Part 4: The Individual Language of God

[ratherastory]

Master Post

Part 3: Pontiac

Part 4: The Individual Language of God

There is something satisfying in the preparation of food, Castiel decides, even after spending an entire afternoon on his feet, preparing vats of a kind of stew that is very long on tired-looking vegetables and rather short on anything that looks like meat, but with enough spices and potatoes he's able to make it more than palatable by the time he's done. Castiel was built to serve, indeed as all the angels were, and working in the spacious-if-makeshift kitchen feels surprisingly like coming home. The room itself is bright and feels warm, and he finds a peaceful rhythm peeling potatoes and dropping them into the large stainless steel pots of simmering liquid. It smells heavenly.

Initially he was met with distrust from the people at the centre, especially Murray, the man to whom he gave his promise that he would come help, but once he's proven himself willing their attitudes thaw somewhat. His explanation that Dean was ill seems to weigh in in his favour, and Dean quickly becomes a favourite with the women, which doesn't surprise Castiel in the slightest. He leaves Dean to their tender mercies, perched on a chair with the stuffed rabbit in his lap ―he refuses to be parted from it anymore― and submitting to being petted and fussed over with much better grace than the day before, to Castiel's annoyance. It figures that Dean would be on his best behaviour around women, he reflects, rolling his eyes.

“So, Cas, where you from?” Murray asks, wiping his eyes. He's been chopping onions for the past twenty minutes, and tears have been pouring steadily into his beard and sideburns the entire time.

“We were in Detroit, before,” Castiel says, choosing his words carefully. “We travelled from there. I had ―family― here in Pontiac. We've been staying at their old house. I think they wouldn't have minded. They were... earnest. Genuine in their faith. They were the kind to offer hospitality when it was needed.”

“They're not there now?”

He shakes his head. “I, uh... found their names on the wall yesterday.”

“Damn. I'm sorry for your loss.”

Castiel bites his lip, manages a nod. He can't tell this stranger just how badly he's failed at all his missions. He goes back to peeling the potatoes, focussing on the task as a way of banishing the newest dark thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him. Every time he thinks he is finally beginning to grasp how to handle all these human emotions, another one comes up out of nowhere to blindside him. Emotions don't follow a logical pattern, the bad coexist easily with the good, and the whole process is exhausting.

“You going to be staying around here, then? Seeing as how this makes you practically one of us.”

“I'm afraid not. I am taking Dean to Idaho. There is someone there we are supposed to meet.”

“Oh yeah?” Murray is curious, understandably so, and Castiel feels silly for being suspicious of a man who has done nothing but exchange cough syrup for a day's worth of help preparing food. It must come from nearly two years of spending all his time with the Winchesters, he thinks.

“I don't know if you've heard of him. His name is Nicholas, but I wasn't given a last name. I was told he might have some answers for me.”

“Answers?”

He grimaces, rubs the back of his neck. “It's a little hard to explain.”

“Try me. You never know, maybe I can help. Ugh, damn onions. Make me tear up like a little girl,” Murray drags a sleeve over his eyes, then looks curiously over his shoulder at Castiel.

“I... the best way to put it, I suppose, is that I'm missing some time. I'm hoping he can help me fill in the blanks of what happened.”

“How much time?”

“Six months. Give or take.”

Murray's expression suddenly becomes guarded. “I see. What about the boy, there?”

“What about him?”

“He missing time too?”

“I wouldn't know.” Castiel bristles at the man's tone. “He hasn't spoken since I found him.”

“Tough break.”

He's not sure what to make of Murray's comment, falls silent rather than give away any more than he already has. Perhaps a healthy level of paranoia is necessary in order to stay safe, he thinks belatedly. Dean would certainly not approve of his speaking to complete strangers about their situation, if he were at all in a position to approve of anything right now. Castiel glances over at him, perched on the wooden kitchen chair on which he's been sitting for the duration. Someone has provided him with a battered picture book which tells the story of what looks like a little girl with an enormous red dog for a pet, and he's bent over it, pointing out the pictures to the stuffed rabbit under his arm. His face is pinched in concentration, and Castiel feels the corners of his mouth twitch into an involuntary smile at the sight.

“He's cute as a button, I'll give you that,” Murray comments, startling him out of his reverie. “How about you give me a hand with these stew pots? Then we can do some asking around, see if anyone's heard of this Nicholas guy you want to find.”

Castiel nods, and picks up one of the pots. He has no intention of taking Murray up on his offer, but he sees no sense in antagonizing him. For now, there is food and human company, and that will suffice.

*~*

Castiel decides that they ought to spend just a bit longer in Jimmy's old house. Dean is better but still shaky from his bout of croup, if that's what it was, and the house is in good enough working order that it provides a haven for them both. In exchange for a few more days' worth of cooking and helping around the community centre he procures better food for himself and Dean: some bread, a handful of eggs, and several more cans of food for the road. Castiel is nobody's fool, and he knows he's only lingering here because of the house's ties to Jimmy. When he was an angel, material things like these held little importance for him, or so it seemed, but now that he's tied to the earth, he's beginning to understand how even small belongings stir echoes in the soul, under the right circumstances. Perhaps 'soul' is the wrong word ―he's not sure that he has a soul, not even now that he's human― but he can't think of a better one.

He spends a great deal of time outside in the garden with Dean. The fresh air is as good if not better to treat croup than the steamy air of the bathroom, and Dean is happy to be able to run to his heart's content in Jimmy's overgrown garden, kicking Claire's old soccer ball around and dragging that same stuffed rabbit everywhere. Castiel has already understood that the rabbit now belongs wholeheartedly to Dean, and he thinks that Claire would have wanted someone to love her bunny after she was gone. He joins Dean in an impromptu game of soccer, or something that at least passes for soccer, kicking the ball back and forth, and testing the injury to his leg, which is healing faster than he anticipated.

Castiel makes pancakes for Dean one morning from a box he finds in the pantry, using one of the eggs he acquired through barter, and is rewarded with a grin and an attempt to feed the stuffed rabbit a piece of pancake, smearing butter and sugar on the rabbit's face to match Dean's own. Castiel sits across from him, feet propped up on the rungs of his kitchen stool, and digs a fork into his pancakes. It's not so bad, living like this, he thinks. Perhaps he was mistaken in thinking they should be digging for answers to questions he's not even sure he knows how to pose. Pontiac is familiar, and safe, and if nothing else he owes it to Dean to keep him as safe as possible. Dragging the boy halfway across the country resulted in two close encounters with death and an illness that he’s just starting to shake off. It's irresponsible, he tells himself. Dean is no longer able to take care of himself, and so it falls to Castiel to make sure nothing happens to him.

He spends the morning with his thoughts going in circles. Eventually he distracts himself by watching Dean race around the yard, wrapped up warmly in layers of wool, his cheeks and nose red from the cold. There's no guarantee that the mysterious Nicholas will be of any help, if he's even still in Idaho. For all Castiel knows, he may be dead or have moved on. He might not want to help them, if he's a hunter or a former hunter. Previous experience has taught Castiel that not only are hunters a suspicious, paranoid bunch, but that there was little love lost between them and the Winchesters, for the most part. He might be asking for trouble even just thinking of taking Dean there, into the vipers' den, as it were.

Murray has made it clear that he can stay and help, that they have use for what few skills he has. Even with the tiny amount of cleaning he's done, Jimmy's house is already feeling like it could easily become a home, and if he's honest with himself Castiel will admit to wanting to breathe some life back into the place. It's a small, entirely inadequate way of repaying Jimmy, Claire and Amelia for getting caught in the crossfire of the war between Heaven and Hell, but at least it's something. Dean has never had a home outside cheap motel rooms and the back seat of his beloved Impala ―and God only knows where that car is now, if it even still exists at all and wasn't destroyed during the Visitation― and Castiel wants nothing more than to be able to give him what he never had. Perhaps, he tells himself, that's why Dean was returned to him as a child instead of an adult, so that he might have a chance at the life he never had before.

He's almost decided by the time he gives Dean his bath and puts him to bed that night. Put aside the wild goose chase, and make the best of what he's been given. He sees no reason to change his mind.

*~*

The demons attack in the small hours of the morning. Castiel knows supernatural creatures are still about, still a very present threat, and yet somehow it never crossed his mind that they might come here. It's stupid, he'll tell himself later: after all, it wouldn't be the first time that demons violated the sanctity of the Novaks' hearth.

Castiel awakens to the splintering sound of the front door coming off its hinges. He almost falls off the bed in his hurry to get to the stairs, turns around to see Dean standing behind him, eyes wide and frightened, his face pale and pinched.

“Stay here. Hide under the bed. Don't come out until I tell you it's safe, you hear me?”

He doesn't stop to see whether Dean has heeded his instructions. The shotgun is downstairs, and loaded with conventional rounds, in any case. If he's lucky, he tells himself, these will be simple looters, and nothing more, but something tells him that he's not going to be that lucky. He doesn't even have time to locate the intruders before he feels his feet leave the floor, feels himself sailing through the air to collide heavily with the far wall in the living room. One of the family portraits on the walls comes loose, crashes to the floor in a jingle of breaking glass. He picks himself up gingerly from the floor, brushing shards of glass from his pants, and finds himself face to face with two demons, possessing a man and a woman. He doesn't recognize the woman, but somehow he finds he's not surprised to see Murray standing in his living room, his overalls and flannel shirt still stained with the pasta sauce from earlier that day, eyes inky black.

“Where is Dean Winchester?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Castiel rejoins evenly, his tone belying the painful, uneven racing of his heart.

He scans the room for something, anything he might use against these creatures. Not altogether surprisingly, there's nothing. He knows there's salt in the kitchen, and he can probably make holy water if he's given enough time, but he never planned for this contingency, and he's cursing the day he let himself become complacent. A casual sweep of Murray's hand sends him across the room again, and he lands heavily, knocking over a footed lamp.

“Don't lie to me. I know what you are,” Murray sneers. He steps over the debris, and delivers a vicious kick to Castiel's ribs. “You're nothing, now, Castiel. All the power in the universe, and now you're nothing but a human worm, crawling in the dirt like the rest of them. Give us Michael's vessel, and I promise your death will be quick.”

Castiel sucks in a pained breath, rolls away from his attackers and regains his feet, throws himself bodily past the female demon and into the kitchen, where he left the shotgun by the door. It won't stop them, but it might slow them down enough to buy him some time. He's bleeding from a half-dozen nicks and cuts on his hands and feet, slip-slides in his own blood on the tile, nearly overbalances as he grabs hold of the shotgun and racks it, brings it to bear even as he's still falling, and empties it repeatedly into the face of the female demon. There's no time to feel bad about destroying the human host. Bullets won't kill a demon, but it's hard to argue with buckshot at point-blank range, and the woman's face comes apart in a spray of blood and splintered bone. The demon collapses to the floor, limbs spasming, blood pooling beneath the body. Smoke billows from the corpse, pouring from the now-protruding trachea as the demon abandons ship. Castiel's feeling of triumph is short-lived, though, when he hears a shout from Murray.

“Gotcha, you little bastard!”

He looks up, sees Dean standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes opened so wide they look as though they're swallowing his face. Castiel feels his heart lurch to a stop in his chest. “No!”

Murray lunges, snatches the child up in his arms, effectively blocking any shot Castiel might have with the shotgun, even if he had any ammunition left in it. The demon lets out a delighted laugh.

“Little fucker. There's a lot of people who're gonna thank me when I wring your neck!”

Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean's pale face, expression determined. A plastic cup from the bathroom clatters to the floor, and the next thing he knows the demon is howling and clawing at its face, skin steaming and smoking. It drops Dean, staggers backward, and Castiel doesn't hesitate, jumps forward and knocks it backward, kneeling on its chest as it shrieks, and begins to recite.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...”

The demon writhes beneath him, struggling, and for a moment Castiel fears it will throw him aside, until Dean scrambles back to him, clutching a box of salt in both hands and upends it over the demon's face. Castiel takes a breath, keeps going, shoving aside the terror that keeps threatening to overpower him.

“Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos!”

With a last shriek, the demon erupts from Murray's mouth in a cloud of oily smoke, and Castiel collapses back onto the floor, panting and shaking. For a moment everything is terribly still. He looks over at Dean, who has retreated to sit with his back to the kitchen cabinets, hugging his knees to his chest, then crawls forward on hands and knees through the wreckage to sit beside him.

“Are you all right?”

Dean nods, although he's almost hyperventilating. Castiel snatches him up and presses him tightly against his chest. “God, Dean, I thought he was going to kill you! Didn't I tell you to stay upstairs?”

Dean doesn't answer, just trembles against him, and Castiel strokes the back of his head. “Never mind. It's all right. You're safe, that's all that matters. Where on earth did you get holy water?”

He pulls back to look at Dean, and gets only a delighted grin in response.

*~*

They pack their bags in the morning. Castiel dresses Dean in several layers of clothing to keep him warm, and finds a large suitcase with wheels that Jimmy occasionally took on business trips. He packs as many tins of food as he can into the bottom, empties out the pantry of all the non-perishable food he thinks can be easily prepared on the road, as well as all of the salt. He finds several bags of raw salt originally used to de-ice the driveway, and brings that along as well. Nowhere is safe, he sees that now, and there's no choice but to continue. He wonders if this is how Sam felt the night his girlfriend died.

Dean falls asleep in his arms as he walks to the bus station, head resting on his shoulder, the stuffed rabbit wedged between them, his breath misting in the frigid morning air. There's a fresh, crisp scent in the air, which Castiel recognizes as the scent of impending snow.

The whole business is unsettling. As far as Castiel knows, there's no way for a human to make holy water without saying the proper blessing aloud, even if it was relatively easy to find a crucifix or a rosary in Jimmy's house ―the advantages of staying in the home of a devout family. He can't reconcile himself to the fact that Dean not only managed to make holy water, but ventured downstairs on his own to face the demons. Dean's mother died when he was this age, and his father discovered the truth about what was really hiding in the shadowy recesses of life right around the same time, but the idea that there is anything other than a frightened child in Dean's frame is, frankly, unsettling. He’s just so small, so quick to emotion, and Castiel can't think of another word for it.

There are still buses running. They are few and far-between, but there's one heading west that day, and he carefully counts out some of the little remaining cash he has in order to purchase two tickets.

“It's not so much a bus as it is a small shuttle van,” the girl who sells him the tickets confides, “but it seats nearly twenty people and the seats are very comfortable. Are you going far?”

“A fair distance.” He's not telling anyone their exact destination anymore, although he thinks that ship may have sailed anyway when he told Murray not only where they were heading, but also who they were seeking out.

“Right,” the girl snaps her gum, making him wonder just where she got bubble gum when the world has ended. “Well, this one'll get you all the way to Lincoln. If you're lucky, you'll get there before it's dark. Or, well, it's always kind of dark these days, but you'll get there maybe before it's actually officially night time, or whatever.”

The bus ―or shuttle van― is filled to capacity. He keeps Dean on his lap, scans the other passengers, but he can't tell if anyone is a demon. He was so certain of his ability to just be able to sense if something was wrong, because he always was able to tell before, and had been using 'Cristo' simply as a precaution on the road. He was so convinced they were safe that he's allowed himself to become complacent, and Dean nearly paid with his life. He keeps his arms tightly wrapped around the child in his lap, thankful that Dean is asleep and hasn't noticed just how damned terrified he is.

For the first time in his existence, Castiel considers cursing as fluently as he can manage. It seems a better alternative than finding a corner to hide in and cry. He's pretty certain that, were Dean an adult still, he would disapprove of hiding and crying as a course of action. He scrubs at his face with one hand, looks outside at the grey fields going past. When he was an angel, he never understood that humans interpreted the landscape to be moving when the vehicle they were in was, in fact, what was being displaced, but now he thinks he gets the idea. Perhaps it's because he himself is sitting still that creates the illusion.

Dean stirs in his arms, settles again with a quiet sigh, and it does nothing to help ease the desperate jackhammering of Castiel's heart. He hopes that it's not going to last the entire trip to Nebraska, or that it won't somehow result in his heart ceasing to function entirely. He should try to get some sleep, he tells himself. It's not like he was able to get any during the night, what with being set upon by demons, and he has a ten-hour bus ride ahead of him which may well last even longer. He leans back in his seat, looks up at the ash-white sky, pressing down on the earth like a blanket, and doesn't sleep at all.

*~*

They run out of money just outside of Mountain Home. Castiel takes a page from Dean's book after that ―the Dean from before, that is― and tries to stay 'under the radar,' as Dean used to put it. The less people notice them, the less likely they are to attract unwanted attention from demons or vampires or any other kind of creature that might wish them harm. They've gone through most of the food he packed, though he thinks he might have enough to last them for another day or two, which normally would be more than enough, except for the fact that they're fifty miles away from their destination with no means of getting there. To make things worse, it's been snowing intermittently for the past two days, turning the world grey and filling the streets with slush. Within minutes, his shoes have filled with half-frozen water and his socks are soaking wet. Sometimes, Castiel wonders if there isn't some sort of giant conspiracy to make him even more miserable than he already is.

Mountain Home isn't exactly the most welcoming place, either. Everywhere they go he and Dean are met with suspicious stares and monosyllabic responses, and no one seems willing to take him up on his offers to work in exchange for either food or a means of transportation the rest of the way to Meridian. Castiel wants to hit something, perhaps scream at the top of his lungs in frustration, but he keeps a tight lid on the impulse ―the last thing Dean needs is for him to lose control.

“Excuse me.”

He whirls, startled, to find a woman standing just behind him. She's older than he is, careworn, her hair bound up in a faded bandana. She has a child with her, a boy, but older than Dean, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, a sullen, closed look on his face, hands shoved deep into his pockets. She smiles at him tentatively.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's just... I heard you were looking for a ride out of town. Is that right?”

He hesitates, then nods. “That's right.”

She motions to his shotgun. “There's a small group of us, heading North. Me and Luke here, and a couple of other guys. I'm June, and over there's Sal and Everett,” she points to two men in flannel shirts, jeans and baseball caps, men he normally wouldn't look twice at. “If you're willing, you could ride with us as far as you need to go. The roads aren't safe, and having someone like you, with a gun, well, it'd be added protection.”

He snorts. “How do you know I'm safe?”

“You've got a kid,” she points out. “You wouldn't do anything to put him at risk. I should know, I'm a mother.”

“I haven't got anything to give you in return.”

“That's okay. Parents need to stick together, and you can think of it as providing a service. That shotgun is a better deterrent than even Sal and Everett at their most threatening.”

There's no reason not to agree. The boy Luke is a little surly, but that's hardly a valid reason to refuse transportation and protection. Sal, the more talkative of the two men ―which means he actually says 'Hello' rather than simply grunt as a way of greeting Castiel― helps him load their few belongings into the back of a minivan that seems to be mostly held together by rust. At least there's enough room for all of them to sit. Dean hides behind Castiel's legs the entire time, which Castiel finds amusing, considering that only a few days ago the boy faced down a demon practically on his own. Seeing him act this way around humans seems ludicrous by contrast.

None of their new-found travelling companions seem especially talkative. June makes a few half-hearted attempts at small talk, but soon enough they're riding in silence. Castiel watches the snow whirl by the windows, the visibility reduced to only a few yards ahead where the high-beams are cutting through the drifts, the road lined so thickly with trees that it feels as though they're framed by dark walls. Dean is holding onto his rabbit by its ears, sucking on his knuckle, also staring at the snow, but occasionally he glances back anxiously at the two men at the front of the van. Luke and his mother are in the back seat, and the kid just glares whenever anyone so much as looks at him, and so Castiel doesn't bother trying to engage him in any kind of talk.

He's not sure how long they've been driving, although it's dark enough that he suspects it's been at least three hours, when Sal abruptly pulls the van over to the side of the road and puts it into park, though he lets the engine idle.

“Something wrong?”

Everett grunts something unintelligible and disembarks from the van, followed by Sal, who looks over his shoulder at Castiel. “Thought I saw something. You coming, or what? Bring the shotgun.”

He slides out of his seat, ruffles Dean's hair reassuringly ―though he's anything but reassured― and picks up the shotgun. He's ducking to get out through the van's sliding doors when he feels something hard collide with the side of his head, sending him sprawling to his hands and knees on the wet, freezing road.

*~*

For a few seconds he's too stunned to move, seeing stars. Then a booted foot connects solidly with his stomach, knocking him over. He rolls onto his side, jerks his head away in time to avoid having his skull crushed by Sal's boot, and feels what's presumably the toe of Everett's boot deliver a vicious blow to his kidneys. The shotgun is wrenched from his hands, and he can only raise his arms to protect his head as Sal drives the stock of the weapon at his face, the impact jarring his arms all the way to the shoulders. He cries out as Everett kicks him again, curls in on himself, the slush splashing into his face, filling his mouth. He's blind, his ears ringing, his whole world reduced to the few square inches of road beneath him. He can't move, can't think, fingers digging into the snow-covered gravel, until a voice cuts through the fog.

“Hey, get off me, fucking brat!”

Dean, he thinks desperately, forces himself to his knees to see Everett drawing back with one hand to strike at Dean, who's clinging to his arm for all he's worth, hanging off him with his entire weight. Castiel spots movement out of the corner of his eye, twists around in time to catch Sal's foot with both hands, and wrenches the man's ankle as hard as he can. Sal utters a yell of pain, staggers, and Castiel lunges to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pains in his side, grabs Sal by both shoulders and shoves him as hard as he can right at Everett. Dean lets go of Everett's arm as the two men very nearly collapse against each other.

“Dean, run!” Castiel manages to choke out, stumbling to one knee, coughing painfully.

He doesn't have time to see if Dean heeds his words, just braces himself as Sal and Everett regroup and Sal comes at him again, more warily this time.

“May as well give it up now,” Sal says. “We ain't got a quarrel with you. You play your cards right, we won't need to beat on you no more, and you got a good chance of getting to the next town on foot.”

Castiel coughs again, tastes copper on his tongue. “Or what?”

“Or Everett here will blow your head clean off your shoulders with your own shotgun, and leave your kid out here to freeze to death. He ain't coming with us, no matter what ―we ain't feeding another kid, one's bad enough― so it's up to you.”

Castiel's head is spinning, his mouth filling with blood. He can't let these men take everything they have, but Everett is pointing the shotgun directly at his head, and he can't think, can't make sense of anything. Has no idea how he got here, on his knees in the wet road and the driving snow, bleeding into the grey slush. He shuts his eyes, holds himself very still until he hears the sound of the van doors slamming shut, curls in on himself, one arm wrapped around his ribcage, lungs burning, and coughs so hard that he sees stars spark behind his eyelids.

He feels a slight pressure on his shoulder, draws in a wheezing breath, manages to get the coughing under control. He looks up, eyes streaming, to see Dean standing by his shoulder, still bundled up in the two sweaters and hoodie that Cas insisted he wear under his wind breaker. He's holding his rabbit, which is filthy and soaking wet, and Castiel lets out a choking laugh, rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, smears dirt and slush on his face.

“Well, at least they didn't get your bunny.”

He starts coughing again, clutches harder at his ribs when that sends pain spiking through him. He's pretty sure that he's cracked or broken at least one rib. When he manages to start breathing normally again, he finds himself staring into Dean's anxious eyes. The boy has pulled his hands into his sleeves, and he reaches out to wipe gently at Castiel's face with the fabric in a gesture that's almost tender. Castiel struggles to his feet, doesn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of being waylaid by two humans who've barely mastered speech, rail at the unfairness of failing when they're so damned close to their goal, or simply to let loose with a string of every single profanity he knows.

He settles on doing none of those things, leans on his knees, trying to will away the pain in his chest. His clothing is soaking wet, his pants torn at one knee. Aside from his broken ribs his head is throbbing, and in spite of the dark and the driving snow, he's pretty sure he saw a smear of blood on Dean's sleeve as he withdrew his arm.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, and heaves a sigh of relief when Dean shakes his head. “Small mercies. Okay,” he forces himself to collect his thoughts. “We can't stay here, we'll freeze. Are you wet?” Dean shakes his head again. “Good. Warm enough? Still got your mittens?” Dean nods and waggles a red-mittened hand at him. “Right. Well, as long as I'm the only one wet and freezing, we're ahead of the game.”

He pulls up the collar of his jacket against the wind and snow, shivering a bit. Then he takes Dean by the hand, the wool of Dean's mittens scratching at his palm, and sets out into the driving snow.

*~*

The only good thing about walking along a highway in the dark, with wet snow soaking one's clothing and slush leaking into one's shoes, is that there is no question of where the highway leads. They set out on I84, and unless the laws of space and time have changed considerably since the last time he was one earth ―and six months is the blink of an eye as far as the universe is concerned― then eventually he knows they'll get to their destination.

It's slow going. His chest feels as though it's on fire, his legs straining from the effort of keeping him going. He keeps one arm wrapped tightly around his midsection, the other hand holding Dean's. Ordinarily he'd just carry the boy, but he can barely hold himself upright, let alone pull Dean into his arms. For a few hours they manage well enough, but after a while he can feel Dean begin to flag, pulling on his hand even though he's striving very hard to keep up even with Castiel's snail-like pace. He stops, lets Dean catch up, and even in the darkness he can see the boy's teeth chattering, lips blue.

“I know you're tired, but we have to keep going,” he says. “We're both tired and cold and wet, and it's too dangerous to stop. I can't carry you, not right now.”

Dean just looks up at him, blinking as snow falls in his eyes. He doesn't nod or give any sign of acquiescence, but it's clear that he understands what Castiel is saying. Castiel shucks his jacket, wincing as the movement jolts his ribs, and drapes it over Dean's shoulders, zipping it up to his chin. It's far too big, comes down past Dean's knees, and he doesn't even bother trying to fit Dean's arms into the sleeves, but at least it'll be warm. He steps behind Dean, unwilling to let him fall behind again.

“As soon as we find shelter, we'll stop and rest. I promise.”

He ushers Dean before him, feels water dripping from his hair down his neck in freezing rivulets, and wishes that shivering didn't hurt so much. He's never felt the cold this badly. As long as he's been human he's always had at least a vehicle in which to take shelter, never been exposed to the elements for prolonged periods of time. Dean is shivering too, though less now that he's wearing Castiel's jacket.

“Can't even keep him warm,” Castiel mutters, no longer even sure to whom he's speaking. “How many more ways can I fail at this?”

They pass a sign for Meridian, and although the mileage has been mostly obscured by the snow, he finds it heartening. If there's a sign at all, it means they can't be too far. A few minutes later Dean stops so abruptly Castiel almost trips over him, and points to the side of the road, past the tree line. It takes a moment, but after squinting into the darkness, Castiel catches a glimpse of the outline of what looks like a small mound of some sort. It's almost too much of an effort to change tack and venture off the side of the road, but he manages, stumbling over the uneven ground, and to his surprise he finds a pile of logs, carefully covered by a tarp. He barks a laugh, immediately regrets it when a stabbing pain in his chest almost doubles him over, coughing. He catches himself on the log pile, then goes about untying the tarp with fingers long since numbed by the cold.

“It's not much,” he tells Dean, who's let himself drop to the ground, the tips of the rabbit's ears sticking out from underneath Castiel's jacket. “But it'll keep us dry. Well, as dry as we're going to get, anyway. Come here.”

He yanks the tarp off the log pile, and sets it wet-side down on the ground, wrapping the ends around them both. “I know you hate camping,” he says softly, remembering something Dean told him a lifetime ago, and to his surprise Dean giggles. “But it's just for now. Just for tonight. Tomorrow we're going to get where we've been heading all this time. I promise.”

He pulls the tarp more tightly over them, Dean nestled close, and is grateful at least that it's waterproof. Dean is shivering, but Castiel can't feel the cold anymore, and he's grateful for that too. He should stay awake, keep watch over Dean, but he's failed at all of the tasks God set out for him from the start, and as he feels himself spiralling into darkness, he tells himself this is just one more failure to add to his ever-growing list.

*~*

For the first time ever, Castiel dreams. He finds himself wandering in circles in a vast expanse of glittering white desert, searching for Dean. Even in his dream he realizes what is happening, and he can almost hear Dean's derisive snort.

Real original, there, Cas. I bet Freud himself wouldn't be able to decipher this one. You're a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a flatbread.

Something's wrong. He can feel it, but can't rouse himself to do anything about him. He thinks there might be a fire ―everything feels too warm, his clothes confining. The flames are crackling, licking the nearby tree trunks, threatening to consume him, and he thrashes weakly, trying to move away from them, with no success. He can hear someone breathing hard nearby, moaning. There's a feather-light touch against his cheek; tiny, cold fingers brushing against stubble. Dean. Castiel struggles to open his eyes, realizes that the moans he's hearing are coming from him. Dean strokes his face, and a moment later something fuzzy and damp is pressed up against his cheek. He forces open his eyes, catches a flash of yellow, and realizes Dean has given him his stuffed rabbit to hold.

“Dean?” he croaks, throat parched.

He's never been this thirsty before. It seems that tonight is going to be the time to experience all the human extremes he's never experienced in the past. Dean's face appears above his, scrunched up with worry, and he places a small hand carefully on Castiel's forehead, as though he's checking for fever. Castiel almost laughs, coughs instead, curling on his side. His chest feels as though he's being stabbed. They should be going, he tells himself. The longer they stay here, the more dangerous it will be for both of them. In his current condition, he'll be even less able to take care of Dean, and the longer they delay, the sicker he's going to become. His eyes drift shut even as he's telling himself to get up, to get them both moving again, and a moment later he's spiralling back into the darkness.

When he comes to the sky is still the same indecipherable shade of white, making it impossible to tell how long he's been delirious. He's still too warm, his head throbbing, but his thoughts are clearer now, and he's able to push himself first to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Dean puts both hands on his elbow and pushes, trying to help, and Castiel has to make an extra effort not to knock him over as well. He manages to keep his feet, leans on his knees, coughing, until he's able to draw in a painful breath.

“Okay,” he wheezes. “We have to go. I'm sorry if I scared you. Are you all right?” he asks belatedly.

Dean just wraps both hands around his wrist, presses his forehead briefly to Castiel's forearm. He shouldn't be reaching to Dean for reassurance, Castiel berates himself, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his wrist. He's only a child, after all, too young and too small for that sort of burden. He briefly considers bringing the tarp along, discards the notion as he realizes he can barely raise his arms. He takes Dean's hand, leads him back to the highway, then crouches down to check that his coat is still properly zipped up, that his hood is still protecting his ears from frostbite, checks that he still has both mittens and that the ends are tucked into his sleeves to keep out the worst of the cold.

“At least it's not snowing anymore.”

The going is even slower than the day before, and after a while Castiel is forced to ignore the almost-blinding pain in his ribs and carry Dean piggy-back style, his elbows hooked behind the boy's knees, small arms wrapped around his neck. The pain almost takes his breath away for a moment, but he rallies, sets up a pace that sends pain jolting through every nerve ending in his body but which he hopes he'll be able to maintain for a while yet. After a while even the pain becomes familiar, like white noise constantly on in the background, and he's able to ignore it, focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other.

The light fades, and Castiel thinks bitterly that they've been walking steadily into the shadows. He trips on something unseen, wrenches his ankle. He falls heavily to his knees, one hand automatically reaching up to prevent Dean from falling. He coughs, can't get up, not even when Dean wriggles and slips off his back. Castiel doesn't have the strength left in his arms to even think of trying to hold him back. He chokes back a sob.

“Father, please... have I come this far only to...” his chest tightens, and his bitter prayer goes unfinished.

Dean tugs first at his sleeve, then more insistently at his collar. Castiel pushes himself up to sit back on his heels, and almost laughs when he sees the town sign, half-obscured by snow. The outlying buildings of Meridian are a few yards away, and he never saw them. He forces himself to his feet, struggles to keep up as Dean trots along the main street, looking back every so often as though to make sure Castiel is following him.

Well, he thinks to himself, at least we made it this far.

*~*

It has started snowing again in the last few minutes, fat wet flakes that cling to Castiel's hair. He keeps walking, tottering on legs that are barely serving to hold him up. His shoulders and back are burning from carrying Dean for most of the day with few rest stops ―he didn't dare stop for long for fear they would never get going again― and each breath feels like a blade piercing right through his lungs. He wants to stop, wants nothing more than to let himself fall right where he is and just go to sleep, but Dean is walking on ahead determinedly, and Castiel can't let him go on alone. Unprotected.

“Dean,” he tries to call out, but it comes out weak, strangled, and so he just pushes himself onward. It's ridiculous that he's being outpaced by a four-year-old child, he thinks, head swimming. He feels drunk, or similar to the one time he got somewhat inebriated. His thoughts are fuzzy, chasing each other around his brain like rats, and it's all he can do simply to follow the boy who's been leading him around for years, who has led him to every single terrible, irrevocable decision he's ever made since he pulled him out of hell. “I regret none of it,” he croaks, but there's no one around to hear him. The streets are deserted, the inhabitants of the town having the good sense to stay out of the snowstorm.

Then Dean disappears.

They've rounded a corner, and the last time he sees Dean they're at the mouth of a dark alleyway. Castiel fancies he sees Dean's face light up, his expression alert, bright and happy, and the next thing he knows, the boy is gone, vanished into the night and the swirling snow.

“Dean!”

He's assaulted by a wave of dizziness. The whole world lurches under his feet, tilts first up then down again, and his knees buckle. He catches himself against the wooden wall of the nearest building with one hand, can't keep his balance. He lets himself slide down against the wall, sinks into the snow that's piling up in drifts there, coughing painfully, pressing his hand to his chest in a futile attempt to quell the cough. Get up, he tells himself, and almost laughs when his body fails to comply with anything his mind has to tell him. He can't breathe, knows he's freezing to death even though he can't feel the cold. He tries to get his legs under him, feels his heels scrape against the ice on the ground, but he's too weak even to push himself so much as an inch off the ground.

He's going to die.

He struggles to get up again. He's going to die and Dean will be alone in the dark and the cold, and he can't let that happen. His head falls back and his eyes close in spite of himself, and he coughs weakly. He doesn't even have the breath left with which to swear, and he feels that this would be an opportune time to do so, if he were able.

“Hey! Hey buddy, you okay?”

He doesn't recognize the voice, but there's no reason why he should, he reminds himself. He knows no one in these parts. In fact, he knows almost no one in the entire world, and now that Dean is lost he's alone, perhaps just as lost, moreso in some ways. More voices join the first, and he feels strong hands pull him up by his armpits. He struggles ineffectually against them.

“No,” he opens his eyes, but the world is a blur. “I have to find Dean. I lost him,” he tells the silhouette holding him up.

“Okay, buddy, don't worry. We'll help you find him,” the first voice promises. It's a male voice, and it sounds kind enough, Castiel decides. “He your friend?”

He can't catch his breath. “He's a boy ―a child. I have to find him. He's all alone.”

The man raises his voice. “You heard him, we got a missing kid around here someplace! Someone go get Nicholas!”

Castiel's eyes snap open. “Nicholas,” he repeats, clutches at the man's arm. “We were coming to see him. You know him?”

“Sure,” the voice is wary now. “What you want with him?”

“A man named Daniel said... I should find him. I was in Detroit,” he says, trying to make sense of it all. He starts coughing again, and the man has to brace himself when Castiel's legs threaten to give way again.

“We'll deal with that later. We gotta get you someplace warm first. You just lean on me, now.”

“Dean...”

“Don't you worry about your boy. We got people here, we'll find him for you. He can't have gone far. How old you say he was?”

The question almost doesn't make sense, because God only knows how old Dean Winchester is, after thirty-one years of life on earth, forty years in hell, and a newfound childhood, but he gives the best answer he has. “Four.”

“Poor kid. Don't worry, we'll find him. Easy does it, now, we're gonna head in here. Watch the step there,” the man keeps going in a soothing prattle, guiding him by the elbow.

There's a rush of warm air against Castiel's face, the smell of a building that's been closed off for too long, of people who haven't washed in a few days, pungent but not unpleasant. When he's able to focus his eyes again he finds himself in a small room filled with comfortable-looking brown furniture. His rescuer pushes him gently into a padded armchair, and he feels a blanket being tucked over him. He hears more voices around him, mingling together into an unintelligible cacophony. Then someone pushes a warm mug into his hands, holds them in place with their own hands, and he's able to pick out a new, female voice among the rest.

“Come on, have a sip. I want you to drink all of that, slowly. You're lucky I had the kettle already on the boil.”

He doesn't feel lucky, but he complies as best he can, and the man who brought him in claps him on the shoulder. “Attaboy. You sit tight, all right? I'm going to fetch Nicholas for you, seeing as how you came all this way just to find him. I think he'll be real curious to meet you.”

*~*

Castiel can't seem to stay awake. He floats, dimly aware of comings and goings of people he doesn't know, of voices he doesn't recognize wafting by him on the air. He cradles the empty mug in his lap, slumped in the armchair, struggles to stay conscious enough to ask for news of Dean, but no one seems able or willing to stop long enough to tell him what's going on. After a while he picks out the voice of his rescuer, speaking to an unknown interlocutor in the doorway.

“We just found him outside, passed out against the side of the bar. He said he was coming to find you, Nick, that some guy named Daniel gave him your name. Said he came from Detroit.”

“Detroit?” the door closes, and he hears a hiss of indrawn breath. “Oh my God.”

It feels as though a bolt of electricity has run through him. He knows the voice, knows it like he knows all the hymns of heaven. Castiel tries to sit further up, breath catching painfully in his lungs, and the mug slips from his fingers, clatters to the floor, though it doesn't break. Heavy footsteps approach him, booted feet tramping confidently across the floor. There's a creak of abused floorboards, and 'Nicholas' crouches next to the armchair.

“Jesus, Cas, is it really you?” Sam breathes.

“Sam,” he feels a grin spread over his face. He has never been this happy to see anyone in his entire existence. “You're alive!”

“Sam?” the question comes from the man who found Castiel and brought him inside.

“Not now, Willie. I promise, I'll explain later,” Sam says, his tone brooking no argument, and the man subsides into expectant silence.

If he hadn't heard Sam's voice first, he thinks he might have had trouble recognizing him. His face is badly scarred on the left side by what looks like it must have been a severe burn, the skin puckered and shiny, his eye covered with a black cloth patch. The burn marks travel down his neck, and Castiel spots a black leather glove on his left hand. The next thing he knows he's being gathered into Sam's strong arms, crushed in a hug that threatens to cut off what little air he has left. Sam is warm and dry, and for the first time since he can remember, Castiel feels safe.

He tries to speak again, starts coughing instead, and immediately Sam presses his right hand to his forehead, the way Castiel remembers him doing for Dean whenever he was ill. If there was ever any doubt that this truly is Sam, there is none now.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?” Sam shakes his head, in the same tone of fond exasperation he used to save for his brother. “Cas... I know how shitty this is going to sound when you're so sick, but... is Dean with you? Do you know what happened to him?”

Castiel swallows thickly. “He's with me,” he manages. “But I lost him.”

“Easy now.” Somehow Sam has managed to procure a glass of water from somewhere, and holds it to Castiel's lips, cradling the back of his head with strong fingers, helping him to drink. “Come on, small sips. What do you mean you lost him?”

He doesn't know how to begin explaining everything that's happened. “The boy who was with me...”

“Yeah, Willie mentioned that. I don't understand. Are you saying that's Dean? The little boy is Dean?”

He nods weakly, and his eyes drift closed for a moment before he forces himself awake again. “I can't explain it. I don't understand either, but it's him.”

“Are you sure? How do you know it's Dean?”

“I just know,” he can feel his voice fading, and Sam coaxes more water into him. “I can see his soul.”

“But I don't understand,” Sam repeats. “How can he be a child? Was it ―I mean, you're human, right? It can't have been God, can it?”

He shakes his head. “I don't know,” it comes out as a moan. “It's why we were coming here... for answers. I was bringing him ―I lost him. We have to find him,” he clutches at Sam's sleeve, trying to rise to his feet, and Sam smooths a hand over his forehead again, apparently pushing aside his questions in the face of more immediate problems.

“Shh. Of course we will. He can't be far, and there's already people out there looking. I'll just get you settled properly, and I'll go too. But you,” he puts his hand on Castiel's chest, effectively preventing him from moving, “need to stay put. We'll get you some dry clothes, some more tea, get you taken care of. I'll find Dean for us, I promise. You just take it easy, okay?” he leans back, and the light catches the terrible scars on his face.

“What happened to you?” Castiel reaches up with one hand, stops just short of touching Sam's face when he flinches almost imperceptibly. Sam shrugs.

“Turns out being the actual Ground Zero of Armageddon is really bad for you. Look, don't worry about that now, okay? There's a cot in the next room. Think you can walk if I help you? We've got a doctor, of sorts. More like a medic. Anyway, I'll get him to take a look at you as soon as possible. We'll get you set up, and I promise I'll keep you in the loop about Dean. Okay, Cas?”

“I want to come with you.”

“Cas,” Sam's tone is gentle. “You can't even stand up. You came all this way for me ―well, for Nicholas, but since we're the same person, it kind of works out. How about you trust me to handle this, okay?”

Castiel slumps in his chair, has to concede that Sam's right. “Okay.”

Sam smiles at him, and even if the left side of his face twists as he does so, it's still the most beautiful thing Castiel has seen in a long time. “Okay. Let's get you up.”

*~*

Castiel manages to make it to the cot mostly unassisted, Sam's arm around his waist, other hand under his elbow. The room it's in is Spartan in its furnishings, a simple pine table, a lamp, and the cot itself, the walls whitewashed. It's easier to breathe when he's upright, and he ends up sitting propped up against the wall while Sam provides him with dry clothes, more tea, and a succinct explanation of what's been going on in the last six months.

“You've seen what the world is like,” he says, helping to strip off Castiel's soaking wet sweater. “I don't know most of what happened, right when everything changed. All I remember is everything burning white-hot, and the next thing I knew I was waking up covered in bandages in a makeshift hospital in Detroit, and the whole world had ended and been reborn like this. Can't say it's much of an improvement.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It's kind of a long story,” Sam unclips Castiel's belt, tugs off his pants, reaches for the set of dry clothes folded neatly on the bed. It seems silly to be concerned with modesty at this point, but Castiel finds himself flushing a bit anyway, doesn't meet Sam's eyes. “It wasn't safe to keep my name, not at first. So I moved around, picked a name I liked from a book, and eventually ended up here. I sort of run the local bar, for whatever that's worth. It's not like there's much alcohol left over that we don't make ourselves, but it's more of a... I guess a point of contact for what few hunters are still out there.”

Castiel nods tiredly, does his best to help so that Sam doesn't have to dress him like a broken marionette. “You've become known for helping people,” he murmurs. “Just like before.”

“It's a nice change from Bringer-of-the-Apocalypse,” Sam agrees wryly. “Anyway, I just make a point of keeping people connected. Making sure information goes where it needs to, offering pointers to people who come by, if they want them. That's pretty much what I've been up to in a nutshell. Well, that and trying to fix the car.”

“Car?”

Sam ducks his head with a grimace. “Uh, I... shit. The Impala was in Detroit, you know? And she kind of got a little banged up when it all went down. She still runs, but her body needs a lot of work, and I'm still new at this, so it's taken me a while, and... Cas?”

Castiel struggles to his feet, has to clutch at Sam to keep from falling over. “The car. Where are you keeping it?”

Sam blinks, obviously confused. “Here. I mean, not exactly here, but there's a storage space next door. I work on it in my spare time, and it just made sense to have it nearby... where are you going?”

It all makes sense. In his mind's eye Castiel can clearly see Dean's delighted expression just before he disappeared, and he knows now where he is. “We have to go there, right now.”

“Okay, Cas, sure,” Sam sounds surprised, but he doesn't argue, just pulls Castiel's arm over his shoulders, wraps an arm around his waist.

He takes Castiel through what feels like a maze of narrow hallways, and pushes open a flimsy wouldn't door, revealing a large storage space beyond. It's freezing in the space, the outer wall partially missing, leaving it all wide-open to the street. Castiel is astonished that he didn't see it before: he must have been standing less than twenty yards away.

The Impala is there, shrouded in shadows, the chrome gleaming dully in the pale glow of the flashlight. He reaches for the light, grateful when Sam lets him have it without argument, and makes his way slowly, painfully to the car. He has to make a hasty grab for its frame once he's there, dizzy and out of breath, but a quick look in the driver's window makes the clenching pain in his chest all but disappear. He smiles, pulls open the door, then reaches down and gently shakes the sleeping bundle by the shoulder.

“Dean, wake up.”

Dean stirs sleepily, the stuffed rabbit held tightly in his arms, then blinks and smiles up at him, wide and trusting. Castiel swallows the sob that wells up from somewhere deep inside him, tugs the boy upright.

“Come on. There's a surprise for you,” he muffles a cough into his sleeve, then points behind him. “Look.”

It's like watching the sun come up over the horizon. Dean rubs his eyes, still groggy from having fallen asleep, and then his whole face lights up in the biggest smile Castiel has ever seen.

“Sammy!”

Instantly he bolts from the car, and hurls himself headlong into his brother's arms. Sam lets out a delighted laugh and hauls him into the air, spinning him around.

“Oh my God, it really is you!”

For a few moments Castiel hears only the disbelieving rumble of his voice, the muted sound of Dean's pure, unabashed joy at being reunited with his Sammy. He sinks down into the driver's seat of the Impala, grinning in spite of the renewed pain in his chest that feels as though it's splitting him in half, tries not to cough and make it worse. The whole world is dropping out from under him, and he's both falling and soaring on wings he thought were lost. He doesn't even realize that he's let his eyes close until he feels Dean's small hand on his knee. Very carefully Dean climbs up onto the seat, halfway in his lap.

“Cas?”

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat. “Yes, Dean?”

“We found him!” Dean is jubilant, his eyes sparkling. “We found Sammy, Cas, just like you said!”

“We did at that,” Castiel says, and in spite of himself his voice breaks. He thinks he might break apart into his smallest atoms, scatter across the universe like a ray of light.

Dean looks at him for a moment, then reaches up and brushes the tears off Castiel's cheek with his thumb. “Don't cry, Cas. It's okay. We found him, right? So now everything's going to be okay.”

Sam leans into the car, easily lifts Dean up onto one hip, then holds out his free hand for Castiel to take.

“Okay, you two. We can finish this later.

“Let's get you home.”

END.