houses and small cafes, fruit-bearing trees and singing wind chimes. Freshly-baked pies sat on window sills and laundry hung on twine—laundry on Fridays. Castiel checked the district sign, filing it away for future reference, when—
"You the kid that saved my boy's life?"
Castiel kept walking, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes, sir."
Bobby nodded and that was all. A few more steps— "He talks a lot about you... too much if you ask me."
Castiel looked ahead, grinning ear-to-ear. His heart fluttered and in that moment, he was wealthy. Alive. So full of feel-good that he hadn't noticed the quiet—not until his footsteps were without the echo of Bobby's heavy footfalls. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Bobby reached for a cream shirt and dark trousers, pulling them right off a laundry line. The Intercessor approached him, holding them out. "Take these and git. Gate's just up there."
He eyed the clothes, looked at Bobby, and hesitated, waiting for cotton and buttons to somehow come alive and bite him.
"Well, go on," Bobby said.
Castiel took them in his hands, rubbing a thumb over the soft material. So finely made that it left him searching for words—and waiting for the catch.
"Now, don't you breathe a word of this to no one. You go tellin' people I was nice, there'll be a world of hurt comin' for you."
"Yes, sir."
Bobby stopped mid-turn and said, "Stay away from my boy," before he marched down the street.
Castiel stood there, frowning, clutching the clothes in his fist. Staying away from Dean—the catch. Not something he'd likely ever do. Couldn't. He was too far gone, too addicted to Dean's smile, his voice, to every fragrant note of his skin to simply... never see him again. The way he buried his vulnerabilities. His fierce, undying loyalty to his family.
Staying away from Dean wasn't even an option.
Without a second thought, he hurled the clothes over the small white picket fence and turned away, limping down the street toward the gates. He stumbled through the marketplace of Central Rising, shuffled to the East, through the Districts to his own—District 17, Eden’s End—and rounded the corner to the alleyway that led home.
It was a pinprick of danger that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on-end; a small voice telling him that something was wrong, that something had happened. Castiel swallowed hard and shivered, his senses keening. He took a breath and held it. Listened.
Someone's in the dark pumped through his veins.
He stopped and turned over every shadow, stripped down the broken figure slumped against the wall. Laudanum junkie, a young boy no older than fifteen, passed out. Possibly dead. Harmless. No one else in sight. Castiel walked away slowly, painfully slow, making sure every step connected to cobblestone, and turned the corner—
The door to his home hung open like a skeleton's mouth, dark and jagged. Fabrics oozed out from the opening in pools of regurgitated color. His trinkets, his furniture, meager possessions thrown around like they were nothing.
Castiel sucked in a breath. He leaned against... something when his legs gave out, when his vision narrowed and stomach flipped. Violation, loss and heartache swept his notion of safety out from under his feet, an erosion leaving him cold. Unbalanced. Lost.
We'll hunt you for this. You'll suffer... oh, how you'll suffer...
He limped toward his desecrated home, gathering what little composure he could manage just outside; a second to glare at the bloody U drawn on the door; a moment to categorize the destruction inside. Fabrics torn down, workbench toppled over. His lantern, tools, and clockwork pieces—all broken. Smashed. Pulverized out of rage. In the name of cruel revenge.
Castiel shuffled inside. Hopelessness poured out over his destroyed belongings, flooding his home with a river of self-loathing. Self-loathing because this was what he'd become; a misshapen excuse for a man. Limited. Useless. Broken. Unable to do something as simple as protect his small claim in life.
He hesitated at first, then took another step. From the small window-hole, sharp blades of dull light cut through broken shards of his mirror, its many pieces glinting like silver letters on the floor. Glass and—
His eyes went wide. He tripped, half-stumbled in his haste toward the mess of aged wood and shattered glass. Hanging onto his walking stick, using it for balance, he bent forward, lifted the mirror frame—
There, underneath, was his tomato plant. Broken on the floor. Its stalk was bent, its proud green tomato smashed.
The very touch of you corrupts.
Castiel steeled his jaw. His hands shook. He thumbed a leaf as his eyes welled with hot tears, his teeth clenched to the point of breaking. His body trembled and his chest tightened with it, blood running hot; his entire existence on the edge of something powerful—explosive. It ripped out of him in the form of a bestial yell, deflated quickly and broke over the crack in his voice. Then he was sinking, sinking, back into the rickety old chair that met him halfway with a jolt. He hung his head, shoulders hunched and spine curved, and caught his reflection in the mirror.
He hated what he saw.
He didn't deserve to be saved.
He reached down and grabbed a shard of glass, cut, cut, cutting—until his trouser leg fell away, until his erratic shredding revealed the beast attached to his skin. His leg brace smiled, metal teeth gleaming like the monster he himself was; grotesque, twisted and malformed. Castiel dropped the piece of glass. With bloody palms, he pulled on the leather straps and tightened the brace until his leg ached, until pain made him cry out. He punished himself with it, kept tightening and tightening until his skin bruised, until the thick metal band tore into his skin.
:::
Minutes, hours, days followed the drumbeat of time in a militant march toward Thursday. And like every Thursday, he sat in his booth with his clockwork trinkets stretched out in front of him, waiting, always waiting. He wondered if today would be his lucky day, if he'd finally make an honest sale.
In the end, he didn't care.
Exhaustion stitched every muscle together, every bone and limb having its own set of complaints. Breathing had become a difficult chore, as tiring as lifting a heavy stone off his chest. No sleep. No energy.
No spirit.
In the week prior, he let depression rot away his dignity. He clothes hung loosely on his back and hips, filthy and ragged. His skin dirty, his face—he scratched absently at his chin and coarse hairs pricked his fingers. Disheveled and listless, he sat there with his shoulders slumped and closed his eyes. Getting out of bed today had been a chore, hopelessness dragging him down, down, down. All he wanted to do was float away—
The sound of a giggle brought him back down to earth.
A fiery mop of red hair popped up first, then light-colored eyes. It didn't take long for her smile to show up, wide and stretched across her face as if she had the greatest joke to tell. When she disappeared beyond the lip of the booth, his heart fell. Then, little by little, something miraculous happened. A red apple, ripe and pristine, found its way onto his booth's table, teetering on the edge at first, then sitting proudly among his other treasures.
"I found it." Another giggle.
Castiel grabbed it, rubbing a thumb over its shiny, thick skin. "T—thank you, Charlie."
"Don't be sad, okay?"
Her words were an agonizing punch to the heart, clawing the surface of memories he'd rather forget. He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already gone, back into the crowd with a grin and a wave. He swallowed down his grief with the first bite of that apple. The juices danced bitter on his tongue, his every bite heartache and regret.
Heaven smiled down on him again later that day with Dean's expected visit, with his unintentional swagger and charm that could kill. When Dean stopped in front of him, said something, he didn't acknowledge him. He kept his eyes vertically angled to avoid looking at his face, tracing the line of the makeshift pocket watch chain instead. He didn't have the energy, or the courage, to look up.
"Cas?"
He eased out a soft breath and said nothing. Fingers dipped below his chin, forefinger and thumb tilting it up. They were dirty, his fingers, scratched, but gentle. The whitish dirt from the Wilds, trapped beneath Dean's fingernails, had a particular odor to them. Earthy, acidic and almost putrid. Difficult to clean away—much like self-loathing.
Their eyes met and Dean's went wide.
"What the fuck happened to you?" Dean shot out. "Where'd you get these bruises?"
Fingers brushed against his bruised cheek—or tried. Castiel jerked his head back, the reaction so involuntary, so gut-instinct that it even surprised him. Dean clenched his jaw, his frown deep and unyielding; an angry mask hiding his concern. Castiel tried to look anywhere else, got as far as the new scratch on his cheekbone. Claw mark, red and jagged. Another legacy left behind by the Wilds.
"Cas." His voice rumbled, bordering on a growl. "You tell me who did this to you."
"It's nothing of import, Dean."
"It's nothing of—" Dean made a disgusted noise and wiped a hand down his face. "You're telling me I should look the other way? That I shouldn't turn this fucking city upside down and bury whoever did this to you?"
He didn't answer.
Dean slapped a hand down on the table. "Talk to me!"
"Dean," he growled out, startled. "Leave it alone."
"That's not going to happen, Cas," Dean returned gravely. "Pack your things."
“I have to sell—“
“You have to eat. I can see your bones,” Dean said, angry-disgusted.
Castiel studied him. Dean was standing straight-backed and broad-shouldered, square jaw line notched up a degree; a posture and determination that reminded him of a soldier bent on saving the world. I'm going to save you even if I die trying was written clearly on his face, hard with the note of anger, yet soft with the worry in his eyes. Dean would get him to talk over lunch. Drunk on food and drink, he'd spill his guts and spin a sad tale of a poor man, beaten and starved out by shadowy villains, all because he'd chosen to save a man's life. A sad tale that had no happily-ever-after ending.
It took him forever to pack his things, an attempt to deliberately waste time. By now, Dean should've stomped off with impatience, back to his white castle in the sky. Dean crossed his arms over his chest instead and waited. Stubborn. Determined to save him—and he did. Not with liquid-silver swords and shining armor, but with two meat skewers and a tankard filled with clean water that glinted like a savior in the sunlight. They sat on a bench shaded by a large tree outside an old-timey tavern; drunken laughter and rough pewter-to-pewter toasts spilling out from its door. Dean reclined and draped an arm over the back of the bench, his fingers a barely-there touch on his shoulder. Oh, how he wanted to lean in then—to feel Dean's warmth, to feel safe and protected with a simple brush of his hand. Need coursed through him. He forgot about eating, his stomach rolling, rolling. Hot grease trickled down his hand.
"Eat."
Like a dog obeying his master, Castiel ate. Ate, drank, and ate some more. He licked his grease-wet fingers and wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve, cleaning off his hands on his filthy trousers. He drank one more time and then bolstered his spirits for the war; a silent war of wills—Dean's determination to get him to talk a catapult, his own stubbornness a walled-in castle. Except this time, once the walls had been destroyed, there wouldn't be a princess to save.
"Cas, you've got to talk to me," Dean said plainly. "Tell me what happened to you."
Against Dean, his walls had no chance. They started to crumble.
He dared a glance. Dean stared out into the morning market crowd, a stain of sunshine painting his face golden yellow. Like the dry flicks of a paint brush, tiny freckles dusted the canvas of his skin. Modern art, Dean Winchester. Beautiful and simple, yet complicated.
"Look, Cas," Dean said quietly, as if he were exhausted. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
One of his castle towers fell.
When Dean looked at him sidelong, Castiel looked away. Down, to his lap, to the blue ribbon on his wrist. He picked at it like a child, pulled at it. Took a breath and then, "I was—" Narrow-eyed frown. "—ambushed. Robbed. Beaten." He ended his poor-man's tale with a shrug.
"Robbed?" Dean echoed incredulously.
"Yes, robbed," he snapped, avoiding eye contact. "I may not have anything of value, to you, but out there, where we have nothing—"
"Okay, Cas. Okay," Dean said, surrendering. "What'd they look like?"
"I didn't see them."
"You didn't see them."
"It was at night," he said, agitated.
"You were robbed, beaten, and you didn't see them."
"Yes." He'd lost track of how many lies he'd told. "Why is that so hard to believe?"
Castiel looked up when Dean didn't answer. Dean studied him for a long time, then looked away, out into the crowd again. A brown-haired little boy plucked a fat silver coin out of a man's pocket and ran off with his new treasure in-hand. It was as if a child had stolen Dean's patience too. With a hard exhale, Dean ran a hand down his face again and clenched his jaw. Signs of irritation, clues that maybe Dean could read through his lies. What he loved most about him—his intelligence—proved to be an inconvenience now.
"You're lying to me," Dean said at length.
"What—" Castiel acted surprised, but failed. Miserably.
"You're a horrible liar, you know that?" Dean gave him a withering look. "Come on, Cas. You've got to let me help you."
You can't save me, Dean.
"Is it money? Do you need money? Do you owe someone? A gambling—"
"Dean," he whispered. He sounded as if his heart had broken over his name.
"Then, what? What is it? Whatever it is—we can fix it."
Dean seemed so sure. The hero in him, the parts of his father in him, knew with certainty that they could beat whatever odds were against them. That they, together, would win in the end. In spite of himself, Castiel smiled. Together; the fairy tale, the happy ending. Their happy ending.
Castiel opened his mouth. He wanted to spill his guts, and spin him a sad tale of a poor man, beaten and starved out by shadowy villains, all because he'd chosen to save a man's life. But he'd seen Dean's guilt first-hand, the way it shadowed his face and darkened his eyes. If Dean discovered that he was the root cause of his suffering—
This time, he didn't need to hear the wings of a raven to know they were there. He could feel it; their eyes picking him apart like vultures, peeling back his skin to tear at his insides. When he turned to look, they stood there, staring, with black gaping-mouths for faces, heads covered in hoods. Three of them. Unredeemed. Castiel's jaw shut like an iron trap, his eyes gravitating back to Dean. A death-knell note of revelation and then—
"It's not broken."
"What—"
"It's not broken, Dean," he hissed.
"What the hell are you—" Dean started. When Castiel got up— "Cas!"
Castiel limped away. The truth latched onto him like the gray-leather skin of a cadaver. He kept Dean exposed and in places he shouldn't be. Instead of in Central Rising, open and in danger, Dean should be safely tucked away, far away, in the Wilds. Dean kept coming back for him, for their Thursdays. As long as he was around Dean—
“Why the hell won't you let me help you?”
“Because I don't need to be saved, Dean," he growled, whirling. "I'm not a broken toy that you can just—take home and fix!”
“You’re not a toy—“
“But I’m broken. I always will be.”
"Cas—"
"Leave me be—"
"I can't do that."
"—don't follow me. Don't visit me on Thursdays," he said hoarsely, every word shredding like broken glass. "We're done."
He had stabbed him in the heart, that much he could tell by the look on Dean's face. His expression had gone soft, brows pinched, mouth parted to let loose a silent word of protest. It was as if someone had destroyed something dear to him—it was in his eyes, doe-innocent and wounded. He had taken their Thursdays and left him with nothing.
Like a lost little boy, Dean stood there while the marketplace bustled, while Castiel turned and limped away. To keep Dean safe, he had to draw the monsters away. Far away. No matter what the cost.
Staying away from Dean had become his only option.
:::
It was the last time he would see Dean. The image of him hurt and disappointed would follow him for months, years, would follow him into depression and loneliness. The good times, then. He'd have to concentrate on the good times. The softness of his touch, the way his smile could light even the pitch-black dark. His laugh followed him through the districts as he made his way toward home. Dean had tried to save him multiple times—from poverty, from starvation—and it was that stubborn insistence that kept him warm as he picked his way through District 9.
Warm, but not warm enough.
A sudden blast of cold air bit at his skin. Castiel shivered and rubbed one of his arms. District 9 seemed colder somehow, the shadows darker. More hopeless. The light at the end of his tunnel—their Thursdays—had been extinguished and left his world a colder, darker, more hopeless place.
Thankfully, home was a few blocks away.
Along the streets, the steam-powered light posts had malfunctioned again, casting the place in eternal darkness. He couldn't see, but he could hear. His ears took over the brunt of the sensory burden; every sound magnified, every breath the city took in tune with the thump of his heart. As he limped around the corner, something told him to stop—a tiny voice, an inner alarm. He stopped and listened.
Footsteps.
Calculated, purposeful. Dangerous.
It was a familiar tune; the quiet shuffle of boots on the cobblestone streets., a breathy laugh, the Cheshire cat grin in the dark. A pattern of sounds and images he'd experienced twice in the past week, always beginning with a whisper and ending with a bang—a crescendo of violence that left him battered and bruised. As the shuffling became louder, came closer, he ached with anticipation. His mind shut down. His body surrendered.
We'll hunt you for this. You'll suffer... oh, how you'll suffer...
The torture would stop when he was dead.
The overhead lamp flickered on-off-on just as a dark shadow dashed in front of him. It scampered back into the shadows again, hovering at the edge of the light's wrathful beam. He didn’t need to see the grin to know it was there. Didn’t need to see the cold eyes, the hollow cheeks of its deformed face. Human certainly, but with the heart of a monster.
It was a thing nightmares feared.
Another shuffle of feet, out of sync with the first set. Two of them, then. No, three. They moved in a circle and didn't speak. The game was clear and he had no choice but to play. Two options: surrender or fight.
He chose free will.
One of the shadows darted in like a razor-toothed black bird. Quick, agile. Hard to see. Without thinking, Castiel led with a horizontal swing, walking stick jolting with the impact. The shadow fell away with a yelp just as another zipped in from his right. A quick forward-jab to the face left it sprawling back, back into the shadows, as its brother jerked in, straight as an arrow toward his chest. He sucked in a startled breath, swung the walking stick up and over his head—then crashed it down on top of the shadow's head. Each of them shrunk back on all fours, arms and legs too long, too bony to be human.
On-off-on went the light. Buzz-flicker.
Off.
His blood ran cold.
“This is going to be so much fun.”
A well-executed hit sent him reeling and the explosion of pain in his lower back told him it was all over. His world tilted, then he was falling, down, down, down. His face hit the cobblestone street, the rest of his body collapsing like jelly. Pain. So much pain. Then more; a sudden burst of blinding, mind-numbing pain. Castiel sucked in a breath and bit his fist, hard, just to keep from screaming out, from giving them the satisfaction.
They assaulted him, hitting him over and over. His back, his shoulders, his legs. Kicking him until he gasped for air, until his lungs couldn’t find the courage to try. They kicked his head—once, twice. A third time. Like a faulty overhead lamp, his consciousness winked in and out. On-off-on. As he bled, he prayed for death. Prayed that one of them would get overzealous and deliver one last blow; the one he wouldn’t recover from.
He prayed that the bullet was for him.
The air cracked with skull-crushing sound, vibrated with deadly energy. There was a scream, but it wasn't his. The falling force of a body hit cobblestone. The light flickered. Crackled.
Another shot. This time, the rag-doll of a man dropped in front of him like a sack of heavy bones. Dead, black eyes. A hollow hole for his gaping mouth. On his forehead, a bullet wound, bright and red like a warning. Castiel blinked away blood. Struggled to breathe.
On-off-on, his consciousness in beat with the light.
Slipping, slipping...
“Cas!”
Dean.
His world flipped over. Against the light, Dean looked no less beautiful with double-murder on his face, his touch just as gentle stained red. Dean touched his cheek, his forehead, then whispered, “You’re going to be okay. I got you.”
His ascension was an earthly one. He rose up from the ground on the wings of Dean's strength and mercy, safely cradled in his arms. Castiel kept a hold on his consciousness long enough to direct Dean home, to his shameful hovel in Eden's End. His mind lost track of time. On-off-on. Light filled the room from the cracked-glass lantern. He was nestled in his bed. And there, in front of him was Dean, like a fading dream.
“Cas, where does it hurt the most?”
He honed in on Dean’s voice as his vision dulled.
“… everywhere.” He swallowed hard. “My leg… my back.”
“Stay with me, Cas.”
“Dean…”
“I’m not going to let you go, Cas. You hear me?” Dean said, cupping his face. “I can’t let you go.”
Castiel let go instead.
:::
Blood had pooled around his body in a sea of red, pouring like a fountain from the rips and tears. He stared at him with wide-dead eyes, his mouth an eternal 'o' of horror and pain. They had killed him. Left his body to waste away, rot in the street like garbage. And like garbage, ravens picked at him, pulled at his skin. It stretched like baker's dough and snapped under the tension. Bones crunched—
"Cas?"
—and tendons tore. His eyes bulging, staring. Always staring. Accusatory in their death, in their cruel silent judgment. Then they blinked. His hand rose, skeletal finger pointing, bone white and skin shredded. His jaw unhinged, gaping-hole for a mouth opening to expose rotted teeth, tendons stretching and snapping. From his throat came an airy whisper, the sound louder until it rushed over liquid and gurgled in blood. Indistinguishable then clear.
"Cas!"
His name had never sounded so horrible.
"Cas!"
He woke with hell on his heels. Nightmare images burned his eyes. His heart raced, his brain unable to keep up. Not the blood-soaked street anymore, but his home. His walls. His bed.
And the monster beside him.
Instinctively, he threw himself back, hitting something hard. His body reminded him of his aches and pains right then, screaming with a thousand nerve endings. Bruises, scratches—they shivered over his skin, ate into his bones. He cried out in pain, raised his hands in front of him because the monster in the room—was simply too horrible to look at.
"Hey, buddy. It's me," the monster said, its mouth gaping and unhinged. "It's Dean."
"No," he said in a single breathless noise. "No. You're lying."
"Cas, come on."
"No! Don'ttouchme." He yelled as the monster reached for him. "You're not Dean."
"Cas, whatever you're seeing, it's not real, okay?" It said, dead eyes locked on him. "You've got a fever. A pretty bad one."
He shrunk back as the nightmare-horror inched forward, as it reached out with a hunk of meat oozing with blood. Eyes squeezed shut, he braced himself for cold, wet muscle against his skin, the slither of blood down his cheek. But it never came. He opened his eyes, expected a monster and found Dean instead.
"Dean?"
"Yeah, Cas. It's me." Dean put on a brave smile. "Had me worried there for a second."
"Why are you here?"
"What?"
"You can't be here!" He blurted out. "It's not safe."
"We're as safe as we're going to be—"
"No," he growled. His skin.. burning and freezing at the same time. "You're not safe with me."
"Cas, that's ridiculous—"
"You have to leave." His chest heaved with heavy breaths. "Please go."
"I'm not leaving, Cas."
"Please go." A shudder rolled down his body. "—not safe.. . have to go."
"Look, Cas. I don't know what your deal is, or who you're afraid of, but—"
"I'm going to get you killed!"
Dean grabbed his face, pulling him close. "Listen to me, Cas. I'm not going anywhere. I don't give a fuck what's coming after you—or us. I'm not leaving." Their eyes met. "Whatever they were, if they want to take a shot at us, let ‘em. We got those sons of bitches once before. We can do it again."
Castiel studied his face beyond the haze of his eyes. Resolute. Loyal. The unfailing hero. The fear melted from his bones as Dean swept a thumb over his cheekbone; the tension in his muscles floating away. Under Dean's watch, under his careful touch, he had nothing to fear.
Gently, Dean wiped his face with a damp rag. Fingers brushing against his forehead, then down to his arm. Soft. Reassuring. "I've got you."
Castiel fell away from fever and pain, into dreamland. This time, they were happy and safe. No blood. No ravens. Just them.
:::
Sizzle. Snap. Pop.
A symphony of sounds and smells pulled him out of a fitful sleep; a thick aroma of cooking meat, the scrape of metal-on-metal. At the workbench, Dean cracked two eggs and watched the goopy insides fall weightlessly into the iron pan below. Again with two more, studying the slow fall as if he'd just discovered gravity. Raw egg hissed and popped at him in protest; metal spatula wailing across the bottom of the pan like an instrument out of tune. Dean hunched up his shoulders at the sound and looked over.
Castiel pretended to be asleep.
Scrape. Scrape.
He half-lidded his eyes. Dean hunched over the small portable stove, hacking away at rebellious eggs and—what smelled like slightly burned bacon. Dean cursed as it began to smoke and tried to slip the ragged meat off the pan, gentle and easy. One piece had an entirely different plan and made a suicidal leap off hot iron, diving toward the floor. Dean made a heroic move to save it—burned himself instead. The wounded soldier, defeated in kitchen warfare, cursed loudly, put the pan down with a clatter, and nursed his finger by sucking on it. Assessed the burn, then sucked on it some more. Dean threw another tentative look his way.
Castiel closed his eyes.
More clatter, a loud bang; unnatural and graceless movements he didn't need to see because he could hear them. Another quiet curse led to the suspicion that Dean had never cooked a meal in his life; that this was his first time fighting with a flimsy pan and cracked plates.
The scent of eggs and bacon. A poor man's bed bowing under Dean's weight. So close he could almost taste him.
"Cas?" Soft touch on the shoulder. "You awake?"
He cracked open his eyes then feigned his new-found wakefulness with a yawn and stretch. He could do this every morning, waking up to Dean, to his smile. The sight of him sent his heart racing.
"Did you sleep well?" A breath and then, "I made you breakfast."
Nervousness upturned Dean’s lips into a small, skittish smile. It looked strange on him, this boyish nervousness, sapping the strength out of the self-confidence he always assumed Dean had. It embodied the way Dean hastily picked up one of the shoddy plates, nearly thrusting it in his hands—as if he were eager for some sort of approval. Dean's fingers brushed against his, just the breath of a touch, powerful enough to short-circuit his brain. For a moment, Castiel simply stared.
"You're not hungry?" Dean asked in a rush of air. "Eggs. I bet you don't like—"
"No, Dean. I—" He looked down at his food. A glob of unidentifiable something. "I love eggs. This looks... really good." Castiel jabbed at an egg with a fork—the only fork he owned. A bubble broke open and out oozed uncooked egg—raw egg; its yellow-clear guts bleeding out onto half-burnt bacon. He smiled up at Dean's expectant face and shoveled in a forkful of food, biting down on an eggshell.
"This is excellent." He choked on his lie—or the food—and coughed. Wheezed. "You're a—natural at this."
Dean frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to call him out on his lie. But when Castiel couldn't stop coughing—
“It isn’t that bad,” Dean grumbled. “You okay?"
He nodded, once, twice, and a third time, coughing while straining against the discomfort in his throat. Always the hero, Dean sprang away and came back with a chipped glass of water. Castiel took it and drank from it, water spilling down his chin and neck. Without hesitation, Dean wiped off the dribble with his sleeve as if all of this—caring for a poor man, feeding him, wiping up after him—was normal.
"Better?" Dean asked once the coughing had stopped.
Castiel nodded and smiled.
They ate in silence, in mutual appreciation. Dean sat on the bed and scooped food into his mouth with his fingers. Cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, as if he were hiding it away for later. When Dean noticed his stare, he swallowed, frowned and then cleared his throat.
"Habit. Always had to eat fast growing up," Dean said, regarding his bad manners. "Once Sammy got wind there was food—hell, it was a miracle if I got any."
"Sammy," Castiel said. "Your brother, right?"
“Sam,” Dean corrected, swift and hard like a punch to the jaw. “Yeah, brother.”
Castiel nodded, watching him as Dean stuffed his face and avoided his eyes entirely. Castiel picked at his food idly. “We hear about him here, sometimes—a justicar in West Rising.” No answer. “He's said to have the people's interests at heart—even us.” Us, the poor. “He seems like a good man.”
“Sure,” Dean snipped, stabbing fingers at an unseen enemy on his plate. He speared a clump of egg. “He may be a big, fancy hero here, but to me, he’s just my pain-in-the-ass little brother.”
Stern tone, words said in a way that indicated a possible strain in the relationship. Castiel considered it for a second and asked, “Are you two close?”
Dean shrugged and two-fingered more food into his mouth. Less puffy cheeks this time. Castiel couldn't help but crack a small smile despite the sour moment, still idly poking at his food. He'd rather watch Dean for hours, but Dean wouldn't have it. A five-second stare was enough.
"Eat, Cas."
A strong-toned order, one he found obeying immediately. He shoved another forkful of food in his mouth, then another, getting used to the rhythm, to the fact that there was an abundance of food. Not just a single bite of a rotten apple, or a sliver of meat on a discarded bone. But many bites; a lot of meat. An experience both enjoyable and fulfilling. More so because Dean was here, beside him. Dean shifted on the bed and their legs touched, and for a brief moment, nothing else in the world mattered. It was just them and a second of intense heat.
Once they were done, Dean gathered their empty plates and stood up from the bed, carrying them over to the workbench. He left them in a pile—the only thing on the workbench that was in disarray at all. Each trinket had been lined up neatly, metal scraps and buttons collected in a small bowl. Bright-colored fabrics had found their places on the wall again, the crumpled sheet of tin taking up a watchful place in a corner. All the broken pieces of the mirror—simply gone, cleaned up and thrown away as if they'd never been scattered on the floor in a heap of brokenness and despair. His tomato plant tied securely to a small stake... even though it was dry and dead.
He hadn't had the will to straighten his hovel after the Unredeemed had torn it apart. He'd chosen depression over productivity, self-pity over strength. Instead of seeing himself in broken things and scattered pieces, he saw a glimmer of what whole might be like.
Whole with Dean.
As his mind wandered, so did his eyes, tracing the line of Dean's back as he stooped low. He traced the lines of the muscles in his shoulders, his arms, the tight cords of his thighs and legs. Heat settled in his belly. He looked away before his mind got carried away.
The bed dipped again.
Heat along his thigh, the skin-prickling sensation of closeness, alerted him to Dean's sudden proximity long before he turned his head to look at him. Dean sat close, impossibly close, half-turned with one leg dangling off the bed. Not even an arm's length between them. Castiel held his breath, his heart pounded like banging pots and pans. He prayed Dean couldn't hear it.
"I forgot to ask you how you were feeling," Dean said, voice soft.
Castiel stared at his lips. "I—feel..." He swallowed hard, looking up at his eyes. "I... feel fine."
"Good. Let me see."
Castiel followed his eyes downward, to his leg hiding beneath the covers—the same leg with the metal brace and a horrid case of infection. It ached right then, as if on cue, a thunder roll of bone-deep pain. It spread to his entire body and he was suddenly aware of how much he hurt. His head, his back. Everything. He didn't feel fine at all. He was far from fine.
"It uh—"
Dean didn't wait for his response. He grabbed at the blankets, but was too slow. Castiel yanked them out of his reach and held them firm, as if they were a shield between him and a monster. "You needn't worry yourself. It feels—"
"You've got to stop lying to me, Cas." Dean said, clawing at the blankets. "You're not fine."
Castiel gripped them tighter. "Dean."
"Just.. trust me, all right?"
He studied Dean's face. Jaw set firm and green eyes harder than stone, a frown more unforgiving than Rising's outer walls. So determined to help and care for him that it picked away at his resolve, piece by piece, and crumbled it to dust. Swallowing, he let the blankets go then turned his head away. He couldn't subject himself to the judgment in Dean's face, to the righteous anger he surely expected. Gently, the blankets were pulled back—and that was it. There were several long moments of silence, of nothing. He could only imagine Dean's fury, his beautiful face heated up red. But that wasn't the case when he found the courage to look at him. Dean wasn't angry, only perplexed, as if he were contemplating life's biggest mystery. Staring at his leg and the trousers that covered them.
"I think these have to come off," Dean said, almost too quietly, as if he'd said something indecent. Dean looked up at him when he didn't answer.
"It's fine," he whispered. Fine, his favorite word when something wasn't, in fact, fine. Quite the opposite. The state of his leg, coupled with his embarrassment—far from fine.
"I'll just..." Dean began, motioning upward with his knife. "Cut the one trouser leg—"
"It's fine, Dean."
Dean nodded, flashed an awkward little smile—and that didn't fit on his face either, awkwardness. It looked strange, misplaced somehow, on a face that he’d always equated to strength and bravery. When Dean grabbed his ankle a little too hard, Castiel hissed in pain.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Just do it," Castiel growled out.
Dean touched his ankle again, grabbed at the hem of his trouser leg and cut along the outer seam, peppering I'm sorry's along the way. Quick and dirty, just to get it over with, though more gentle than a child with a new puppy.
"You okay?"
"I'm f—"
"No," Dean cut him off. "Just nod."
Castiel nodded. Dean had caught on. Fine was not fine.
With careful fingers, Dean pulled open the skin of the dissected trouser leg, revealing the gore beneath. Metal bands had cut into flesh like teeth, leaving skin raw and angry red. Infected. Dangerous. A few more weeks of tightening his leg brace out of self-hatred, out of spite, would have resulted in him losing the limb he had once tried so hard to fix.
Dean pulled his hands back and tightened them into fists on his thighs. He glared at the damage, his jaw line clenched so hard that he thought it might break. Anger wasn't even a word that could describe the flash across Dean's face right then. It was like lightning; hot, destructive. There and then gone.
"How..." Quiet. A distant growl of thunder. "How did this happen?"
Castiel didn't answer.
"Cas—"
His nickname hit harder than a hammer against an anvil. Castiel frowned and dropped his eyes, fingers picking at a stray thread. When he didn't answer again, when he kept his mouth shut, Dean grabbed his hands, stopping him from pluck-pluck-plucking at the blanket. He couldn't escape, couldn't even distract himself from his shame.
"I neglected to care for myself," he whispered.
"No shit," Dean spat. "This is not fine, Cas. This isn't even close to fine."
"I know—"
"When are you going to start trusting me, huh?" Dean shot back. "Instead of letting yourself get like this—when are you going to start coming to me for help?"
Castiel didn't answer. He dropped his eyes again, to the leg brace, to the enflamed skin. Jagged lines where the metal had cut into his skin, all because he was angry, because he wanted to be someone else, anyone else than a broken, useless waste of space. Shame twisted down his spine like a snake. He apologized wordlessly to no one and everything.
"Hold still."
Dean unbuckled the leather straps, unhooked metal and peeled it away. The leg brace came off easily; sore bones expanding and breathing a little more in a larger, allowable space. Air touched his cuts and wounds, and skin needle-pricked in pain. Castiel kept his anguish quiet under bitten lips. He didn't even have the right to cry out in agony.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Dean said after looking over his leg. "This will probably hurt. A lot."
Castiel nodded. He wasn't a stranger to pain.
Bending at the waist, Dean reached for something on the floor and lifted it up. A bowl of clean water with a rag floating on top, like a jelly fish from long ago, a stinging animal he read about in one of the many books he'd found. A jelly fish's sting probably felt a lot like this; a sharp, burning ache, able to render its victim paralyzed. His body locked up when Dean dragged the wet rag over his thigh, the burn and sting so powerful, so mind-numbingly painful that it took his breath away. He couldn't help it—he cried out.
"You're all right, Cas."
He clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists as Dean wiped the rag over another cut. More pain, more aggravation and another pathetic whimper. The only thing that saved him was how gentle Dean was with him; the brush of a thumb on undamaged skin, the timbre of his voice—warm and soothing. Even strokes of the rag, although painful and unpleasant, were careful. Affectionate. Loving. Dean dabbed at his skin—pinpricks of pain instead of knife-jabs—and looked up at him. Smiled. It was the best pain-reliever in the world.
“It’s like you’ve done this before.”
“A few times,” Dean admitted, then shrugged. When Castiel’s stare pressed him for more information, Dean tightened his lips and said, “Sam got into a lot of trouble when he was a kid."
His whole demeanor changed. Stiffened. Ran ice-cold. The passes of the rag became mechanical, his care losing its tenderness. Dean dunked the rag back into the bowl and then wrung it out as if he were strangling someone’s neck. Water poured like blood. His touch stung like a bee.
Dean rubbed down another cut, this one deeper than the others, and Castiel lurched in pain. Cried out. “Tell me something—a story, anything.” Castiel sucked in air through his teeth. “Please.”
He needed something to keep his mind off the pain, to keep himself from losing any shred of dignity he had left. Dean glared at him as if he’d killed someone he loved—if he loved anyone at all. So frigid and unforgiving that, in that second, Dean had become an entirely different person.
Castiel cringed as Dean wiped the rag over the deep cut, squirmed as he rubbed at a corner filled with who knows what—it might as well have been a hole in his soul caked with grime and pain. It hurt that much.
Dean let the hunter out of him with a soft exhale. His touch turned gentle again, his face softer with less of a devastating frown. “Sand spurs,” he said heavily. “Do you know what those are?”
“No,” Castiel said, wincing.
“Think fucking hell the size of a pebble—with spikes.”
Castiel flinched, but not because of Dean’s care. The visual—he shuddered.
“Get ‘em sometimes when walking in grass,” Dean shrugged, leaning forward. He eyed a cut suspiciously. “When we were kids, we did a lot of stupid shit—Sammy and me. Always pranking each other. Didn’t matter what it was.” Dean dunked the rag again, wringing it out. This time with less hatefulness. “He’d put dirt in my food while I wasn’t looking; I’d cut his stupid girly hair at night—kid stuff.”
Castiel stared at the top of his head, bewildered. Almost glad he never had a brother.
“Sometimes, we’d roll down hills in our Sunday’s best just to piss Dad off,” Dean mumbled, soothing another bruise with a touch. “This particular hill though—“ Dean whistled low. “I knew something was wrong with it. Didn’t look like the others—hold still.”
He picked something off the floor again; a white ointment jar filled with a strong-smelling substance. Dean didn't offer any explanation, any words of wisdom, as he applied it to the cuts and bruises. It stung, smelled horrible, but soothed him all the same. Warm as if the sun had touched him with a fingertip.
“Anyway, so I dared Sammy to roll down it, to be a big kid for once in his goddamn life—and… he did it.”
It was as if the pain had gone away completely, his everything too distracted to feel anything but good. Listening to him, being so close to him, all of it making him forget he hurt in the first place. Dean went quiet, applying the ointment to his hurts and woes; Castiel hanging onto the tail end of his uncompleted story.
"And?" Castiel prompted.
"I got the biggest whoopin' in my life and helped picked sandspurs out of Sammy for hours," Dean concluded with a devilish grin.
“Why would you do that?” Castiel frowned. “That seems… overly cruel.”
Dean returned the frown with one of his own. “You want to know what’s cruel? I’ll tell you what’s cruel,” he said, his tone gravely serious. “Finding a big fucking snake in my bed the night before—that’s fucking cruel.” Dean shook his head. “Don’t fuck with snakes, man—and if you don’t have a brother, consider yourself lucky.”
Castiel didn’t say anything for the longest time. Dean looked up at him after applying ointment to the last of his cuts. “You got any family?”
“No.”
Not anymore.
Dean studied him for far too long, nodded, then set the ointment jar aside. Castiel watched him as he quietly charted the map of his wounds, tracing each of them with a thumb. To wipe away the excess ointment or to simply touch, he didn't know. When Dean caught his eyes with a half-smile, he returned it, full force.
"Almost done," Dean said, pulling apart strips of linen.
Gentle hands wrapped his cuts in linen, his touch softer than a feather. With his leg cleaned and wrapped, he knew their time together was nearing its end. An emptiness settled in his bones.
"I suppose you'll be leaving soon," Castiel said, his tone downtrodden.
"Can't," Dean answered, wrapping up the last of his cuts. "It's Thursday."
Castiel frowned. "Dean, it's Friday."
“Today is Thursday,” he repeated. “Tomorrow is Thursday too. The next day and the day after that—until you are well again.” Dean winked. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Castiel couldn't help but smile wide.
:::
They'd been found.
He didn't wake to the sizzle-pop of breakfast, but to voices outside his front door. Two voices; one of them Dean's, his whiskey-rough tone unmistakable. The other—he didn't recognize. The voice came through the wall flat, stripped of melody and significance. It belonged to neither friend nor foe, and the shades of gray put him on edge. His muscles seized up involuntarily, warring between fight or flight. His ears strained to listen. The rest of his senses shut down.
Dean came through the door not moments later, carrying more supplies. He set them on the workbench. "Yeah, we're good," he said to the person—a man—outside the door. "I got it from here."
He caught a glimpse of the man as he peeked in. Short hair in the front, long in the back, mousey brown and unkempt. Wild-colored shirt ripped off at the sleeves and frayed. Kind enough in the face with a mischievous grin. "You all right there, tough guy?"
Castiel opened his mouth to respond—
"Cas, this is Ash," Dean interjected. "Ash. Cas."
"Hey, Cas," Ash greeted cheerfully. "I heard about what happened—"
"We're good here," Dean said firmly, cutting Ash a look.
Ash smirked, rolling his eyes a little. "Nice meeting you, Cas," Ash said, twirling his gun on a finger. He shook the grip at him and grinned. "You take care of ol' Dean-o, yeah?"
Dean shut the door in his face. Through the flimsy wood, Ash's chuckle trickled in from outside.
Castiel watched him, studying the tense line of his shoulders, the quick militaristic movements of his arms as he unpacked the box of supplies. He licked his lips absently when Dean put a fresh apple on the workbench. "He seemed nice."
Dean shrugged.
A banana. A loaf of bread.
"A friend?"
"Sort of," Dean said, lifting and eyeing a hunk of dried meat. Castiel's stomach growled. "He does things that need doing. Bargaining, hunting..."
He nodded. "What was he doing outside—"
"Had to get supplies, Cas," Dean cut in. "No way I'm going to leave without taking precautions. Not when there's... things out there."
Things. Like the things that attacked him.
"Thank—"
"You getting mugged—when I said I didn’t believe you…”
There was an apology on Dean’s lips, ready and willing—
“It’s okay, Dean,” he said, cutting him off. Dean believed his lie. Castiel let out a small sigh as guilt crawled in through his mouth and ate away at his gut. He didn't have enough courage to correct him. "Last night, after you..." Killed them. "... did you—"
Dean had stopped unpacking and stood completely still. Staring at the wall as if he were daydreaming—or remembering. "Nothing there to clean up. Like they... never even existed. No blood. Nothing."
They clean up after their own.
"Nothing to worry about, then," he lied.
"Yeah, sure." Dean tossed him an apple. Castiel fumble-caught it. "Got us some more food. Some entertainment—" He thumped his hand on a stack of books. "I even got you a new change of clothes."
Castiel opened his mouth—
"Don't thank me," Dean said gruffly, walking over with the books cradled in the crook of his arm. Clothes too. He sat down next to him on the bed and tossed the books on the far side. Grimm's Fairy Tales, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Treasure Island, Oliver Twist— "Some of these are my favorites. This one..." He picked up Grimm's Fairy Tales, its edges well-worn. "... might be too scary for you," he said with a half-smile.
Castiel chuckled, rolled his eyes.
"You can read, can't you?"
"Yes, Dean," Castiel said, exasperated. "I can read."
"Just checking. Because, you know, if you couldn't, and you just don't want to tell me—"
"Dean."
"I can teach you, is all I'm saying."
He half-pondered feigning illiteracy, if it meant keeping Dean here as long as possible. Thought against it and shook his head. Dean conceded with a nod and patted the clothes on his thigh. "Fresh shirt and trousers. They uh—might be a little too big on you," he said, picking at the simple fabric. "They're mine."
"I'd thank you, but—" Castiel smiled.
Dean smirked and handed him the clothes. Castiel took them in gentle hands, running fingers over the cream-colored cotton and buttons, the well-made seams and hem of black trousers. Without hesitating, Castiel tore off his dirty shirt—it still lightly smelled of urine—and threw it aside. The sudden jolt of the bed and tripping of feet caught him off guard and sent his heart racing. He looked down to find the water bowl and rag tipped over. Looked up to a flustered Dean shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Back facing him. To give him privacy, undoubtedly.
Castiel smiled to himself and put an arm through the new shirt, then another. It smelled fresh and clean, fabric nestling against his skin as soft and warm as wool. He hugged it against his body if for no other reason than to show his gratitude, and picked up the trousers. Just as soft—not as easy to put on himself. He did as much as he could on his own; slipping his uninjured leg in completely, while wincing and flinching half-way through the other. The waistline of the trousers skewed at an angle; his hips bare, all of him—the private bits—exposed for all the world to see. Certainly not dignified.
"Dean," he said quietly.
Dean turned immediately—and it was as if someone punched him in the face. He sputtered, mouth wide open, and he threw up a hand to shield his eyes. Neither of them said anything for several long moments.
"I need your help," he said even quieter.
"Okay, I got this," Dean said, as if reassuring himself. "I'm not looking."
Blindly, Dean put one foot in front of the other, hand over his eyes. It was comical; the careful steps, the tentative stops and pauses. A man of his station trying so hard to be a gentleman. Castiel touched his outstretched hand, to tell him he was here, so close, and Dean grabbed it, holding it for—what seemed like forever.
"Put your arms around my neck and hold tight—rgh. Not that tight, Cas. Can't breathe," Dean choked out. When he eased up— "Okay. Hold on."
Dean stood up as much as he could with Castiel wrapped around his neck. Castiel held on for dear life, his body lifted up, up, just enough for Dean to paw sightlessly at his body. Fingers skirted over his bare skin, his hips, in search for the hem across his thighs. Finding it, Dean yanked up, slipping the trousers on, over his rear end, to fit snuggly across his waist. A successful, painless procedure. Done and complete.
He didn't let go. Dean didn't complain.
They held onto each other for the longest time. Just breathing, soaking in one another through skin.
:::
A small rush of air ghosted his collarbone. Rhythmic. Soft. A note of whiskey, an undercurrent of motor oil and fresh soap; cedar and a distinct scent of lavender. On their fourth Thursday, Castiel didn't wake to breakfast or voices outside his door, but to Dean, fast asleep on his shoulder. He held his breath, afraid to move at all, afraid that if he did, he'd awake up from the best dream he'd ever known.
He counted the freckles on cheekbones instead, traced eyelashes and outlined lips. He wanted to touch and feel him, slide his fingers through dark hair, and hold him close. Compromising, he leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on the top of his forehead, then closed his eyes. Time slipped through his fingers. The sunlight kept their skin warm. It was the happy thrum of Dean's heartbeat that sent him off to sleep a second time—and it was sudden agony that jolted him awake.
It started in his injured leg, this... wretched pain. His entire calf seized up, muscles drawn incredibly tight. He cried out and Dean jerked his head up, his hand flying to the holstered gun. No enemy in sight. "What's going on, Cas? What's wrong? You hurt?"
Castiel gripped the mattress. "My leg—"
Dean didn't hesitate. He threw the blankets aside and leapt off the bed, only to settle in beside him close and protective. "Show me."
"My calf—" Castiel howled. "I c—I can't—"
It was too painful. Couldn't even move it. Dean grabbed his leg with gentle hands, kneading his calf with strong fingers—which made it worse. "Stopstopstop."
"Cas, I have to—"
"It hurts!" He shouted.
"I know that, Cas! Let me fix it," Dean growled out, grabbing his ankle. He ran a hand down his calf, touching, testing. "This muscle is tighter than a steel coil. Just relax, okay?"
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. Just listen to my voice, all right?"
Castiel concentrated, biting his bottom lip until a note of copper hit his tongue. Dean could’ve started telling him a joke or a story for all he knew, wouldn’t have listened anyway because the pain was too much. Even still, the rich-dark notes of his voice found him somehow, steadied him. Helped him concentrate while agony wrecked him, not letting up. Dean started bending his foot forward, heel reaching for the ceiling, to lengthen the muscle in his calf. The pain just got worse. Castiel arched his back and clenched his fists, growling out in frustration. Dean didn't let go. He held his foot the way he did, kneading the calf with his free hand... until the pain finally started subsiding. Gradually. Leaving just a dull ache. He relaxed under Dean's care, hypnotized by the even give and take of his fingers.
"You all right there, buddy?"
"Yes. I'm fine." Castiel cleared his throat under Dean's stare. "I'm... good."
"Good," Dean said quietly, laying the injured leg across his lap. His strong hands massaged tight muscle, turning it to butter. Without a word, Dean moved on from tender calf to the underside of his thigh, pressing his fingers into sensitive skin. But instead of muscle caving to Dean's every whim—
Castiel tensed and sat up in the bed, pressing his back against the wall. Facing a rabid animal would have been easier. "W—What are you doing?"
Dean looked at him, hands frozen in place on his thigh. "What does it look like?"
He tried to imagine what it looked like. Came back blank.
"Giving you a massage? Encouraging blood flow?"
"Why?" he sputtered out.
"Because... it will make you feel better?"
Better or something else. Heat—impure, tempting—began to settle in his gut, threatened to sink lower if Dean continued with his... Castiel sucked in a startled breath as Dean kneaded his fingers into skin, slowly, firmly. He drew circles with his thumbs, dug into the healthy parts of muscle. The tips of his fingers brushed the inner part of his thigh; the meaty part next to his—
Think of something else.
Anything else.
Trinkets. The marketplace. Garbage, the sewers! Castiel banged his head against the wall when Dean slid his hands upward, brushing a knuckle against the incredible heat between his legs. His cock reacted immediately, hardening quicker than iron. He let out a strangled noise from the back of his throat and Dean noticed.
"Does it hurt?"
Castiel nodded dumbly, closing his eyes while Dean continued to massage him. He wanted to be touched, grabbed, thrown down on the bed and taken. When Dean's fingers brushed against the burning pitch between his legs again, he arched his back, imagining Dean's hand around him. Strong fingers sliding down to the root, cupping him, sinking lower to press inside him. Teasing and rubbing until—
He let out a groan then opened his eyes wide. Shocked. His face burned and Dean noticed, opened his mouth to question—then noticed it too. Saluting him like a proud little soldier.
Castiel grabbed the blankets and yanked them over himself. Hands high in surrender, Dean just stared, didn't say a word. The moment was awkward. Devastating. Castiel was drowning.
"I need you to leave," he whispered.
"Cas—"
"Please," Castiel said. He looked out the dirty window, just to avoid the judgment on his face. "Just go."
"It's okay—"
"Dean!"
He shot him a cold glare. Dean's face fell then toughened into a frown. With a nod, Dean stood up and left his small hovel with the soft click of the door.
Castiel was empty without him.
:::
Another morning. This one without Dean.
Emptiness and regret had found a comfortable mouse hole in his heart, the teeth of depression, sharp and incessant, gnawing at his insides. Dean had spent the morning and early afternoon of their fourth Thursday—yesterday—outside the hovel, protecting him from a distance. When midafternoon came, the familiar and comforting silence of Dean's steadfast presence was replaced by whistling and idle chatter directed at nothing and everything. Ash was a talker, a noisemaker. Dean was not.
He missed the silence.
The whistling began again as dull light trickled in through the dirty windows. No Dean, just Ash. Castiel let out a quiet breath and turned over, tracing the crack in the wall, down, down, to the pile of books on the floor. Old and rare, most of them had been written long ago, before the Fall had shattered their world to pieces. The past was in those dusty pages, those worn covers. And the thought of it, of reliving a time he couldn't possibly have known, tickled his curiosity.
He reached and reached, fingers wiggling in empty air, and grabbed the top book from the pile. He nearly fell over with the effort, managed to catch himself at the last second and hoist himself up. The effort alone—nearly exhausted him. He let his thumping heart dull to a low murmur before flipping over the book. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, cover bruised and corners worn. Love was all over this book, in the ear-marked pages and in the faded letters on the spine. Gently, he opened it, turned one page, two, and came to a written inscription; beautiful in its elegance and wide, long loops.
To my mischievous little boy,
I'll always be proud of you. I love you.
-Mom
He traced the words with his fingertip over and over again. How many times had Dean read these words? Savored them? Cried over them, mourning her loss in the quiet dark of his room? He brushed an index finger over the word 'Mom', where the black ink had smeared. A tiny water stain—maybe even a single tear.
He closed the book and held it to his chest, if nothing more than to have a piece of Dean close. It combated the loneliness for a moment, kept the dark emptiness of his home at bay. His eyes were swept up in the swirling colors of fabrics, in the shimmer and sparkle of metal bits and trinkets. The dried husk of his tomato plant, his old friend, stared back at him. He held its lifeless gaze—then sucked in a startled breath.
Something green and beautiful peeked out of the soil.
He set the book aside, threw back the blankets, and swung his feet to the floor. His bones ached at the mere thought of the journey, not more than five feet, and the floorboards scratched forebodingly at his skin. He scooted down to the foot of the bed, grabbed ahold of the rickety old chair, and stood—
The whistling stopped. Voices.
The door opened.
Dean stood there, a look between surprise and horror on his face. His heart skipped a beat, his knees went weak—then he lost his balance. Dean tossed something aside and jolted toward him. Before he even hit the ground, Dean was there, catching him, gathering him up in his strong arms. A rush of warmth, the smell of his sun-soaked skin, a huff of breath against his neck. His world resumed, but not before he could take in everything Dean.
"Cas, what the hell are you doing?" Dean's voice was hot on his skin. "You know you can't just get out of bed without my help."
"I'm not a child, Dean," Castiel said gruffly. "Bring me closer to the workbench."
"What?"
"The workbench," he said, tone sharp and quick.
Dean looked over that way, considering, then grabbed his arm. It was looped over Dean's neck, held firm, while he snaked a hand across Castiel's back, to support him at the waist. The burden of weight was taken off his injured leg completely.
"Okay. You hop. I'll move."
They moved in sync, one hop, two, five, then split apart, no longer one in the same. Castiel leaned against the workbench as Dean swooped in behind with the rickety old chair. Staring at the dead plant, a green shoot at its base, Castiel flopped back in awe. "Look."
Dean rounded the chair and bent down. The green seedling stood proudly in the dark soil; a glimmer of hope in a world that seemed... so lost.
"Well, would you look at that," Dean said, peering closer. "Tough little bastard."
"I don't understand," Castiel said, perplexed. "I haven't watered it or fed it. How could it..."
"Maybe it just likes you, Cas." Dean shrugged. "Maybe you brought it back from the dead somehow."
Castiel looked up at him. Dean gave him a wink.
"Have you—"
"Me? No," Dean said, clearly lying. "Why would I water a dead plant while you weren't looking?"
Dean turned away with a quirk on his lips. The tiny green shoot pulled at his attention again. It was Dean's gift to him; a hopeless gesture that had somehow been fruitful. Castiel thumbed the thread of green. Soft. Delicate. It brought a smile to his face. When he turned, Dean was watching him, holding a leg brace, shiny and new. No squeaky bolts, stuck gears, or unforgiving steel. The leather straps looked comfortable. Beautiful, a work of art, and it was for him.
"Thought you might need this," Dean said, shrugging, stepping closer. "Especially if we're going out today."
"Out?" he echoed. "Why?
"Why not is a better question."
Because it's dangerous. Because they're out there.
"I can't—"
"Why not?" Dean cut in.
"Because it's—" Dangerous. No, think of something else. Quickly. He cleared his throat. "Uh—I'm not feeling well."
Dean narrowed his eyes, his inner lie detector likely sounding off. "Is it really because you're not feeling well?" No answer. "Something else going on?"
Castiel dropped his eyes to the floor. A spider crept across Dean's boot.
"Look," Dean said, putting the leg brace aside. He crouched, put his hands on his knees. "If it's about those things out there, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, all right? They're gone. They won't be coming for you."
"But East Rising—"
"Yeah, I know. Real dangerous place," Dean said dryly, standing up. That sly smile again. "It's okay. We won't be in East Rising for very long."
"Then... where will we go?"
His smile grew wider. He fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. Nonchalant. "Have you ever been to the Gardens?"
"The Garden of Eden?" Castiel sputtered.
Dean grinned.
"But Dean—" His mouth hung open. "We can't go there. I'm not allowed."
"Fuck the rules," Dean said. "We'll make it up as we go."
"Dean."
But Dean wouldn't back down. He just gave him a smile, one that told him they'd be safe, that rules didn't matter. They could rewrite history, throw out social expectations and scoff in the face of the law. With Dean, there was no danger, only adventure. Castiel came crashing down, back to earth, when he looked at his legs.
"How—" Castiel looked up at him helplessly. "How will I get there? It's too far."
“If I find a way, you’ll go?”
Castiel considered him. The quirk of his lips, the flicker in his eyes—slyer than a cat that caught the mouse. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I would.”
Dean's smile widened, as if he had been planning something all along. He grabbed the leg brace and got on his knees again, unbuckling straps, adjusting thigh calipers, the knee stop, and thigh belt. With a doctor's precision, with the bedside manner of an angel, Dean carefully fastened the leg brace and strapped him in. The new brace, meticulously crafted, was much lighter than the other, more forgiving. Dean helped him straighten his leg, bend it, straighten it again, with gentle hands. No squeaking. No lockup. Simply a metallic extension of his own body.
"Do you like it?" Dean asked, looking up at him. Hopeful.
"It's... good.” Castiel looked at him. “Great, even."
They shared a smile.
"Good," Dean agreed. He jumped up and bounded to the door with the energy of a child.
"Where are you going?"
“Just—“ Stay there.
And with that, Dean was gone, out the door. The silence grew heavy. Castiel rubbed at the skin beneath the thigh belt, scratching at an itchy spot as the darkness closed in. Much darker now, the shadows somehow thicker. Even the light from the mud-caked window—it couldn't defeat the eerie skittering of tiny feet in the corners.
There's nothing there.
It was a mantra he repeated over and over. There were no things in the places he couldn't see, nothing under the bed or the workbench. Not even in the undulating darkness itself. He wasn't a child, afraid of the dark, but a man, determined to defeat his paranoia. Instead of dwelling on what shouldn't be, Castiel grabbed the edge of the workbench... and stood.
The room tipped on a wave of disorientation. He closed his eyes, then reopened them, grabbed his walking stick from beside the door and took a step. Another one just like it. Three more. The leather straps rubbed against his skin, pressed the scratchy linen against his wounds. Dull pain crept down his leg like a spider, but it was tolerable. Not debilitating, not as dangerous as it had been—before Dean had come into the picture.
He smiled in spite of himself, smiled even more when Dean came crashing through the door.
"I found a way," Dean announced, grin wide as ever. He stopped and held out his hands. "Look at you! You're up."
"It feels good.. to be up," Castiel said. He took a step toward him, then another one, closing the gap between them. They stood one foot apart, barely enough to keep them from invading each other's personal space. Castiel’s heart pounded and his head whirled. The burning pitch of Dean’s body—so close. He wondered what it would be like to lay next to him, their bodies naked and entwined. Whispering each other’s name, panting hot and wet on skin.
Castiel let out a breath, slow and easy, and Dean stared at him, his eyes, his mouth. Absently, almost nervously, Dean licked his lips and inched forward, with no other plausible excuse than to be near. Nothing else in the world mattered. Just this moment, delicately tiptoeing around wants, needs. It ran through him like a herd of wild horses; the need to touch him, kiss him. Fear kept Castiel in-check, only allowing him to reach forward and brush fingers over Dean’s hand. The touch set off a chain reaction of… this—beautiful bashfulness and nervous gestures, stripping Dean down and leaving him naked without his confidence and strength.
”Uh—“ Dean rubbed the back of his neck, up to his head. "I uh—do you..." He cleared his throat. "Do you want to see?"
He should've thrown caution to the wind and kissed him. He wanted to feel those full lips on his own. Hope made him brave, foolish. Invincible. The tension was palpable. Castiel leaned in, and whispered, “See what?” in a way that was dark and full of sin.
“The… thing?” Dean whispered back, gravitating toward him. An invisible line tethered them together, pulling, pulling them closer. Dean’s breath kissed at his skin, tumbled down his neck. Heat radiated off Dean's mouth and when their lips almost touched, so close yet barely there, he swore he could almost taste them. Dean leaned in and Castiel closed his eyes. Took in a breath—
Somewhere, something crashed to the floor. And like that, the line was severed.
Dean jumped back and bumped into the door. Castiel nearly fell over himself.
"We should go!" Dean said loudly, to the room, as if it would mutiny.
"Yes," Castiel agreed, startled. His heart hammered in his chest. "We should go."
Dean turned away, toward the door. Castiel took a wobbly step after him, then another. Gravity threatened to overtake him with pain and the failing strength in his legs. One wobbly step too many, and Dean was right there at his side.
"I'm fine, Dean," Castiel said sharply. Fine. The code word. Dean gave him a look and didn't move an inch. With a firm hand, Castiel pushed him back a step. "Please, let me do this."
Dean took a step back, hands wide in surrender.
Fully on his feet, Castiel followed Dean as he led the way into open air—dirty air that Castiel choked down and sputtered out like a broken exhaust pipe. Dean stopped just outside the door and Castiel sidled next to him. He had to force his mind elsewhere, beyond the flush warmth of Dean’s body, the smell of him, the way his skin sparked when Dean touched him. Castiel took a deep breath and forgot the world existed.
"Look."
Castiel looked up. Before them was a two-wheeled passenger cart, a pulled rickshaw; Dean’s way to the Gardens. He regarded Dean, who beamed a smile, and couldn’t help but smile back. Step by step, Dean helped him into the shoddy rickshaw. It squealed under his weight and smelled lightly of mildew or mold. Dean must have noticed his diminishing smile.
“What’s wrong?”
Castiel smoothed a hand over the ripped material, pulled at a thread. The thing was in poor condition and the thought of Dean carting him around—it was degrading to Dean’s station. Only the poorest pulled rickshaws for the poor. But when he looked up, Dean’s hopeful face dissuaded his hesitation.
Castiel smiled. “You found a way.”
“There wasn’t any doubt.” Dean winked.
Castiel melted against the flared back of the rickshaw. Dean looked him over. “You comfortable?”
He nodded.
Dean turned away from him, stooped and grabbed the handles. When he lifted, the rickshaw tilted, balancing on its two wheels and started moving when Dean pulled. The pace was slow at first, the ride a bumpy one due to the conditions of the street. Each jarring dip because of a hole or a crack in cobblestone shot a sliver of pain through his body. But his mind wasn’t on the discomfort. It was on Dean. The bare muscles of his arms, the power of his legs. His back muscles flexed under the duress, the fluid line of his spine ending at his—
The rickshaw jolted. Castiel made an undignified noise and grabbed onto the side. Ahead of him, Dean stole a glance over a strong shoulder. “You all right back there, Cas?”
Castiel nodded, the answer lost on Dean. He couldn’t tell if his blood was pumping because of the jumpy ride or for another reason entirely.
The reds and darks of his District faded away, his shoddy house a distant memory. The ride had become less tumultuous, the cobblestone street smoother, whole. The draft of District 9 chilled his bones, but the glare Alastair gave him as they passed was colder still. Castiel tore his gaze away and shrunk down.
Dean sped up, stepping into a quick, even jog as they broke out of the East and entered Central Rising. A smooth and easy ride, the smells of cooked meats filling his lungs. Merchants auctioned off their goods as the poor huddled in the shadowed corners. Guilt found him, burrowing holes into his heart as their longsuffering faces watched as they passed. He saw hunger in the disheveled poor, hopelessness in their slumped shoulders. He knew their hardships, their fights for survival. If he ever made it out, if he survived himself, then perhaps—
The White Wall of West Rising stood tall and faceless gray, the double gates spanning wide like the wings of a bird. Even in all its glory and wealth, West Rising couldn't escape the plague of graffiti that infected the rest of the city. Signatures by graceless artists, messages of hate and woe from the lesser. Among them, a child's depiction of their ancestors’ fall and Rising’s history in bright yellow paint. Little stick-figure people and animals, a sun with a sad face—and the burning balls of fire in the sky. Yellow corn stalks with crowns of flame; sinking ships in boiling oceans. The Fall depicted in the scribblings of a child. The devastation of humanity rendered simple, whimsical and almost charming.
Dean thundered through the gates on quick feet and powerful legs. Their history blurred in the sweep of haste.
“You don't need to run, Dean.”
Dean huffed out a laugh. “Just enjoy the ride, your lordship.”
And he did. The clean streets opened up into West Rising’s main thoroughfare. Beautiful greystone buildings reached for the sky, the Rising Pillar the tallest among them. Its shadow stretched long like a watchful parent looming over its obedient children. Castiel shivered beneath its stare, the eyes of the governing Host picking apart his skin. Guardian Venerations and their Intercessors glowered at them but didn’t act. He didn’t belong—it was illegal—yet somehow…
He held his breath as Dean rounded a building, as leafy green trees towered above the small entrance. His world tilted at an odd angle as Dean lowered the rickshaw's handles—and he barely noticed. Dean could've extended his hand to help him, but he wouldn't have cared. Nothing could have prepared him for the abundance of life; the trees, the birds. The intoxicating smells of flowers. The bees. Even here, a few feet away and not yet inside, the Gardens stole his breath away.
"Cas?"
Castiel tore his eyes away from green and flower, from the buzzing bees to— Sweat glistened over Dean’s skin, his neck and collarbone exposed because he'd loosened his shirt. Castiel stared a little too long. Dean’s smile faded and his hand dropped. “Are you—“
“I’m fine, Dean,” he breathed out. “I’m… more than fine.”
Dean smiled again and came closer, wrapping an arm around him as he made a move to stand. They stood together and began to walk one careful step at a time. With Dean so close, with so much to see, he couldn't think of anything else. His pain, his social standing—didn't register at all.
The sprawling trees stretched endlessly, long and languid; a single brushstroke of an artist’s paintbrush against the blue sky canvas. Birds took flight from the boughs, their wings colorful and proud. Their freedom of flight gave him strength and he grew wings; lighter and quicker on his feet. Castiel pulled them toward fragrant flower bushes, sticking his nose deep in colorful petals. The aroma—better than any food. The purity of it, the delicacy… He took in another breath and Dean chuckled beside him, never once leaving his side.
They walked from flower to flower, each scent new and fresh. Dean picked a small purple flower from its brothers and sisters, and handed it to him. “You can eat this one.”
Dean popped one in his mouth and Castiel did the same. The taste danced on his tongue, sugary and sweet, the greens a touch bitter. He picked off another one as they walked by. The sights and sounds—the smells. The heady fragrance of flowers replaced the dead and dying, the infected, the human refuse. In the Gardens, he could trade in the moans of hunger for the songs of birds, the cries of the unfortunate for the buzz of insects. Instead of half-rotten garbage, his mouth salivated with the taste of flowery sweetness. It wasn’t unbearably hot here, like it was in East Rising, but cool. A light breeze tickled his skin.
Mostly importantly, the Gardens had Dean.
They settled into a bench, facing a wide open grassy space peppered with colorful flowers. A large weeping willow tree stood there, tall and motherly, surrounded by daisies and covered in what looked like... ribbons. His eyes lingered on her for a long moment, lost in the patterns of her knotted wood. Daisies smiled up at him like happy little children and a bee bounced from flower to flower. Castiel sat there, mesmerized.
“Do you like it? The Gardens?”
Castiel tore his eyes away. The sunlight kissed Dean’s eyelashes, his green eyes catching a ray of light. He looked beautiful in the sun; tanned skin and freckles, perspiration beading at his forehead. After studying him, memorizing every line, Castiel smiled and nodded.
“I thought you might,” Dean said. “The little bees you make, your tomato plant—“ He shrugged and flashed him a smile. “I had a couple of clues.”
Castiel smiled too and leaned back, lifting his face to the sun and closing his eyes. He took in a deep breath of clean air. “It’s so peaceful here.”
"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "I guess it is."
Dean was staring off into nothing when Castiel looked at him; his expression blank, his mind obviously elsewhere. Dean wasn't here, not with him.
“Where are you right now?” Castiel whispered.
Dean leaned back into the bench and gave him a sidelong glance. Didn't say anything for the longest time, then shrugged. Dean's attention fled to the trees, to the squirrel that took a daring leap across a large gap of open space. The small animal landed gracefully on a limb, sped down the trunk and stared at them. Quizzical. Eavesdropping.
"I don't know," Dean said quietly.
"The past?"
“Maybe.” Dean shrugged.
“Dean,” he whispered. “If you’re hurting—“
“Look, Cas. I’m fine, all right?”
Castiel looked at him pointedly and Dean rolled his eyes, muttering, “You know what I mean.”
They sat together, not saying a word for the longest time. A white-blue butterfly took flight and zipped across the glade to settle on a red rose—red like Anna’s hair. Like Charlie’s.
"Hurts get better," Castiel said suddenly.
"What?"
"It's what a friend told me once," Castiel said, looking out over the grassy knoll, to the willow tree. "Hurts get better."
"Yeah, well. Not all of them." Dean let out a breath. "Not that simple."
Castiel nodded and watched him play with a leaf, spinning it between his fingers, if for no other reason than to keep idle hands busy. Dean took a deep breath and hunched over, elbows on his knees. He spun the leaf over and over again, saying nothing. Betraying everything with his face. Anger, frustration, sadness—the list was long.
“It can be—that simple, I mean," he said at length. "Trust should run both ways, Dean,” Castiel whispered. “Let me share your burden. All I ask is this one thing.”
Dean didn’t look up at him, kept staring at that leaf like it was the only thing left in the world. Castiel could almost see his words sinking in through his flesh, ripping him apart as if they were barbed with glass. Dean swallowed hard, shot a breath of air through his nose, and said, “You’re asking a whole hell of a lot from me.”
“I know,” Castiel whispered.
Dean shifted uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, only to close it again. He licked his lips absently, then rubbed the back of his neck. His strong, confident hunter was falling apart right in front of his eyes. It was just Dean with him in that moment. Only Dean. Raw. Vulnerable.
Breathtaking.
"We uh—we used to come here when we were kids… when things—when they were good," Dean started, his voice so quiet. Delicate. He cleared his throat again, frowning at the leaf as if it had offended him. "Mom used to… sit under that willow tree over there—“ Dean stopped for a long moment, fighting through something, choking back a flood of emotion by clenching his jaw. “Me and uh—Sammy, we used to play Knights and Thieves here—in the glade.” Dean quirked a slight smile. “Sam… I swear—he was the worst at sword fighting.” The light moment faded quickly, turning serious again. Mournful. Dean stared at the glade. It opened up wide in front of them, flowers popping up out of the thick grass. Castiel could almost see them playing.
“She used to make these... flower crowns out of daisies. Weave them into these—“ Dean stopped abruptly, wiping his face with a sleeve, and turned his face away. A tear dropped down Dean’s cheek. “I can’t do this, Cas.”
Castiel watched him for a moment and just… marveled. It was the first time Dean had opened up to him like this, so exposed, so trusting. With a soft touch, Castiel wiped the tear away and scooted closer to him. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to, because holding his hand was enough. They sat there with their fingers entwined.
"I should've saved her that day. I should've—" Dean went quiet for a long time, staring hard at the leaf. His jaw line steeled then melted, only to flex under skin again. His wet eyes told the story of how his heart was breaking; the emotional warfare, between strength and falling apart, evident on his face. Dean cleared his throat as a single tear ran down his cheek. "I didn't notice him until it was too late. He was so quick—I couldn't..."
Dean took a breath. A ripple of composure smoothed out his face, turned raw emotion into a hard mask. Stoic, at first, then crumbling into a deep frown. "He... slit her throat. And all I can remember about that moment was how... red her blood was against her white dress."
Dean pushed his cheek into a shoulder to wipe away stray tears. Took a silent moment for himself before clearing his throat again, then clenching his jaw. "After that... I barely saw Dad. He turned to hunting, killing anyone who was associated with Mom's death. We were on our own for a long time... then, he was gone. Sammy never forgave him for abandoning us."
“What about you?”
“I just want him home.”
Before Castiel could offer his heartfelt condolences—
"You lose anyone?"
Castiel took in a breath and looked away, out into the glade again. He should’ve told Dean about Anna, about her death, how he’d been weak, how everything had been his fault. Should’ve let Dean comfort him the only way Dean knew how, let Dean soothe his pain and fears. Trust should’ve run both ways, but, in the end—
"No," he lied. It was simpler that way. "And I hope I never do."
Dean nodded and pulled out a white ribbon from his pocket. He pulled it through his fingers several times before looking up at him. With a rough exhale, Dean stood. Castiel got up on wobbly legs with him and, together, they made it over to the tree, one careful step at a time. White ribbons—some old, some fairly new—had been tied around the trunk of the willow tree. Hundreds of them. Thousands even, spanning over a history of years of love and devotion. Small ribbons tied to larger white ribbons. Ribbons tied to the weeping strands like bows in a little girl's hair.
"These all yours?" Castiel asked, amazed.
"Not even close." Dean said, running his ribbon through his fingers again. "Hell, we didn't even come up with this. The people did."
The people she helped and fought for. The people who couldn't do the fighting for themselves. People like himself. The poor. The starving.
"They called her an angel," Dean said quietly. "Maybe she really was."
Without another word, Dean tied his white ribbon to a larger one, one that wrapped around the tree trunk entirely. The ribbons—they were beautiful. A symbol of honoring her memory, of showing love and appreciation for the mark she left in this world. She had given the poorest of them voice and understanding, fought for their equality. Had given the world Dean.
Castiel absently fumbled with the blue ribbon around his wrist—Anna's ribbon, the same one she always wore in her hair. Precious to him, it was the only thing he had to remember her by. He patted himself down for anything else, fingers searching for a loose thread, a strip of something. He came back with nothing, not even a shred of linen.
"Come on, Cas," Dean said, his voice a good distance away.
Castiel dropped his eyes. Long-stemmed daisies, their yellow faces peering up at him. He hunched over, grabbed a handful and went to work, as quickly but as carefully as he could. Behind him, a few feet away, Dean huffed out a breath that marked his impatience. "Cas?"
Castiel ignored him. Twist. Tie. Twist. He threaded and spun and knotted, fingers nimble and practiced. He’d done this a hundred times before with Anna, when they were children. Dean approached him from behind, his boots like lead on grass. "What are you doing?"
His words were hot on his neck.
Castiel hung his creation on Dean's white-ribbon knot. "Honoring your mother."
It was a daisy flower crown. Simple and delicate—something Mary would’ve made if she were still alive; a circle of white flowers that held fond memories for Dean.
Dean stared at it. He didn't have to say anything because the expression on his face was enough. Trapped somewhere between... this moment of adoration and sorrow. His eyes had become wet again, but instead of a tear, a smile broke through. "How about—" Dean swallowed. "How 'bout we get out of here?"
His heart fell. "Back home?"
"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "Home."
Castiel let out a breath, and with it, went the straight line of his shoulders. The thought of going home, back to East Rising, dropped a weight on him, slouched his shoulders. He took a laden step forward, which Dean must have mistaken for exhaustion, and frowned when Dean sidled up next to him.
"I can walk on my own two feet, Dean."
The razor-cut edge in his voice made Dean take a step back. Dean didn't say a word and didn't need to. His frown was noticeable enough. He should've apologize then and there, should've explained his disappointment, but didn't. And although they didn't speak, Dean never walked more than one foot ahead of him. Just in case.
Dean didn't lead them back to the rickshaw. When they walked past it, simply left it there, Castiel stopped and asked, “Shouldn’t I get in?”
Dean looked over a shoulder—
“No. Don’t need it.”
—and looked away before Castiel could argue.
They took an opposite route, leading away from the White Wall, away from the direction they should’ve gone. They passed beautifully ornate buildings with stone carvings and clean wrap-around porches. Potted plants swung in hanging baskets, steam-powered light fixtures popping on one by one. The sun had just begun to set and soon, West Rising was made of gold. The streets, the buildings—all gold. Colors beautiful and rich.
The scenic route, then, before they went home. Castiel nodded to himself and plodded along, like a puppy behind Dean, caught up in the details of a world too great for him. When he stopped to smell a rose, Dean stopped too, waiting for him a couple of steps ahead. When he paused to contemplate a gargoyle face, Dean didn't complain. Dean contemplated it too.
Their journey ended at the blocky shape of a gray house. Three second-story windows peered at them, its red-mouth door like lipstick on an otherwise plain, discolored face. Deep shadows huddled under the covered porch, two lonely rocking chairs feeble with neglect. The gray wooden slats on the house, the porch pillars and decorative trim—weathered and lacking life.
"We uh—" Dean shifted uncomfortably. "We really haven't been keeping up with the maintenance."
It clicked.
"This is your home?" Castiel asked, looking at him.
"Yes. Home," Dean repeated. He had always intended to take Castiel to his home. "It's—sorry, such a goddamn eye-sore. After Dad left—"
"It's beautiful, Dean," Castiel whispered, looking up at it. The house towered above them, lacking a magnificence he'd expected of royalty. And in a way, that was a good thing. He found humility in the peeling paint, a subdued nobility in its patchwork fixes. There was strength in its flaws; beauty in its broken pieces.
"Do you want to go inside?"
Castiel turned to him, Dean's face hopeful again. He nodded and smiled. "Yes, of course."
"Great," Dean said, reaching out an arm. He pulled it back almost immediately and said, "I have to help you up these steps. They're notorious for popping up. Don't trust 'em."
Castiel nodded and Dean took ahold of his arm. Together, they took a step at a time. One, two, then—pop. Crack. The whole board, weathered wood and unsecured, lifted up and split, making Dean yelp and Castiel trip.
"Shit. I got ya," Dean said, gripping onto his shoulder tight. "You okay?"
"I think so," Castiel said, confused. He looked down. His entire foot, leg brace and all, was shin-bone deep in the stairs. In the stairs. The wood had collapsed under their weight and, like a steel-jawed trap, had snagged his entire foot in its maw.
"You hurt?"
It stung a little.
"No," he lied. "But I'm stuck."
"I told him to fix this shit," Dean growled. "Sorry—my brother. He's an idiot."
Dean leapt to a stair higher, turned and grabbed him—hugged him—just beneath his shoulders, lifting, lifting. In that second, Castiel didn't care if he was never freed from those stairs. He was drunk on Dean, his face buried into his neck, his lips brushing against Dean's skin. Unintentional. A beautiful accident. Warm and soft, smelling of the day's sweat and cedar—Castiel forgot about everything else.
"Cas," Dean grunted. "Lift.. your.. foot."
Time rubber-banded, and he caught up, lifted his foot out of the hole in the wood. He took a step up and was free. Sadly free and stable, and without Dean's embrace. Dean patted him on the shoulder. "You good?"
No. Just fine.
When Castiel didn't comment, Dean led him inside. The home smelled old, musty, a long life filled with a happy family until it wasn't, until it fell victim to loss and abandonment. Cobwebs clung in the corners like tattered funeral shrouds, dust like gray snow covering delicate knickknacks. Only a picture frame with a photo of a pretty blonde woman—whom he assumed was Mary Winchester—seemed to be dust-free; cherished among the sea of throw-aways. Yet, despite its state, there was beauty in its decorative moldings, hardwood doors and ornate banister. The old charm and soul of a grandfather clock welcomed him, and though the wallpaper was peeling at the corners, it was a mansion. Even greater, it was a home.
Dean slammed the door a little too hard and it woke something of a beast. From the second floor, another door flung wide open, rattling on its hinges. Feet like lead thumped down the stairs and in a booming voice, it said—
"Dean?"
"Shit. Hide."
Dean ducked into the shadows and pressed his back against the wall, as if he were hiding from a monster. Castiel froze still, a mouse caught in a trap, and looked at Dean for support. Dean waved him in frantically, but Castiel didn't move fast enough. Before he could take a single step—
"Uh, hello?"
Castiel turned to find a large man on the second landing, taking a tentative step forward. Large wasn't the word for him. Maybe tall, very tall. Like the Host Tower among its squat greystone children. A boyish man with an innocent face and square jaw, brown hair kept long and tied back neatly. Not at all disheveled, but incredibly put together as if he held an important role in society. Maybe this was—
"What are you doing here?" The man asked. "Where's Dean?"
Castiel's eyes immediately gravitated to Dean. Dean shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. Shhh.
"I uh—" Castiel started. "I don't know... where Dean is."
The super-sized man rolled his eyes. "Dean, get out here."
Dean quietly and gently banged his head against the wall then came out of the shadows. He straightened his waistcoat like any dignified man, as if he'd just come in from the rain, and stepped up beside him. "Sam, this is Cas—tiel." Dean pointed a flat hand to Sam. "Cas, this is my freakishly-oversized brother Sam."
"Hello, Sam."
Sam narrowed his eyes dangerously. The glare made Castiel shuffle on his feet, made his palms sweat. He was minutes from being tossed out by his ear.
Then Sam smiled and grinned.
"The Castiel?"
Castiel looked at Dean, then back to Sam. He couldn't open his mouth before—
"Dean cannot stop talking about you," Sam said, grinning, arms folded over his chest.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean said in a low voice.
"I mean, seriously. If Dean isn't talking about you, he's either sleeping or—"
"Sam!"
Sam grinned wide, an air of triumph about him. Brotherly teasing, something he probably lived for. "Welcome to our home, Castiel—er, Cas." Sam turned his mouth upside down. "Is it Cas?"
"Cas is fine."
"He doesn't like it when you call him Cas."
Sam frowned. "How do you know?"
"Dean, it's fine," Castiel scolded. He turned to Sam. "You can call me Cas."
Sam beamed.
"Dean told me about your childhood together—the story about the snake and sandspurs," Castiel offered. It earned him an elbow in the ribs. He glared at Dean.
"Did he, now?" Sam arched a brow. "Did he tell you it was a garter snake?"
"Sam—"
"You said it was a big snake," Castiel said, turning back to look at Dean again.
"It was a big snake," Dean said between clenched teeth.
"No, it wasn't." Sam rolled his eyes. "It wasn't even dangerous."
"It could've been," Dean said, tone frigid.
"Garter snakes aren't—" Castiel bit his lip when Dean glowered at him.
"I guess he didn't tell you it took hours to get those things out of me," Sam said bitterly.
"Oh, boohoo. Let's all cry for poor baby Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes. “You think you're being funny, but you're actually just being really childish.”
“Sam wears makeup.”
“Dean cries his way through sex,” Sam shot back.
“Sam keeps a ruler by the bed—“
"You screamed like a girl and ran to Mom—because of a garter snake."
Sam's verbal jab had grown teeth, sinking into Dean's flesh. The pain of it was on his face; the reminder of his mother seemingly twisting his frown into something grotesque with the anger he tried not to show. Failed miserably because it was in his body language and the balled fists at his sides. He clenched his jaw—
"If you hadn’t been married to your fancy job, Jessica wouldn’t have left.”
—and stung like a scorpion. Beside him, Castiel flinched as if he'd been slapped in the face. And Sam... He nearly stumbled, holding onto the banister for support. Sam turned a cold glare on his brother. So cold Dean nearly withered.
"What the fuck, Dean," Sam breathed out.
"Goddamnit, Sammy, I'm sorry," Dean said, stepping forward. "I wasn't thinking—"
"Yeah, that's the problem with you, isn't it? You never do. You never fucking think," Sam growled. "Look, there isn't a day that goes by I don't blame myself for what happened between me and Jess, okay? I certainly don't need you to remind me."
“Sam—“
"Wait. You know what? You know what this is really about, Dean? You. You and your jealousy and resentment,” Sam snapped. “I found the courage to move on after Mom died. I carved out a life for myself beyond… revenge, and hunting, and whatever the fuck it was you and Dad did—and you never got over that. You still haven’t,” Sam said. “I made something of myself. What did you do?”
Dean clenched his jaw and looked away. Quaking on his feet. Slowly, Dean turned cold, cold eyes to his brother. “You know what's funny? No—hilarious. No matter how many times you say you're not like Dad… you always had more in common with him than I ever did."
Sam looked at him quizzically.
“You left first,” Dean shouted. “Your education, your job—always came before family. You couldn’t wait to get out of the house,” Dean said accusingly. “You left me behind just like Dad did. So, you know what, Sammy? You’re exactly like him. You're both... really good at abandoning the people you're supposed to care about."
“Are—are you saying I abandoned you? Are you...” Sam laughed out his disgust. “Are you fucking serious? You're never here, Dean! If it weren't for Cas, I'd never see you. You'd be out in the fucking Wilds for months, dead, for all I know!"
“Sam—“
“You know what, Dean? I’m done with this.” Sam threw Dean a glare before whirling away, moving toward the second set of stairs. "Nice meeting you, Cas."
"Sam!"
The taller brother didn’t stop, stomp-stomping up the stairs with his large, heavy feet.
"I did not abandon you!"
Somewhere, deeper inside the house, a door slammed. They stood alone in the foyer.
"Fuck."
Castiel stood still, too afraid to move, to even take a breath. Beside him, Dean ran a hand down his face, his body slumped and defeated from his tussle with an angry tornado. Castiel didn't say a word—
"You hungry?"
—and the entire confrontation seemed to run like water under a bridge, as if it has been nothing out of the ordinary.
Castiel shook his head. Not hungry, but exhausted. Disturbed. His eyes floated about the foyer, searching for a distraction. The grandness of it reminded of his standing, of his home in the poorest section of East Rising. Suddenly so self-aware, his skin seemed dirtier than it had been minutes ago; the smell of his own body unbearable. In the shadow of troubled royalty, Castiel had remembered who he was.
"Do you have... a bath?"
"A bath?" Dean echoed. "Yeah, sure. Just up the stairs."
Just up the stairs. Castiel looked at the mammoth obstacle. Two flights of stairs, at least twenty stairs to the second landing. Dean held out the hook of his arm like a gentleman and Castiel stared at it, eventually taking it. Together, they fought through the first flight of stairs with minimal issues. A few minor bumps and an ounce of pain. The second flight proved greater challenge; more pain, a few whispered words, and a stolen touch—Dean so protective, so close, that Castiel prayed for more stairs.
The top landing opened up to a wide sitting area. Tables and lounging chairs decorated the large room, dark wooden floorboards spanning wide and dotted with well-made rugs. Bookshelves—with books!—stood majestic and tall, wooden scrollwork and carvings beautiful in their intricacy.
Dean led him away from the sitting area, to the bathroom. A large claw-foot tub occupied the full length of one wall while a sink and a small toilet took up minimal space. Clean, everything immaculate. Possibly the most pristine room in the entire house.
Water spewed out of the faucet with the twist of a wrist. Somewhere, in East Rising, a steam-powered generator whirred with the added workload, enormous gears spinning and spinning to send clean water across the city, to the plumbing of the house, to the small faucet in this very tub. Dean tested the water's temperature with a finger. He looked over his shoulder. "Warm or hot?"
"Hot, please."
Dean turned one of the knobs and tested the water again, jerking his finger back almost instantly. Steam sizzled and rose into the air like a warning.
"Too hot," Dean said, adjusting the temperature. Another test, this time satisfied. Dean ran a finger along various bottles, some ornate, others simple, all glass. "Um, Sam's got some girly shit in here." Sam's bathroom. It explained how clean it was. "Do you want..." Dean picked up a bottle, reading the label. "Bubbles? I think these are bubbles."
"Bubbles..?"
"Yeah, bubbles," Dean said. "You... do know what bubbles are, right?"
"Yes, Dean. I know what bubbles are," Castiel said flatly. "... generally."
"Bath bubbles?"
Castiel sighed.
"Right. You barely have clean water," Dean deduced. "Bath bubbles are amazing—uh, so I've heard from Sam. Not like I've ever tried them," Dean scoffed.
He opened the bottle and poured them in. Soon, a fluffy cloud of bubbles towered over the hot water. The smell of lavender tickled his nose. Lavender bubbles, delicate and luxurious—the same lavender that he kept smelling on Dean's skin. Dean checked the height of the water several times, clawing through a thick sheet of bubbles. After the third time, Dean turned and said, "The water's ready."
Again, Castiel didn't hesitate. He pulled off his nice shirt, folded it and put it aside. Dean was already looking away when he looked up, pretending to fiddle with another bottle on the small table next to the tub. Inch by inch, he scooted out of his trousers and pulled them off, setting them aside. The leg brace too. When he was done, he took a breath, then said, "I'm ready."
"Not looking," Dean said, turning. His eyes zeroed in on his, never once dipping below eyesight. With strong arms, stare holding firm, Dean picked him up and carried him over to the tub. This was where he wanted to be, in his arms, held as if he were made of delicate glass. Cherished as if he were a precious photograph. He didn't break Dean's stare for the longest time, too lost in shades of green, trying to find the line where the man ended and the soul began.
"Uh, Cas?"
"Yes, Dean?"
"You going to put one of your legs down or what?"
"Oh."
Castiel lowered his uninjured leg into the hot water, so hot he had to pull it out again—hot yet exhilarating. He lowered it again, shifting most of his weight onto it. From there, it became awkward. Dean squatted as much as he could while Castiel held on for dear life. Lowering, lowering, bending, bending, until he was fully seated in the water, injured leg and all. Dean stood—his back creaked—and he turned away, for decency's sake.
"The wash stuff is over there." He motioned to the table. "If you need me, call for me, okay? In fact, here.." Dean reached toward the sink for a small silver bell, twisting his body—but not his head—to hand it to him. "Just ring this. My room is down the hall. I'll hear it for sure."
"Thank you, Dean."
"I'm just down the hall," Dean reiterated.
With that, Dean closed the door behind him. He was alone, bright blue-papered walls doing nothing to cushion his loneliness. Soon, that too—along with his aches and pains—evaporated in a ribbon of steam, rising up and disappearing into the ceiling. The bubbles around him provided an audience of continuous sound, crinkling and popping, as the water, hot and invigorating, soothed his aching muscles. He grabbed a washcloth and soap, and began scrubbing, no inch of skin left untouched. Soon, he was as clean as he had ever been. Happier than he had ever been. Safer. In a cloud of bath bubbles, in a house that was not his own, he felt like he belonged.
He was home.
The bubbles were gone and the water lukewarm by the time he rang the silver bell. As promised, Dean knocked on the door not a minute later.
"You decent?"
He wasn't. The bubbles had been his only decent cover and they were long gone. Castiel fidgeted and searched, his hand blind at the bottom of the tub, stretching to find—ah ha. The wash rag. He placed it over himself and cleared his throat. "Decent. But, the bubbles... they're gone."
"I'll close my eyes, then," Dean said as he stepped in.
With his hand over his eyes, Dean didn't see the danger ahead; the large puddle of water on the floor. Before Dean took another step—
"Dean. There's water—"
A grunt of surprise, Dean slipping and skidding across the floor. He caught himself on the sink with heavy hands, then looked at the water puddle with mild agitation. "What the hell did you do, Cas? Splash around in here?"
"I may have been overzealous, yes."
Dean gave him a look, grabbed a towel and threw it on the floor. "If Sam bitches about his pretty towel, I'm telling him you did it."
Castiel opened his mouth to protest—
"You keeping the peach fuzz?" Dean asked, brushing finger against his jaw.
"I... hadn't thought about it," Castiel answered. He ran a hand over his bristly face and looked down, trying to catch his reflection in the clear water. The man staring back at him—it wasn't him. "No, I suppose not."
Dean was sorting through the bottles again before he'd completed his sentence. The sound of glass-against-glass and metal drew his curious eyes. He watched Dean gather a small ceramic cup, a brush and a straight razor. Dean passed him a smile and stepped behind him; the sound of something dragged indicating that he'd found a piece of furniture to sit on, that he was settling in for the long haul.
"You're going to have to stay still for this," Dean whispered. Castiel closed his eyes as his hot breath danced with the hairs on the back of his neck, as a shiver sped down his back quicker than a bolt of steampower.
Castiel licked his lips absently and honed in on everything Dean, hyper-sensitive to sound and touch. Dean cupped his face and guided his head back, his neck a comfortable 'c' against the curve of the tub's lip. Looking up, Dean hovered over him, mirror-opposite, his lips so close, so—
He exhaled slowly as Dean touched him, fingers grazing the grain on his face, exploring the stubble on his neck with the soft rub of his hand. Castiel swallowed hard, his Adam's apple jumping under Dean's careful touch. Throat dry, cracked, his voice broke over a tentative, "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
Dean held the straight razor up and it glinted like judgment in the light. He must have seen the worry on Castiel's face when he said, "Just relax."
Castiel nodded and held onto the wash rag, sheltering himself in the safety of his hands. He prayed right then, praying his thoughts wouldn't get away from him, that he wouldn't have to explain why he'd become so aroused over a shave. Above him, Dean dabbed the brush in the ceramic cup, swirling it over and over again. The motion worked up a lather, white foam creeping up and rimming the ceramic lip. He was safe from embarrassment until Dean touched him again, fingertips balancing on his head while he moved the brush in circular motions on his face. Having him so close, just that touch alone... his prayer went unanswered.
It didn't take long for it to react, growing half-hard over something so simple; Dean's breath on his cheek, his careful study, as if he were the only person in the world for Dean to gaze at. Castiel couldn't help but stare, tilting his chin up, up, under Dean's fingertip-command. Dean covered his throat in shaving cream, soft and gentle, setting the brush aside with a clink of the ceramic cup. With a view like this—Dean's neck, his collarbone—it was no wonder his body reacted the way it did. He imagined himself kissing his neck, teething the skin just because he could, leaving a trail of kisses along his collarbone, down to his chest—
Dean rubbed the shaving cream in with his hands, long strokes down his neck, across his cheeks and jaw line. Almost affectionate as if he himself were looking for excuses to touch him, to marvel in skin-on-skin contact. The rubbing turned even gentler; back of his fingers down one of his cheeks. Castiel let out a quiet breath and held himself tight as his cock went hard, aching inside his hands. He wanted this over already, just to spare himself Dean's judging stare, the embarrassment. His bones jittered and his skin bubbled up with gooseflesh.
Dean tilted Castiel's head away and took the straight razor to the right side of his face. Pulling the skin up at his temple, Dean shaved with the grain, to the middle of his cheek. Again, stretching skin, a downward stroke to just before the jaw line. He commanded the blade with efficiency, with an effortlessness that left him comfortable, relaxed.
Willing to let his mind wander.
The left side of his face went just as smoothly, no nicks or cuts, nothing said between them. Dean sunk the blade in the bath water to clean it off, then went back to it, leaving him to his own devices. Discreetly, as if to tempt fate, Castiel thumbed the underside of his hard cock as Dean turned his head to the right again. This time, the blade started below his jaw line, at the sensitive skin on the side of his neck. Down, down, against the jugular vein. One accidental cut, deep enough, would be the end of it and the thought of it, of his life in Dean's hands, made him let out a sound too close to a groan. Dean stopped as if he'd been shot.
"Did I cut you?"
"No," Castiel whispered, embarrassed. "I'm... fine."
Dean glowered at him and Castiel gave him a quick, skittish smile. To the left side then, the same motions, shaving with the grain with a lot less danger and excitement. But when Dean made him tilt his head back farther, exposing the length of his throat—and the cutting, the edge of the blade sharp against his skin. Castiel got off on it, muttering Dean's name like a benediction, like a prayer, and thumbed the head of his cock beneath the rag. He pushed his hips up into his own touch and his whole body sparked with it, his breathing hitched and caught in his throat.
Dean didn't seem to notice, and if he did, didn't utter a word. He kept shaving, down, down, and Castiel kept staring at his eyes, so blissed out on temptation, on what could be, that he didn't notice Dean's frown until it was too late.
"You can't keep staring at me like that, Cas."
Castiel looked down, whispered, "My apologies," and swallowed hard against the blade.
The razor cut—and he nearly lost it.
"Ah, shit."
Dean set the blade aside and it clanged, abandoned, on the table. He wiped a finger along the cut, cursed again. "Give me the rag."
"No!" Castiel said too quickly, too harshly.
Dean frowned at him. "Cas, give me the goddamn rag."
Castiel stared him down. Another war of wills with Dean the victor. Again. With embarrassment creeping along his skin, Castiel tried to shelter his hard cock with one hand, and with the other—
Dean yanked it away from him impatiently. Castiel yelped as if he'd been stung, frantic to hide himself with his hands. His face burned hot.
"I'm not looking, Cas. Would you calm down already?"
None the wiser, Dean dabbed his cut with the wash rag and sat back to look at his handiwork. Castiel practically melted when Dean looked at him directly in the eyes.
"Not that bad," Dean said. He narrowed his eyes. "Why isn't your hair wet?" Dean ran his fingers through it and Castiel almost collapsed. "Did you wash it?"
Dean smirked when he didn't respond, turning to consider the bottles again. Castiel let out a sigh. Hot, skin puckered up like a rotten fruit, his patience for bath time was at an end. But when Dean turned with a bottle, dumping the pearlescent liquid in his hands, Castiel settled in, grateful for more.
"Get your hair wet."
Castiel paused, pondering the impossible. Half-hard now, he didn't dare remove his hands. Dean waited behind him, huffing out another sound of impatience. "What's your deal, Cas?"
When Castiel said nothing, Dean took something—he couldn't see it—and dunked it in the water, then dunked it over his head. The sudden flush of water closed in around his ears, dripping down his face. More water dumped over his head. Wet, uncomfortable, and irritated, he sent Dean a glare over his shoulder.
Dean wasn't looking at him, but at his head. Castiel kept his sheltering hands over himself as Dean massaged the liquid into his hair with strong fingers. He closed his eyes and let Dean's hands do the work. Fingers kneading his scalp, thumbs pressing at the juncture between his skull and neck. Dean ran his hands through his hair, through the front, then up through the back. He was a slave beneath his hands, his skin thick with gooseflesh, his breathing slower, heavier. This shouldn't be so mesmerizing, relaxing... so erotic.
Dean massaged his neck, lower, running his thumbs down the top-center of his back. Each and every bump over his spine, every knot, nudged him closer to wanting Dean right then and there. The very urge to prostrate himself, spread himself wide open for Dean, was so real. His cock went rock-hard with it, growing again in his hands. Dean let out a soft breath against his neck, kneading his shoulders with strong fingers. Here, right now, there would be no decency in his thoughts.
In his mind, Castiel positioned himself between Dean's legs, taking in all of him with his mouth. The salty taste of him, the sounds he made when he sucked harder—Castiel ran a thumb discreetly down his hard cock, just enough to fuel his fantasy. Touching the tip, down the shaft to its base, then up again. When Dean gently scraped his nails against his scalp, Castiel imagined sucking him harder, sliding down his thick cock with vigor. Dean didn't softly touch him in his imagination, but pulled his hair and forced him down. Taking him the way he was meant to be taken. And just as Dean was about to—
Water crashed over his head.
"Dean!" he growled.
"I warned you," Dean hissed. "Open your ears."
Castiel gripped the sides of the tub as water crashed over his head again. Then a third time. Dean fingered his hair again, nothing erotic about his touch. "I think it's all out—"
There was an eerie silence as if a secret had just been discovered. A drop of water dripped from the faucet and it sounded like crashing waves.
When he looked back, over a shoulder, Dean wasn't looking at him, but down. Into the water. His cock was still flush, hard and offensive. Castiel jerked to cover himself up again and turned his head away. He prayed for death.
Gentle fingers guided his chin back. Castiel turned his head away again, unable to face him. "Dean."
Dean didn't give up, gentle fingers brushing against his chin. "Cas, it's okay," he whispered. "Just trust me, all right?"
Their eyes met—Dean's without horror, without judgment. Just soft, bright with the smile on his lips. Dean didn't say anything and he didn't either. Castiel held his breath as Dean looked at his lips, as a thumb swept across his cheekbone. They were inches apart, closing the distance. Castiel ached with anticipation, his mouth open, Dean's lips—
"Goddamnit, Dean!"
A hard thump rattled the wall.
They both jumped back.
"Where the fuck are you!"
"Goddamnit..." Dean whispered. There was wild banging at the door. "Sam, if you come in here, I swear to God—"
"What the hell have I told your goddamn pranks, Dean?"
"I'm busy, Sam," Dean growled.
"And what the hell are you doing in my bathroom? Again?" Sam slammed against the door a second time. "This is the last time I'm telling you. Use your own bathroom for your stupid bubble baths!"
"I don't take bubble baths, Sam. I take showers." Obviously lying. "Your bathroom has better water pressure!"
Sam grumbled on the other side of the door. Something unintelligible, but angry. Down the hall, a door slammed and nearly shook the house.
Dean dropped his forehead to the tub's porcelain, then raised it, rolling his eyes. "Sorry."
"What did you do?" To Dean's look of confusion, he said, "The prank? What did—?"
"Oh... nothing," Dean shrugged. "Just made him a little blue is all."
It was his turn to be confused. His confusion looked like a frown, his eyes narrowed. Dean gave him a half-smile and studied him; his face, bouncing back to his eyes, before dropping to his lips. Castiel licked them absently, tasting lavender, and took in an unsure breath. Hesitant as if any false move might—
Dean lifted a hand to his face, brushing a thumb across his lips. They stared at each other for what seemed like forever, teetering on the edge of something beyond their control. Mutual need, lust, or even something more profound. Whatever it was, it sucked them in, a gravitational pull so strong, so powerful—
Dean grabbed his face and bridged the small gap between them by pulling him close—then stopped. Their lips were just inches away, frozen in a moment of hesitation, irrational fear. The possibility of rejection. Dean's breath skittered across his face in shallow beats, every pulse whiskey, uncertainty, and I need you. Castiel sat there stunned in tepid water, his heart ricocheting against his ribs like a stray bullet. It hit him how much he needed Dean right then, his touch, his kiss. For once, he wasn't afraid.
Castiel leaned forward. Their lips brushed together. Gentle. Chaste. Dean closed his eyes, took in a deep breath through his nose and held it. It was a moment of innocence, of neither of them having the courage to act. With an exhale, a skipped heartbeat, it all changed.
They crushed their mouths together, Dean's tongue hot and wet against his own. The passion of their kiss, desperate and heated; the smell of him; the taste of him—went straight to his cock. Dean pulled him in and kissed him harder, deeper, fingers curling at the back of his neck. The kiss didn't suffer a break when Dean fell to his knees at the side of the tub, repositioning himself to touch and explore with greedy fingers. Dean's hand roamed across his chest as they kissed, their tongues tangled, their lips bruised. Those devilish fingers sunk lower, grazing his stomach, to skirt over the head of his cock. Teasing, a barely-there touch that made his stomach twist with more.
Castiel arched his back with a moan as Dean grabbed ahold of him, fingers tight around his hard cock. Slow, even strokes had his toes curling, his chest heaving. He made a little noise in the back of his throat—a groan, a growl, he didn't know—and Dean moaned against his lips. Kissed him harder, pumped faster. The sound Castiel made then; somewhere between a shout and a moan, delirious with sex. Dean kissed him quiet as Castiel shot his hips up, plunging into Dean's hand, desperate to find the edge, to tease himself back from it if only to torture himself. Dean's hand slid down his cock, back up, and Castiel tossed his head back, writhing against the tub's porcelain. Another groan. Another kiss to shut him up. There was a burn deep and low in his balls, and it grew stronger, hotter. Castiel was on the verge of exploding—
—when he grabbed Dean's hand to stop him.
"Stopstopstop," Castiel whispered against his lips.
Dean let him go immediately, his eyes blown wide from arousal. "What did I do? Did I hurt you?"
"No, I just want—" The sound of his heartbeat drowned him. "Not here."
Dean nodded and threw Castiel's arm over his shoulder. Castiel held on as Dean lifted him up and out of the water as if he weighed nothing at all. Carefully over the towel-covered puddle, out the door and into the hall. Dark and empty.
"Sam?"
No answer.
Dean carried him swiftly through the hall and into one of the bedrooms, laying him carefully on the bed. The sound of clothes torn off, whipped aside, framed Dean's approach, the flush of his heat against his own. Their hard cocks brushed together and lightning struck him, an intense bolt of energy dancing up and down his body. Dean enclosed his fist around them and rocked into him—the feeling... absolutely incredible. Breathtaking. Castiel kicked his head back into the mattress and rocked his hips up, rolling his body. It created friction, rubbing... His mouth dropped open with a groan, a pant, and Dean whispered something against his neck. Dean kissed at his collarbone as the rhythm turned frantic, uneven, every jolt and wet slide of their cocks... He took in a sharp breath—
"Dean."
—and groaned, his name breaking over a plead to stop, to let him center himself. He wanted Dean inside of him, needed it, and it was as if Dean knew. With a hot breath against his skin, Dean let go and stopped. Laying completely still, they sucked in laborious breaths, waited until their hearts calmed to a dull murmur. Until the need for release wasn't so... immediate.
Dean kissed his collar bone, his chest, crawled down to his belly and kissed the spur of a hip. Lighter than a feather, Dean placed a tiny kiss on the inside of his thigh, another one higher up, a third so close to his cock that it jolted upward with the tease. Castiel groaned, the little noise a rumble at the back of his throat—a little noise that turned to one of impatience.
Dean didn't do what he expected, what he wanted. Instead of taking him in his mouth, Dean teased and peppered more kisses on his skin, lightly, barely, until Castiel let out a frustrated moan. He left a kiss on the topside of his thigh, then moved on to his hip. Dean spent whole minutes there, kissing his hipbones, trading one for the other and back again. Sliding his tongue over the knot of bone, then into the shallow valley that led to his cock. Dean never quite touched him there. Not directly. His cheek would graze it, he'd drag his nose just slightly over the head, but nothing direct enough to give him satisfaction. Castiel moaned again as his cock jumped up to catch the friction of Dean's passing cheek, as Dean yet kissed another part of him that wasn't in need and aching for him.
And he was enjoying it—oh, how he was enjoying it—his little smile against his skin told him that Dean was well aware of teasing him. After another whimper, undignified and impatient, Dean kissed his inner thigh again—then dragged his tongue along his cock, root to tip. Castiel sucked in a breath and it sounded like a hiss, not of pain, but of pure bliss. He slid a hand into Dean's hair and dared to hold his head still; not enough pressure to force him, but just enough to guide. Dean took the hint and slipped his mouth over the head of his cock, sucking gently until his heart leapt into his throat. Castiel sucked in another breath, choked on a groan. His head swam again, pure elation short-circuiting his brain. Then Dean sucked harder and—
Castiel threw his body back onto the bed and let out another sexed-out noise, more akin to a shout bordering on breathlessness. Encouraged, Dean took all of him in, bobbing up and down on the shaft with such vigor, such enthusiasm that he nearly lost it. Castiel arched his back in ecstasy, rubbing his fingers through Dean's hair, massaging the juncture between head and neck. Dean moaned around him and the vibration intensified... everything. Greedy, Castiel rocked his hips up, sliding his cock further into Dean's mouth. Dean let him thrust into his mouth over and over again, let him hold his head down. No protest, just eager submission. Dean so pliant, so willing—it was... overwhelmingly arousing.
Then it was over.
Dean left him naked and cold. There was thumping in the dark, a drawer opening and closing. The smell of something new in the air. Oil. Warm, slick fingers slid along his inner thigh, searching, the wet comfort of Dean's mouth returning. Dean took him in again, so far that the head of his cock hit the back of his throat. Castiel slammed his hands down on the bed and gripped the mattress, writhing in enough pleasure to blow his mind. Fingers circled him and he spread his legs wider, wider, giving him permission to completely take him. Dean slipped in a finger, hooking it, and moved it in and out of him in rapid succession. Every time, every single time, hitting a sweet spot he didn't know he had, as if Dean knew his body better than he did. His fingers—now two—and his mouth...
"Dean," he whimpered. "... please."
He needed release. The warmth in his gut, in his balls, had grown to such an intensity that it threatened to consume him. His belly clenched with it, his muscles twisting and tightening. Castiel gripped his hair, arched his back and pleaded, "Dean..."
Dean's fingers fell away, his mouth lazy to release him. Dean crawled up his body with kisses, spent an eternity at his hip bone, then moved on, tongue circling his navel. When his lips pinched a nipple, when he sucked one and teased the other with his fingers, Castiel groaned out of frustration and scrambled for skin. Castiel jerked him up, spread his legs wide, and rocked his hips up—anything to get Dean to fuck him. Now.
"Patience," Dean scolded.
Castiel crushed their mouths together, tongues wet and hungry. He had no patience, not anymore. Dean had spent his patience on barely-there kisses and fleeting touches. Castiel grabbed his ass and jerked him up, closer, communicating how much he needed this. Dean kissed him gently, chaste touching of lips three or four times before his body heat disappeared again. Left alone, naked, explicably frustrated, Castiel let out a petulant sigh.
In the dark, the smell of oil hinted at something nefarious. The slick wet sound of skin against skin, the soft growl of a groan. Castiel shot up like a bullet to sitting position, reached forward—blind fingertips brushing against Dean's hand, the head of his cock. Dean was slicking himself down in the dark, jerking his fist over his shaft with rapid, fluid strokes. Possessive, Castiel tore Dean's hands away, grabbed his cock and stroked him. Dean panted against his neck, kissed him absently while he fucked into his fist. Nuzzling against the side of his face because it had to feel good. Dean teethed his ear, rocking his hips into his hand. Another groan, more desperate. Needy and almost there. Castiel stopped and Dean growled. Quicker than he could follow, Castiel was on his back, splayed, his legs spread wide by Dean's greedy hands. As Dean inched closer, positioning himself, Castiel sunk his fingers into the mattress. He needed this, wanted this.
But didn't expect it to hurt so much.
Castiel gasped as Dean slid into him, splitting him open wide for what seemed like an eternity. It didn't matter how slowly Dean did it, how gentle, how many soothing words he whispered into his ear. Being inexperienced, it hurt and his muscles ached with the stretch, stung with the intrusion. Completely inside him, Dean remained still, brushing the backs of his fingers against his cheek. Kissing him on his forehead, his nose, even on both his eyelids. Almost apologetic, Castiel covered his mouth with his own, kissing him deep. Just so he wouldn't get bored and leave him alone. Just so he wouldn't be disappointed.
"We can stop—"
"No," Castiel whispered. "Please..."
Castiel kissed him again, more forceful this time, pulling at his hips. Dean moved inside of him as a result of the force, and Dean groaned with it, pressing his face into his neck. The discomfort... he winced, sucked in a breath and jerked his hips down on Dean's cock. A groan from Dean's lips, between a whimper and a growl—worth every ounce of pain, every second of discomfort. After pulling and resisting, they settled into a hesitant rhythm, the slightest hip movements and barely-there thrusts. So gentle, so affectionate, that it took Castiel's breath away.
Then, like that, the discomfort faded away. Dean gained confidence over time. Shallow thrusts had turned deep and needy; soft touching traded in for hard fingernails. Dean arched his spine as Castiel ran his fingers down his back again, mapping the web of scars and pain through touch. Touching those scars, being reminded of the Wilds, and whatever inner demons he faced there, must have woken the hunter in him. Dean turned feral, pounded into him harder, rougher, and Castiel took every inch of him, panting against his neck. The wet slap of skin-on-skin, the heated groans, the incredible heat between them—Castiel whispered his name in the dark and, with a groan, deep and desperate against his neck, Dean hit his peak and released inside of him. Two more shallow thrusts and Dean pulled out, kissing him on the lips in a way that brought him to the edge. Gentle, loving. Forever. Castiel worked himself with his hand, groaning, so close, when Dean stopped him and pulled his hand away. Dean slipped his lips over his cock before he could protest and Castiel arched his back, groaned and fucked into his mouth until he was spent.
:::
He didn't wake to a chill, but to warmth. Not to his long-dreaded friend hunger, but to the song of birds. A gentle breeze kissed his skin from the open window, the sunlight sweet against his face.
Best of all, he woke up next to Dean.
Dean smiled, his eyes droopy, and pressed a soft hand against his face, brushing a thumb over his lips. Castiel leaned into it, kissing the open palm, and smiled back. "Hello, Dean," felt like it belonged on his lips.
"Hey," Dean whispered back. "You snore like a hellhound, you know."
Castiel rolled his eyes and tossed a decorative pillow at him.
"What?"
There was an undignified squawk, a grunt, and a grumble of protest. Dean whipped the pillow aside and grabbed the back of his neck, smothering a, "Come here," against his lips. Long and languid, their tongues traded secrets in a kiss that could've lasted forever. He had lost time, lost himself in Dean's warmth, and the fact that he was still here.
This wasn't a dream.
But they weren't alone.
Dean sunk back into the pillows, a flash of gold in his hands; memories and obligations undoubtedly in his head. His father. His trips to the Wilds. He hadn't been there in almost a week. Castiel had been too wrapped up in everything Dean to notice his uneasiness or the constant, excitable energy buzzing beneath his skin. No, not excitable energy, but restlessness. A need for freedom. An escape.
The gold watch danced between Dean's fingers, agile and quick, shuffled from one to another like a silver letter. The tight lines on his face, the intensity in his eyes—
It was Wednesday.
"What are you thinking?" Castiel whispered.
Dean didn't answer for a long time. He continued to stare at the watch in his hands, rubbing a thumb over the engraved initials on the back. Castiel held his breath as Dean opened his mouth, and braced himself for the words he knew would come.
"I—" he said quietly. "I gotta get back out there, Cas. I need to get back out there... even if it's just one more time."
Castiel took in a sharp breath as if he’d been stabbed. Didn’t say a word, just hurt silently. He should’ve expected his heart to break the way it did, like a feeble house collapsing in on itself. He should’ve been ready for the hollow ache, for the horrendous loss, but he wasn’t. Castiel watched Dean. The frown on his face, the jaw clench—the war between his obligation of finding his father and staying. For him. For Sam.
In the end, he understood, but it didn’t stop his tone from becoming sharper than a razor, accusation cutting deep.
"What about Sam?"
"What about him?" Dean snapped. Cold. Defensive. "Don't you worry about Sam. He's going to be fine."
"All right,” Castiel conceded. “What about us?"
The tone sounded colder than he intended. It had come from a dark place, from a time where he, too, had been abandoned, just like Sam and Dean. It had molded him into someone else, someone afraid of being left behind—in the cold, hungry and homeless. Here, right now, Dean was planning on doing the same just as things had become… so right between them. It scared him. Most of all, it hurt.
"Dad might still be out there, Cas."
He couldn’t compete with a ghost.
"Then, you can't give up," Castiel whispered, surrendering.
Dean exhaled a hard breath, his eyes gravitating to his. He didn't want to let go of the Wilds, of his father. It was in his face, in the hard lines, in the set shape of his mouth. Then it was there, a shade darker, souring his expression. Guilt, maybe. Sadness as if the very thought of saying goodbye crushed his spirit.
"Go find him," Castiel whispered.
With a slow nod, Dean closed the watch in his hands and turned toward him. There was a moment of silence as the air charged with something palpable. Heavy. Dean started and stopped, opened his mouth then closed it. Licking his lips, Dean looked down and fiddled with the watch. "I..." He gripped the watch tight, and raised his eyes. "I need you... to stay here. If this is going to happen, any of it... Cas, you have to—"
"Dean," Castiel closed his hands around his. "I will."
They spent the morning together in a room with ornate wood paneling and large windows; a backdrop of fruit trees and flowers swayed in the breeze at their picture-perfect breakfast. A jar of bee's honey and vases of flowers decorated the large table, plates of meat and eggs devoured by the time the grandfather clock struck noon.
There was no drawn-out goodbye because they didn't need it. Dean would be home in a few days and he would be here, exactly like he said. There was no need for this sense of foreboding, yet it slipped under his skin like an oily snake.
:::
The wind didn't slip through the cracks in the walls here nor would, he imagined, the rain through the ceiling. But the house groaned—oh, how it groaned—and the floorboards creaked. With Dean, the old house was alive. The peeling wallpaper didn't hang gray like dead skin, the rooms weren't as cold as a corpse.
Without Dean, the house was dead.
He kept himself occupied on the ground floor, exploring until his legs hurt, reading The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in the small library until the words ran together. The sun dipped low in the horizon and light tumbled through the windows, illuminating dust mites that swirled in a tornadic frenzy. Lost, just like him, freefalling into nothingness.
He turned a page. Somewhere, deeper inside the house—maybe even upstairs—a floorboard creaked. It set off a chain reaction of sounds, of age-old complaints and pains. A pipe shuddered though no faucet had been turned on; the walls shifted and popped as if the house itself had stretched. The squeak of a door on its hinges sent a shiver down his back and as the sun began to set, the shadows deepened. Thickened.
The room grew even colder.
Darkness tickled his skin. He rolled his shoulders as the unfamiliar sounds and smells grated his senses. The scraaape of a tree branch at the window. The smell and irritation of dust in his nose. Here, lonely in this large house, he began to miss the small creature comforts of his home in East Rising, of simplicity. A place where he knew every sound, from the soft melody of his lost-key wind chime, to the howl and whistle of the wind. The note of mildew and stench of rotted fruit didn't bother him because they were familiar. Constant. Comforting in their displeasure.
Without Dean, the house was a prison. Not freedom.
He stood on his own two feet, wavering as the room began to spin. The rush went to his head, attacked him at the knees, and nearly toppled him over. His hands shot out blindly, latching onto something, anything, for leverage. The monstrous body of a wingback chair saved him, its fabric like scales beneath his fingers. He gripped it tight and searched for his walking stick, grabbed it too and took a step. Shadows nipped at his ankles.
The house had begun to reject him like a bad organ.
On unsure legs, he escaped from the small library to the foyer. The darkness met him there and opened its maw like a ravenous hellhound. There was a gnashing of teeth and then—
The front door opened. Light poured in from the outside and frightened the monsters away.
"Cas?"
Sam.
"What are you doing here in the dark?"
More light flooded his vision; the steam-powered fixture blooming with a flicker and hiss. Castiel rubbed at his eyes, then regarded Sam with a.... quizzical look.
The palms of his hands were bright blue.
Just made him a little blue is all.
"Dean, he uh—he likes to play pranks still," Sam said, holding his hands up. "Blue ink. Maybe even dye, I don't know which." Sam shrugged. "Where's Dean?"
"He went to go look for his father—"
"Is that what he told you?" Sam studied him for a moment, angled his head away and huffed out a laugh through his nose. A sour note spoiled the air. Sam turned and hung up his coat, his hat; his movements quick and mechanical as if he'd done them a thousand times. But never this angry. "Listen, Cas, you seem like a nice guy, okay? But Dean..."
The unfinished sentence hung in the air.
Castiel stepped forward. The punctuation of the walking stick seemed to echo endlessly in the small space. He flinched at the sound. "What is it, Sam?"
"Dad's been dead for ten years now," Sam blurted out. "Okay? Ten." He sighed, emptying out his pockets. A silver letter rattled on the entry table. "They found what was left of his body in the sewers. Hell, they even found that gold watch on the corpse. Dean knows that. So whatever he's doing out there? It's not finding Dad."
The watch. The real reason it'd been so rusted inside.
"Why—“ Castiel frowned. "Why would he lie?"
"I don't know. Maybe he's in denial—still—after all these years?" Sam said quietly. "He's been lying for... ever—hasn't been happy since... Fuck, since Mom died." He ran long fingers through his hair. "Except when he's out there." Sam looked at him. "Out there? He says it's different. He says it's pure, whatever that means."
"Pure," Castiel echoed. He met Sam's eyes. "He said he wanted to go out there one last time—"
"One last time?" Sam rolled his eyes. "He's been saying that for years. Dean will never give up that life, Cas. The hunt, the thrill, whatever's out there for him—it's part of him now. I don't even know what he does, but whatever it is... it's kept him sane." Sam shrugged. "He won't give that up."
"Then, perhaps he won't have to."
His words—they were lifeless, committing him to a lifetime of lonely nights, a cold bed, and head full of worry. Wondering if Dean would come home that week, if he'd been killed by a monster out in the Wilds. If he stayed here, alone, he'd lead a life of misery. Lies. Abandonment.
"You're going to let him get away with that?" Sam asked incredulously.
"Haven't you?"
Sam blew out hot air, shaking his head and looking away. A familiar jaw clench. The silence between them gave him a moment to think—to grieve the end of his happily-ever-after with Dean. If Dean couldn’t let go, if Dean was still, after all these years, bent on going out into the Wilds for nothing—
Being hurt again, abandoned—it stared him in the face with a harlequin smile, glass teeth waiting to shred him to pieces. Castiel shook his head to no one and turned—
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stay.
Castiel shuffled by him, to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob—
“Cas,” Sam said, grabbing him gently by the arm. “Look, I can’t even pretend to know about the Wilds, Dad, or—or what Dean’s going through. But what I do know—is that he’s crazy about you, without a doubt. He needs you.” Sam let him go. “Cas… you have to stay. For Dean.”
“Would he stay for me?”
Sam looked at him long and hard, said nothing. Castiel took a step away—
“If you were here—maybe…” Sam started. “Maybe things would change.”
“Do you believe that?”
Sam hesitated—and that was his answer.
Nodding, Castiel gave Sam an apologetic smile and turned, opening the door to step out into fresh spring air. At the end of the porch, he stared down into the gaping hole in the stairs. Something in the back of his head told him not to leave.
:::
The shadows closed in tighter, darker than they ever had before. It was darkness he couldn’t shake and it scratched at his skin. Even West Rising, serene in daylight, had grown teeth after the sun had fallen. Black eyes of tall greystone buildings followed him as he slipped through the shadows like a rat. A sundown curfew had extinguished all signs of human life, leaving the streets dead, homes and businesses black. Above him, steam-powered lights buzzed disapprovingly. Even his feet were too afraid to make a sound.
Central Rising opened up to him like freedom—freedom that had wilted in the dark, had begun to decay, rotting like a forgotten beloved. Booths stood empty and bottles rolled on lifeless cobblestone. The fading scent of spiced meats clung to the stale air; the sounds of conversation, laughter, of opportunity nothing more than ghosts.
He shook off the dead and quickly cut through the empty marketplace. His new leg brace squealed under the duress of use, but didn't punish him with a pinch or a bite of metal on flesh. Every step was less alien, less painful. He found an easy stride by the time he made it to East Rising, through the districts, to Eden's End. The alleyway mouth of his home opened up to him like a bottomless pit.
The flap of a bird's wings froze him still.
It perched on a ledge, this dead-eyed raven, and stared at him. Wings glossy like ink, its caw the summation of the dying. Death's herald had come to collect another soul. He took in a steady breath and stepped forward, leveling his eyes with the bird. Defiance. A dare. The raven rustled its feathers, hunched down, and let out a shrill sound. It flew off into the night on wings of fury.
He shivered, his body jittering with a sort of nervousness that came with dread. With careful steps, he slipped through the alley mouth, and stepped around the corner.
Home wasn’t how he left it.
It had been gutted, the viscera of his things draped across the cobblestone street. His brightly colored fabrics like blood, his broken workbench like shattered bone. Questions didn't fire until he had gathered a shred of his composure, until he dared to take another look.
When he looked, two figures stood in front of his home. They were clear in the sharp light of the steam-powered lamp, a hooded figure and a Revenant. The Unredeemed stretched out its hand and from it dropped the sight and sound of silver letters; glitter and chime as true as silver bells. Then, as if it never had existed, the hooded figure was gone.
The Revenant stood alone. With a growl, low and angry, the Revenant swung his fist. Light flickered overhead, on-off-on, to the silver-letter symphony. The coins scattered, disappearing into darkness.
What had transpired between them, he could only begin to guess. But, to him, it was clear: whatever it was, it had to do with him. With the Unredeemed, it always did.
He shouldn't have left.
Behind him, another flap of wings. His blood ran cold. He jerked his head up to stare. If a bird could grin, it surely did, evil and malicious. The raven let out a shrill caw, screaming the guilty verdict to dead jurors; the derelict bodies of buildings, the skeleton poor.
The Revenant turned and stared.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darting and wild. He could run from this place, never look back. Escape. With the backfire start of his heart, he turned and took a weighted step, then... nothing. He couldn't move, his leg—it wouldn't cooperate. He willed his muscles to move, but the leg brace screamed instead. The knee joint—it had locked up. He was stuck. Imprisoned.
Long shadows loomed over him.
Two Revenants. One of them Alastair.
"You."
It sounded like a death knell.
"You have been found guilty of treason," Alastair announced, words weighted. Lifeless. Without conviction.
"Treason?" Castiel echoed. "H—how?"
"Intending to kill a Man of Letters."
Shock barred his mouth, his words like prisoners. No sound came out.
Alastair grabbed his wrist and yanked it forward. Instinctively, Castiel pulled back, clenched his fist, struggled, but it wasn't enough. Alastair tore the ribbon away, fingernails marking tracks down his skin. Anna’s ribbon had always kept his secret safe; a U tag, jagged and scarred, branded to his skin because he'd saved Dean's life. Destined to be a slave, to steal and kill for the sake of paying back a priceless debt. Destined now to suffer and die because he had chosen free will.
Alastair nodded to his constituent. The second Revenant raised the butt-end of his mace.
A starburst of pain opened his world to darkness.
:::
“Make him suffer—for everything he's done," said a disjointed voice, angry and volatile. "Make him scream.”
The iron-heavy slam of a door jolted him fully awake. He snapped his head up then shrunk back instinctively as soft light crept into his half-lidded eyes. It seared instead of soothed, the pain in his head magnifying sight and sound. Every water drip, every skitter of rat claws, light, the damp scent of mildew—it left him nauseous, disorientated. He drooped, chin-to-chest, and closed his eyes but the room still spun, spiraling, spiraling—
He lost it. His stomach revolted, spilling what little food he'd digested. The filth slapped wetly on the floor and the stench of it, thick and awful, rose up to admonish him for his weakness. When he opened his eyes, his vision had blurred, but he could see it; liquid semi-translucent filth on stone. Not the stone of cobblestone streets or even the stone floor of a home's basement. No, much older, cracked and decayed. Unique in its disrepair.
He huffed out a breath. Chilly phantoms rose up out of his mouth, temperature cold enough to freeze, to shortchange his lungs of air and burn. He shivered, but he couldn’t warm himself. Not with his hands—because they were bound with ropes. His ankles too. District 9, then. The Pit. A freezing sort of Hell and a last stop for sinners.
The creak of leather—Revenant leather—groaned out another presence, hard-soled boots grinding into the floor. Turned high, lantern light flooded his vision and brought with it a sense of clarity. Metal-on-metal rang out. The shuffling of metallic tools or utensils, perhaps—something picked up, then dropped. Again. A third time. Choices being made. Discarded. An indecisiveness that betrayed a perfectionist's expertise. Or was it uncertainty and doubt?
With a steady breath, he looked up.
Alastair stood at a metallic table, in front of him a red cloth spread long and liquid. Loose threads hung off the sides like thin channels of blood, a torturer's toolset promising pain and suffering. From the cloth, Alastair chose a thin blade. Small but efficient, used to carve, to poke, to cut muscle deep. His gut twisted as Alastair turned the knife in his fingers, muscles tensing violently as a flare of light bounced off liquid-silver. His body let loose a rippling shudder, an earthquake of nerves and dread. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, to keep them from breaking. Panic spread like a disease and left him terminal.
The Revenant torturer put the knife to his bare forearm and cut his own skin—to test the blade maybe, to make sure it was sharp enough, wicked enough, to shred him to pieces. As Alastair's blood ran, dripping and splattering to the floor, Castiel rolled his wrists, pulled and struggled. He whipped his head. One window, the size of a small child, hung on one of the walls. Barred. The iron-heavy door too far away and undoubtedly locked.
There was no escape. No one would hear him scream.
Something scraped across the floor with a skull-splitting sound; the same something dragged and slammed down in front of him. Castiel looked up as Alastair sat down in a rickety chair, as Alastair glowered at him with hateful eyes, and raised the blade—
Castiel stared at him hard, defiant, and waited—but the pain didn't come.
Instead of cutting flesh and muscle, instead of making him scream, Alastair dropped his eyes, staring down at the blade in his hand. A window of light danced across his face, across the horrible scar, and rolled as he turned the knife in his fingers. There was something in Alastair's listlessness, his slow and hesitate movements. Where Alastair had once held himself straight-backed and proud, he hunched over, his shoulders bowed. For a moment, Castiel wondered what he saw in the knife's mirror. What doubts, what truths.
"You never planned to kill him."
The statement wasn’t draped in hushed judgment or reserved guilt, but a neutral evenness that left him lost for words. Castiel studied his face, looking for clues, trying to find the man beneath the mask. Perhaps a noble, lawful man—because his eyes weren’t cruel, didn’t hunger for bloodshed just for the sake of it.
The silence proved too much for either of them.
Quicker than he could follow, Alastair grabbed his hair and pulled back. Castiel stared at him dead in the eyes as he placed the blade to his neck. A bead of blood crawled like a spider down his throat.
"Did you?"
His Adam’s apple bobbed against the blade with his swallow, drawing an irritated line of pain across his skin. His voice scraped against the edge, tore over a mutilated, “No.”
There, on the underside of Alastair's wrist, was a bold-faced U scar, as jagged as his own and streaked with his own blood. A slave to their lies. Just like him.
"What did you do—" Castiel swallowed again. The blade cut. "—to anger them..?"
They locked eyes. Both unyielding.
"Enough," came the tortured answer. Quiet and without violence. Alastair’s face softened then drew tight, pulled back in a frown. His jaw line tensed, his eyes a flicker of lantern light.
“They want to hear you scream,” Alastair stated flatly.
Castiel closed his eyes tight, bracing himself for the pain. But, again, it didn't come. He let out a rushed breath and opened his eyes, staring into Alastair’s face.
"You've suffered enough."
The Revenant turned cold and stood, whipping his arm toward the emptiness of the room. The cutting blade took flight and crashed against the wall in an echo of his disgust, in a rebellious display to injustice. Alastair grabbed the lantern. With another slam of that iron-heavy door, Castiel was left to darkness.
Darkness gave voice to his emptiness, life to his grief and guilt. Any hope of a future by Dean's side—gone. The last smile he'd ever see on Dean's lips faded away. The groans of old brick and claws of rats laughed at the injustice of his inevitable execution. Here, in the dark, alone and hopeless, he... let go. It all came crashing down.
All of it.
Anna.
Blue ribbon in her hair.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on her smile. She always twirled in the sun on the rare occasion sunlight peeked from under the clouds in East Rising. Twirling because she was finally warm after having spent nights in the cold. Smiling because she was so happy. Her happiness kept him going, made him look forward to every new day even when they were bad.
He promised back then he'd make her happy however he could.
It was the little things that kept her smiling. He’d sneak into West Rising, through the sewers, to steal flowers just so they could spend a quiet afternoon weaving them into flower crowns. Even after days without food, weak and tired, she'd grin ear-to-ear when he managed to swipe a piece of meat from one of the market vendors. Smiled and laughed as she pressed her face into a stray kitten's soft, warm belly. Blue was her favorite color. Anything blue made her happy and smile. A blue button, a broken piece of a blue teapot, a tiny blue bead.
Blue ribbon in her hair.
Blue brought out the color of her sad eyes.
Hunger and the cold kept them company at nights, the heavy rain on their heads saving them from the sweltering heat. They watched those around them die from disease and loneliness, and savored every day together, convinced it was their last. Days without food and water, without shelter. Exhaustion and sickness weakening their bones. When Anna got sick, when the man came—
Let me save you, said an oily mouth with spoiled promises. You and your sister.
—Castiel said yes.
He didn't think the man would be cruel. In exchange for food and shelter, he worked him to the bone in the mines and Anna... He envisioned her on that street corner. Dolled up and pretty, blue ribbon in her hair. The way they looked at her, touched her, fingers and eyes like snakes slithering across her skin. Trapped like a prisoner because her brother had given up, because he was a coward. Every time he visited her in that house, warm and fed, she still smiled—each time the sparkle in her eyes dying, her smile growing less genuine, more plastic. Just like the other girls. He stopped visiting every day, couldn’t watch her slowly die even though she was still breathing. Couldn’t bear to face what he'd done to her. He let his ignorance blind him—if he ignored it, it’d all go away.
He ignored her for three whole days.
That was all it took.
He saw her as he did that night—on the bed, with floral blankets cradling her head, cheap rouge on her cheeks and lips. Smelling of perfume and… blood. It pooled around her, staining her pretty dress as he held her in his arms, holding her wrists to keep them from bleeding. Rocking her, whispering into her ear as she took in shallow breaths. Her body… so cold, trembling. He tucked red hair behind her ear, put his forehead to hers to feel her breath skitter across his face, just so he knew she was still there, that she hadn’t left him. She looked up at him with her beautiful eyes, smiled like he always remembered… so happy, even on the bad days. He wiped one of her tears away. She brushed a thumb over his wrist, whispered—
“Don’t be sad.”
—then let go.
Blue ribbon in her hair.
Blue brought out the color of her sad eyes.
He bowed his head and wept, bled his sorrows and regrets down his cheeks like wordless confessions. Let the rope bindings chew through his skin and punish him as he twisted his wrists.
"I shouldn't have left you, Anna," he whispered, his throat hoarse. "I should've... saved you... when I had the chance."
He let his sister's loss shred him until he was raw.
Time passed with the drip, drip, drip of water on stone. Two hundred, fifty-two drips. Minutes, hours, he didn't know. At five hundred, twenty-nine, there was skittering in the darkness; a scratching of tiny feet. Flesh-eating rats raised their demon heads and sniffed the air. Blood. A lot of it. Enough to feast and frenzy. Castiel stiffened. The noise grew louder—
"Hello?"
They scattered.
"Cas?"
He whipped his head toward the tiny window. Red hair flared in front of the bars, then a little face appeared, grinning as wide as could be. "Charlie?"
"I found you!"
"Charlie," he shot out in a single breath. "What are you doing here?"
"I… I saw them take you away," she said, putting her arm through the bars. "—and… I followed!"
"You can't be here, Charlie—"
"Why not?" She fit another arm through. "I can fit through the bars! Wanna see?"
"No, not right now," he said. "I... I need you to do something for me. Can you do something for me?"
Charlie pulled her arms back through, wrapping her little hands around them. Attentive as she always was.
"I need you to find Sam Winchester—"
"The big tall man!" A giggle. "Gigantor!"
"Right. The big tall man," he confirmed. "I need you to tell him..."
He stopped. Tell him what? To Dean, he was a liability. He kept bringing him back from the Wilds, just as Sam had said. As long as he was alive, Dean would always be in danger. But that was just an excuse to give up, wasn't it? Dean would always be in danger, whether or not he was dead.
Castiel's shoulders sagged with the truth then, heavy and unbearable. He had lived a life of struggle, always on the brink of starvation. No place to call home. Everything he had... had been taken away. His hope. His independence. Anna. And even if he were with Dean, somehow happy, the threat of abandonment would always be there. The fear of losing him—
In the end, exhaustion and heartache was the only thing he would have left.
No, he didn't want to be saved.
He was a coward.
"Tell him, to tell Dean..." He took a breath."... that I couldn't stay."
"Where are you going?"
"Just go, Charlie. Please."
"Okay," the little girl beamed. "But I'll come back to see you!"
She took her innocence with her as she scrambled away, running at a dead-sprint far beyond what the window could see.
Left to his fate, he closed his eyes and waited.
:::
He woke up to the drumbeat of Alastair’s descent, heavy footfalls rattling on old wood. Light trickled in through the bars in a shade of morose gray. The sound of rain pitter-pattered outside and there was a low conversational murmur and the shuffle of feet. He knew then that it would happen in front of a crowd. The Unredeemed would make a public example out of him. Execute him for his sins.
He would die on a Thursday.
Alastair didn't meet his gaze. The Revenant stood in front of him and cut the ropes binding his wrists. Rope-burn circles flared an angry red and when Castiel rubbed at the raw skin, the pain made him wince. Without a word, Alastair pulled on his hand and took out Anna's ribbon. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath as Alastair wrapped it around his tender wrist, tying it loosely—an act of kindness that left him speechless. The supportive touch on his forearm whispered his apologies as Alastair hoisted him up to his feet. His hands weren't harsh with biting nails or cruel with bruises, but gentle, guiding him along slowly, carefully, as a friend might. Minding the old steps, helping him up when he faltered.
Ahead, the corridor stretched long and dark. He walked in the steps of the guilty and convicted, mulled over his sins, and questioned life and death much like they had. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, but nothing of hope and salvation. Just a hole in a heavy wooden door through which he could see his damnation. An eyehole-look to the end.
He was met with light and an eruption of sound when Alastair opened the door. The crowd shouted and booed, and something hit his shoulder. It smelled sour and had left a dark smear that he hoped was mud. Kill him! Make him suffer! poisoned the air with contempt. Two gruff men took up either side of him, handled him roughly where Alastair had been gentler. Up the wooden stairs to the gallows. He held his breath.
A noose hung like a corpse.
The corded rope scratched at his neck as they slipped it on, tightened it until he could barely breathe. He stood facing the crowd, their faces a collection of twisted, grinning evil; monsters and demons that shouted obscenities and curses, declarations of death and misfortune. In the pit of ghouls, he found fallen angels—Benny and Hester—looking on with pitying eyes. No anger nor hatred in their faces, but no love either.
The two men stepped away after binding his wrists. He straightened, no shame in his posture, and looked to the sky—nothing but dark gray. He said a little prayer for Dean's safety; no mention of his own. A crack of lightning and a roll of deafening thunder answered when the executioner sidled up next to him; a corpse of a man with hollowed out cheeks and pale skin like dripping wax. His dark eyes sat on top of a hook nose, his smile as cunning as a snake. Death circled him—adjusted the noose around his neck, the bindings on his wrist—then stopped in front of him. Stared as his hair ran like black ink down his scalp.
"We've been waiting for you."
A voice older than existence, colored dark cherry red with aristocracy. The executioner smiled his cunning smile and adjusted the collar of Castiel's cream-colored shirt, pulling it out from under the rope around his neck—the perfect sacrifice to the death-hungry crowd. Death slinked away to stand beside a lever; the gatekeeper of false-bottom platform beneath Castiel's feet.
The crowd began to chant—Kill him! Kill him!—until they were hushed with a hand.
"Let us entertain the thin veil between life and death for a moment." The executioner went silent and the people with him, hanging onto his every word. "Fragile, isn't it, this thing called life? We're nothing but bacterium with an inflated sense of importance in the end. One wrong move and it's—"
From folds of dark clothing came a sword as certain and quick as death, swung high overhead and brought down faster than righteousness itself. A leisurely man, leaning elbow and arm on the edge of the platform, jumped back as the blade descended sharply, splitting and sinking into the wood with a sickening crack—exactly where he'd been seconds before.
One wrong move.
The crowd held their breath.
This man of skin and bone slicked his black hair back and chuckled. It was a dark sound, emptier than the wind that blew across the square, deader than the skeleton trees haunting this place. The executioner yanked on the blade, once, twice, to no avail then carelessly turned away, turned to him, and pointed.
"This man, this stupid little soldier, has misstepped one too many times. He's been found guilty of treason. We, the living, the righteous, must reap the dying and cruel. It is our duty." Death turned to the crowd. "What say you?"
Men, women and children burst into cheers, a crescendo of Reap! Reap! stripping him raw. Castiel sucked in a breath and notched his chin upward, letting the crowd's cruelty slide down his rigid back.
Satisfied, the executioner turned back to him. "To this charge, what say you?"
Eyes of all kinds stared at him. Silence draped like a wet rag over his blood-thirsty audience.
He clenched his jaw and faced the futility of it—of arguing, pleading, shouting his innocence. It left him broken, weak. Exhausted. His shoulders slumped, his back bowing. He let the fight out of his chest with his exhale, let the weight of his impending death pull his head down.
Defeat was carved into his skin.
"The convicted has lost his tongue." A horrid laugh. "Let us reap him!"
Deafening cheers.
"Wait."
The executioner quieted the crowd with the downward flight of hands. He turned, looking at him with dead-black eyes, and said, "What's this? The little lamb speaks?"
Castiel took a breath—numbered, cherished—and looked at the crowd. To the women and children, to the men. Benny and Hester wore frowns, those behind them ghouls whose masks were glee, hatred and despair. Restlessness gathered the longer he took, the more he hesitated. When he lost his will to speak, they appeared, one by one filling in the holes left vacant by those who couldn't handle the cruelty. Figures with hoods, shadows covering their faces. The Unredeemed. His tormentors.
He'd plead for him.
"I won't... beg for my life—" he said, his voice breaking. "—but I will spend... every breath I have left, my final heartbeat, everything I have, to plead with you... to spare his. Spare him because he's a good man. Let him live because... his heart is more beautiful than.. all the wealth in the world." He stared at one hooded figure in particular. "Save him... because he saved me."
A low murmur began in the crowd, some confused, others angry. Someone shouted "Hang 'im!" when the rest of the world had gone silent.
"The answer to our struggles was never to take his life and start a civil war," Castiel went on. "Spilling his blood won't bring about change and equality, clothe us or give our families food and clean water." He swallowed hard. "Dean Winchester deserves to be saved." Then, softer, "I would save him a thousand times, die a thousand deaths, if I could."
War is upon us! Kill him! Hang him!
"Don't hang me for treason, but for falling in love with Thursdays, runny eggs and burnt bacon," he yelled above the rising murmur of the crowd. "Hang me because he said he wouldn't leave me—"
"—and because I fell in love with him."
His speech fell flat on the crowd. Ghouls and witches stared at him, angry and vengeful. The monstrosity of the humanity twisted with cruel laughter and stinging ridicule, calls for his death cutting through. Few listened. Few cared.
From the side, Death clapped slowly, his chuckle a sharp barb in his skin. "Thursdays? Runny eggs?" Tone mocking. "Tell us, are these.. the new currencies? Will your Thursdays buy us food? Will your runny eggs put clothes on our backs, protect us from disease? Clean our streets?"
"Will torture and murder? We're still starving, naked and filthy!" Castiel shot back venomously. "Violence, terrorism—that's not how change is made! Exchanging his life—killing him in the name of our civil rights will bring down a war we cannot win. Instead of food and water, we'll have blood and the dead. Not clothes but funeral shrouds! Don't you see that?"
The executioner seethed, clenching his teeth. "I see a sad, pathetic little man desperately trying to save a man who's already marked for death. We will kill him when he comes for you."
... kill him when he comes for you ...
His execution. A trap for Dean.
Castiel's blood froze.
"No..." Castiel whispered. He struggled wildly. "No!"
Death pointed a bony finger at him. "Your time is at an end."
"Stop!"
All eyes turned. Benny had stepped forward, fists at his sides. Hester took up a space beside him; a few of the others—soot-covered faces, hard jaws and determined eyes—right behind her.
"You're not killin' him."
"Is that so?" Death challenged.
They stood as opposing sides of the same war. Benny clenched his jaw, teetered on explosive energy; the formation behind him a fuse ready to spark and blaze. The challenge hung dead in the air.
Death moved and set everything in motion.
Benny and his throng lurched forward as the executioner darted toward the lever. A gruff man with thick arms and big hands grabbed Benny's shoulders, held him back while the others struggled to tear themselves free of the crowd. Castiel tried to wriggle his wrists to no avail, ropes cutting into his skin. Death reached for the lever—Alastair kicked him hard, boot-heel to the back to send him sprawling. Benny threw a punch at his aggressor and Hester sent a swift knee to a groin. Men and women—fighting to kill him or save his life. The crowd undulated with it. The shouting, the grunts of pain and hoots of triumph—
From its depths rose a glorious sound, blasting off like a trumpet.
The gunshot went wide, whizzing past the gallows. Screams erupted from the crowd. Some ducked while others bolted, crashing into one another, barreling over the fallen. Castiel whipped his head. There, across the pit of snakes, stood an imposing figure; a silhouette on the gray horizon. A flash of something silver, quick as lightning, thunderous like an angry storm. A gun. Another shot.
Dean.
The second bullet nicked the rope, fraying corded strands. It didn't break. Castiel sucked in a breath and searched for Dean again—when a commotion to the side drew his attention. Alastair held the executioner's leg, reached and reached with a free hand to grab another handful of clothing, skin, anything. With everything he had left, the bony man lurched, stretched out an arm—
—and tripped the lever.
Time stopped. A moment existed where Dean's laugh filled his head. It was a happy sound, full-bodied, with a single note of mischief, colored golden-yellow. His smile warmed him where the sun couldn't, deep in his soul; his touch, soft and reassuring, a stairway to heaven. A moment of peacefulness. His purity.
The world resumed.
He fell, but the drop wasn't long enough to snap his neck. Suspended instead, Castiel kicked at the air as the noose tightened, cutting off his breathing. His head swam with the rush, his heart pounding. Consciousness... on-off-on. He choked. He sputtered.
"Cas!"
... Sam.
Beneath the gallows, Sam's voice circled him like a frightened puppy, barking out his name over and over again. Something else... words he couldn't understand. Promises... of saving him. Elsewhere, another commotion. Benny... a flash of silver... a sword.
Castiel closed his eyes...
… let go.
on…
off…
...
On.
He fell.
Suspended in air.
In that moment, he was flying.
Free.
A jolt impact told him his situation had dramatically changed. In Sam's arms, Castiel opened his eyes and sucked in a deep, gasping breath. No longer hanging, attached to a noose. Not dead, but alive.
Sam set him down on the ground and scrambled over him, removing the noose around his neck. Castiel sucked in more air, gulped it in like water, and let his eyes dart above. Looking down the trap door hole was Benny, a gleaming sword in his hands. The rope blew fruitlessly in the wind, cut and frayed.
He'd been saved.
Benny nodded and then disappeared. The clamor of the crowd continued above. Castiel continued his recovery; Sam poring over his scrapes and bruises.
"You're fine," Sam breathed out. "Completely fine... it's—it's a miracle."
"Dean," he rasped out raw. "It's a trap. They're—they're going to kill him." He gasped in a breath. "We have to find him!"
"Shit."
They ducked out from under the gallows; Sam on strong, hardy legs and Castiel limping behind him. The crowd moved against them, keeping them at bay while they shoved and pushed. A smaller man grabbed Castiel by the arm and was rewarded by a punch in the mouth by a bigger, more able Sam. Then Sam disappeared, swallowed up by the hunger of the crowd. He was left alone to face their judgment, each frantic push and shove jostling him, sending pain down his leg. Castiel tried to push his way through and was met with equal force. He called out Sam's name, but there was no answer. Sam was lost to him and so was Dean. He rode on the wave of fear and panic until it parted, until a wide openness put him directly in line with a hooded figure—
—and a gun.
The Unredeemed cocked the hammer. Castiel sucked in a startled breath, tilting back on his heels to turn, to get away. He could almost taste the blood in his mouth with only seconds of his life left. Time slowed.
The shot rang out.
Castiel took his last breath—then there was Dean, wrapping him in a hug so tight, so protective that it stole air from his lungs.
"I've got you," Dean whispered into his neck.
His warmth, his embrace, a beautiful moment of peace in the chaos—terminated by a jolt and a strangled gasp. Dean became a lead weight in his arms and Castiel lost the strength in his legs. They fell together, hitting the ground, limbs like that of a rag doll. He knew nothing but dirt and pain. The confusion sent his head swimming and Castiel sat there dazed, staring into the massive sea of humanity and mayhem. Dean was still with him when the confusion began to subside, when he began to realize where he was again.
Castiel blew out a hasty breath and wrapped his arms around him; Dean’s weight against him a familiar security blanket. Castiel nuzzled into his neck, searching for the notes of lavender and whiskey on his skin, the comforting warmth that told him he was safe.
There was only copper.
Dean was cool to the touch.
Castiel nosed his cheek. "Dean?"
No answer.
His heart pounded, his head pulsing with the rush, with the muted sounds of screams. Castiel couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. Vision closing in on him, stomach twisting. He peeled his fingers back—
His hands came back red.
Blood. So much blood.
Reality caught up and slammed into him so hard, he let out a withering gasp. Then he knew—
The bullet had struck Dean.
Castiel sucked in a strangled breath and cried out. He cradled Dean’s face in his trembling hands.
"Dean."
...
"Dean!"
Castiel gripped him tight, holding him to his chest, and screamed for help. Blood oozed around his fingers from the wound, a hole too close to where his heart would be. Dean wasn't moving. His breath didn't puff against his neck. His lips didn't smile. No whisper of his name. Castiel wouldn't grow old with him, take another walk in the Gardens with him. In the mornings, he'd no longer eat runny eggs and burnt bacon.
Life without Dean—more devastating than a bullet to the heart.
Castiel peppered his cheek with kisses as tears slipped down his face. He whispered something in his ear, maybe nothing, and ran his fingers through his hair. Angled his neck so he could see those beautiful green eyes—couldn't because they were closed.
"Dean," he whispered, holding him close. "Come on, wake up."
"Don't you—don't you dare leave me here alone."
"Dean?"
"Dean..."
You said you wouldn't leave me.
... I love you.
Castiel held him in his arms and wouldn't let go. He rocked him gently, pressing their lips together in some futile attempt to breathe life back into him. Even when the Unredeemed stepped closer, gun still raised, he never let go of Dean's embrace. He stared death in the face and prayed it'd come soon. Without Dean, his smiles, lavender bubbles, waking up to him in the morning—life wasn't worth living. He'd given up.
He'd die on a Thursday in Dean's arms.
The hooded figure took another forward step, closing the distance. He was seconds from death when Dean whispered a smile across his skin, the hush of a breath skittering against his neck. Dean mumbled his name and in that moment, Castiel found courage.
The Unredeemed fingered the trigger—and then fell over, gunshot to the head.
Castiel exhaled a hard breath and dropped Dean's silver gun, easing Dean onto the ground with gentle hands. He palmed Dean's face, kissing his lips. When Dean didn't return it, panic shot through him. He lowered his head to Dean's chest, searching for a heartbeat—anything that would tell him Dean was still alive. It was a shallow thump, thump, thump that gave him hope, the sound soft—too soft—but there.
Again, Castiel palmed his face, shaking him a little, whispering his name over and over again. Mumbling sweet nothings until his voice went hoarse, until Sam, lumbering over them, shouted to anyone for help. In the rush of the crowd, as the rain started to fall again, Dean took a ragged breath and his eyes fluttered open. Dean smiled. Touched his face, whispered—
"Must... be Thursday."
—then let go.
:::
Castiel stood in front of the motherly willow tree as sunlight and a cool breeze kissed his skin. Each white ribbon was special in its own way, different from the rest. Stark-white and clean, the newer ones came to life with the wind. The ribbons that had lost their color were stained with wisdom and age. Tattered, whole, flawless and scarred—every one of them unique and beautiful.
A single blue ribbon stood out among them.
His wrist was left naked without it, without its frayed edges, its stains—its love. It belonged there, though, tied to a tree that held so many memories for so many people. Here, in the sunlight, Anna would twirl, smile and laugh. Never be hungry or cold.
She would be happy.
In time, he would slowly learn to forgive himself—
“I picked these for you.”
—and would start cherishing every new beginning.
Castiel looked down. There, surrounded by daisies, sat Charlie with a handful of flowers. She smiled brightly in her pink princess dress, ruffles and tulle spread around her like a fluffy, whimsical cloud. The same princess dress he had tailored specifically for her, the same dress she hadn’t taken off in days. Among the colorful sequins and fabric, a completed daisy flower crown, draped over her lap. Another one in her red hair. Yet another, waiting to be finished, in her hands. Dorothy, her bear, stood silent guard in the shade.
He smiled at her and eased himself down to the grass. No aches or pains because his leg was quickly on the mend, healing like it should have months ago. He took the flowers from her and began weaving like he had with Anna so many years ago, fingers nimble and precise. Beside him, Charlie grinned and continued her third. They sat there quietly.
“Always remember and honor those that were kind to you,” Castiel said suddenly. “Especially those you love.”
Charlie stopped her work and looked up at him. Considering, always watchful with her intelligent eyes. After she’d sat there for a long time, she nodded and stood up, pulling the ribbons from her hair—purple and pink. She tied them to a wrap-around white ribbon and whispered, “For mommy and daddy.”
They shared a smile and Charlie plopped down beside him, taking up her uncompleted flower crown. “What about Dean?” she asked, nonchalant. He looked at her quizzically. She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “Do you love him?”
Castiel stared at her. Before he could say—
“Because I think you should,” she announced. “He’s funny… and tells good stories—oh! And he makes me pancakes!”
As if on cue, Sam grunted from the direction of the glade followed by Dean’s laugh—happy, alive. The sound was Castiel's everything.
“You still suck at this, Sammy!” Dean said, thrusting his sword-stick low for Sam's knees. Sam dodged and wildly batted with his own, hitting Dean in the shoulder—the wounded shoulder. Dean hissed and Sam fumbled over his apologies, almost letting out a chuckle at his brother’s expense.
“No cheating, Sam!” Charlie giggled out.
Sam flashed her a grin.
“Bastard,” Dean said, recovering from the cheap shot. “Let’s go again.”
“Aren’t you tired, man?”
Sam hunched over, hands to knees, taking in deep breaths.
“You gettin’ old?”
“No,” Sam growled out. “But you should be in bed.”
“Fuck, no. I’ve been in bed for days. Time to get out. Enjoy the fresh air. Kick my little brother's ass in Knights and Thieves,” Dean said, settling into a defensive stance. “Come on.”
“Nah, I’m tired,” Sam said. He threw the stick down and raised his hands. Surrender. “Go on without me.”
As Sam settled into the bench, Dean’s shoulders slumped. He mumbled something. Sam stuck out his tongue. With laden steps, almost… pouting, Dean headed their way and plopped down beside them in the shade. Charlie was on him in a second, leaping up from the grass and into his arms. He caught her and hugged her, and she settled in his lap with a grin. “Look what I made you!”
Daisies weaved into a crown.
“Oh, joy,” Dean muttered. Castiel chuckled quietly.
She held it up and put it on his head, clapping her hands happily. “You look pretty.”
“Oh, I do, do I?”
Dean blew a raspberry in her neck. Her giggles filled the air like bubbles, floating away with the wind. “Why don’t you give your other one to Sam? He loves them.”
Without questioning, Charlie grabbed her third flower crown and ran over to Sam. He greeted her Royal Highness with a bow at the waist. Charlie curtsied and then climbed up into his lap, crowning him with flowers. Together, they settled on the bench, noses behind a book.
“Cute kid,” Dean said, looking over at him. Beside him, Castiel nodded, weaving and tying, knotting and twisting. “You okay?”
“I’m good, Dean,” Castiel whispered. “I’m… great, even.”
"Good." Dean smiled and looked out over the glade. “You know, Bobby’s not too thrilled about your boy Alastair. Says he doesn’t wear his new gear with pride. He’s a real stickler for that sort of thing.”
“He’s just not used to his new station," Castiel said. "I suppose he’ll grow to like it.”
“Maybe,” Dean mumbled. “Still don't know if we made the right decision. I mean, a Guardian? He doesn't... fit in."
“Because you don't like him, Dean," Castiel said. "He helped save my life. He’s a good man.”
“I'm not convinced,” Dean said. “Now, Benny.. there’s a good man. Gonna take him shooting tomorrow.”
As a result of the chaos, a new friendship had formed between Benny and Dean. Forged because Benny had saved his life from the gallows.
Castiel stopped his weaving when Dean had gone quiet. Something heavy weighed down his face, turning it into a frown. Dean plucked at a piece of grass, taking it apart little by little. “What is it, Dean?”
“I uh—" Dean took a deep breath, avoiding his eyes. "That day… I didn’t leave for the Wilds. But, I fucked up, Cas. I still left you. I should've stayed by your side." Dean clenched his jaw. "I... almost—lost you."
"Dean, I'm not going anywhere," Castiel said. "And if you think this is somehow your fault—it isn't. There's nothing you could've done. The odds were against us." Castiel took a breath. "My execution... it was a trap."
Dean shrugged a little. Castiel flinched, angling himself back to study Dean's face as it rolled through various shades of emotion—all of them trapped and strangled beneath his stoic mask of strength and Dean.
“You knew," Castiel said breathlessly. "You came anyway.”
“Wasn’t any doubt.”
“You could’ve died, Dean—“
“Would’ve been worth it,” Dean said quickly. “I’m here, Cas. Just like you. You risked your life for me that day—outnumbered, outmatched. I did the same for you. Like I said, not gonna leave you. You’re stuck with me.”
He couldn’t respond, not before—
“I’m going to stay—for you and Sammy. No more Wilds. No more chasing Dad. I don’t want to miss any more of our Thursdays,” Dean said, tossing a tiny shred of grass.
Castiel simply sat there, watching him, taking in everything Dean. Finally, Dean met his eyes, studied him too, struggling between a smile and a tentative frown. Dean opted for grabbing the flower crown and putting it on Castiel's head. Grinning as if he had pulled the greatest trick in history. They sat in the shade under the willow tree, each with flower crowns on their heads, staring at each other. Studying every line, every smile. They said nothing, didn't have to. They were happy.
Somewhere, Castiel found courage.
“Dean… I—” His voice broke. “I... love you.”
Dean’s face fell.
Castiel looked away, down at his lap—the grass, the daisies. Anything. He picked a stray leaf from his black-brocade waistcoat, dusting dirt from his white sleeve. When Dean didn't say a word, when the silence had become awkward... “Uh—because… you’re funny. You tell good stories… and because you make Charlie pancakes.”
“She put you up to this?”
“No,” A pause, then, “Maybe.”
“Well, you got better reasons out of the deal.”
Castiel looked at him, bewildered. “Did—did she talk to you?”
“Yeah. She said I should…” Dean cleared his throat, making a hand gesture. “—because you saved me.”
Silence.
“And I do.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. “But that’s the only reason.”
Dean winked. Castiel couldn't help but smile, and it only grew when he looked away—the fool in love, grinning ear-to-ear. They watched Sam and Charlie play with sword-sticks, whooping and hollering, jumping around with flower crowns on their heads.
“Pancakes, huh?”
“Yes, pancakes,” Castiel said. “I suppose she’s not the best judge of good food.”
“Are you saying my cooking sucks?”
Castiel shot him a half-smile.
Dean grabbed him by the blue tie and pulled him in. “No more runny eggs and bacon for you, then,” he mumbled against his lips. They pressed their lips together, soft and gentle, and held hands. Watched Sam and Charlie play until they had all grown tired from the sun, the fresh air, and the flowers.
They still had challenges ahead of them. All of them. The Unredeemed still lurked in the shadows and the threat of civil war loomed. As long as the poor struggled and died of starvation, Castiel wouldn't rest until every one of them had what they needed to live, to thrive.
Dean would still wrestle with the loss of his mother. The memory of his father and the Wilds would still haunt him.
The brother relationship still needed to be fixed.
But they'd make it, together. No matter what. Because they were family. And with them, Castiel was finally home.
He was whole.
Happy.