Entertaining Angels (2/?)
Nov. 25th, 2008 01:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maychorianFandom: Supernatural
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Crackiness, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them—they can’t quite tell.
Word Count: 1610
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Eh, this part might be a little boring. Hope you enjoy anyway. This story has totally dug its sharp little fingers into my soul, and it's not letting go anytime soon.
Part 1
2
Castiel seemed to be having trouble with using his voice, trouble forming thoughts into words. He was also incredibly distractible, gaze constantly flicking away to stare with intense focus at some ordinary object or another. Everything in the world was fascinating to him. As if everything in the world was brand-new.
Perhaps it was because this child was brand-new to the world.
They sat on the couch, Castiel cross-legged, his back against a worn arm, body leaning sideways against the cushions. Dean sat facing him, one leg tucked under the opposite knee so he too could sit sideways. No matter where Castiel’s eyes wandered, his attention constantly returned to Dean, studying his face, watching every tiny movement, listening to every word, and trying to respond with limited success. Sam sat nearby, watching but offering no help.
“Castiel, I need to know what’s going on,” Dean tried again. “Did you fall? Did you tear your grace out?” Damn, that didn’t sound any less weird coming from his mouth than from Anna’s.
Castiel frowned and looked down at himself, touching a hand to his chest. His shoulders moved in a shrug, a gesture he had picked up from Sam almost immediately. Which was just peachy keen, Dean had to say. Now he had two uncommunicative little cusses to deal with.
“Words, buddy. I need you to use words. I know it’s tough, but please try. For me?”
The boy looked back to Dean’s face, squinting as if against some sort of light. He nodded, solemn and slow, and managed to echo one word. “Try.”
“Okay, good. Thanks for trying. Now, can you tell me what happened? What happened to your vessel?”
Again the concentrated frown. The word was slow, broken into two separate syllables. “Vessel?”
“The guy…the holy tax accountant. The person whose body you were wearing. Is this it? Is this him? Something happened to make your vessel into a child?”
Castiel pressed both hands to his chest at this, as if trying to feel inside himself. The frown pulled his face down, made him look far too old for his apparent age. “Human,” he said at last, then smiled brilliantly, pleased with himself for figuring that out.
“Yeah, I got that.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face and tried not to sigh in frustration. The kid was trying, he was trying really hard, but none of this was making sense. “You’re definitely feeling more emotions than the average angel, and your usual transportation mojo seems to be missing. We’re just trying to figure out how this happened.”
Sam leaned forward, sitting in the wooden chair he had dragged over from the table. “Castiel, if you fell, you could be in danger. We don’t really know how this works. We want to help you.”
Castiel turned his head, still letting it lean against the back of the couch, and smiled at him. “Sam,” he said, the same way he had before, gentle and relieved and thankful.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Sam rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle wearily. While Dean was beginning his initial attempts at conversation with their strange visitor, Sam had taken the time to shower and dress, so at least outwardly he appeared marginally more able to deal with this bizarre situation than Dean, who was still wearing his sleep boxers and baggy shirt. It was probably an illusion, though.
None of them was remotely prepared for this.
“Do you remember anything?” Dean asked. “Anything from before this happened, from before you were in…this body?”
Castiel looked down at his lap, staring at the fabric over his thighs, rubbing a finger wonderingly over it. Distracted again.
Dean sighed. “Cas. Try to stick with me, here. What do you remember?”
The boy flinched at the irritation in his voice and looked back to Dean’s face, instantly contrite. “Remember…you. Dean. Sam.” His fingers fluttered at his throat, the soft spot under his chin. Dean swallowed, stomach churning, remembering evil fingers that had pressed there, choking, hurting. “Remember you…” He faltered, unable to find the word, and looked at Dean imploringly. “Rescue. You. Rescue.”
The child was trembling now, folding himself into a little ball in the corner of the couch, eyes wide with the memory. Dean’s hands moved forward of their own volition, cupping the small shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles in the hollows between arms and chest. “Sorry, kiddo. Sorry. It’s okay. Yeah. Rescue. That was me. That’s why you came here, came to me?”
Castiel blinked and nodded, chin jerking slightly with his trembling. The words were whispered, barely audible. “You. Safe.”
“Yeah. Safe with me.” Dean sighed and looked to Sam, silently pleading for his brother to take over. God, an angel child had come to him for protection. It was just a tiny bit too much.
Sam opened his mouth, then shook his head, eyes wide, and leaned back in his chair. Too much for all of them.
A low grumble interrupted his shell-shocked musings, and Dean looked back to the little boy. “Dude, was that your tummy? I think that was your tummy.”
Castiel’s knees came down a little bit from his chest so he could fold both hands against his stomach, eyes wide, wide and blue. The trembling was fading as he concentrated on this new sensation. He looked back to Dean and nodded faintly.
“Man, that sounded like a bear.” Dean grinned, still holding the kid’s shoulders. “Did you know that your stomach could sound like a bear? That’s pretty awesome, huh?”
Castiel looked down at his hands, pressed against his belly, knees coming down a little more. “Awesome,” he echoed. Then he looked up, face twisted in what might very well be his first grimace. “Hungry.”
“Yeah, I bet. Guess we’d better feed that bear.” The trembling was gone now. Dean carefully released his shoulders and sat back. “Sam? Do we have any food for a bear?”
Sam was looking at Castiel with the scary-sharp focus he usually reserved for a particularly puzzling piece of research. “How long have you been in this body? Did you eat at all in that time?”
The boy squinted at him. “Long?”
“It’s been three days since we last saw you and Uriel.” Sam held up three fingers. “That long?”
Castiel shook his head, still unable to grasp the concept. “Just…woke.”
“Okay. Was it light or dark when you woke up for the first time like this?”
“Light.” He blinked, finally getting it. “Light, dark, light, dark. Here. You. Dean and Sam.”
It was the most words he had strung together yet. Dean found himself feeling strangely proud of the accomplishment.
Sam nodded. “Okay. Two days. Did you eat anything, or were you just walking?”
Castiel touched one hand to his bandaged foot, eyes far away. “Walking. Walked far.”
Dean bit his lip, suddenly seeing the way the little boy lay against the couch cushions, weary and limp, the circles under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. Shit. Two days. He hoped the kid had at least managed to drink some water—dehydration was nothing to mess around with. Maybe the trouble he was having with talking wasn’t only caused by the whole new-to-having-a-child’s-mouth-and-throat thing.
He looked to Sam, instinctively trusting his brother to know how to fix this. “Dude, we gotta feed him. Are there any M&Ms left in the car?”
Sam shook his head, spreading his hands. “Dean, we can’t just give him junk food.”
Dean frowned at him. “If this is going to turn into one of your health lectures, Mr. Jolly Green Giant…”
“No, I mean, his body won’t take it. If this really is a brand-new body, which is what it looks like, what with the lack of calluses and scars and everything, he’s going to have to work up to being able to handle all the fat and salt and preservatives that we put in our food. He needs something that’ll be easy to digest, at least for awhile.”
Dean huffed out a breath. “Okay, okay. How do you know this stuff?”
It was meant to be rhetorical, but Sam answered anyway, his face earnest. “This guy I knew at Stanford, Rick Deerford. He’d been in the Peace Corps, some place in West Africa. The village where he lived and worked was isolated, and everything they ate was simple, pretty much straight from the field and into the pot. He said coming back was hell on his body—trying to eat a burger and fries made him sick for days. You gotta accustom yourself to all the crap Americans put in food.”
“All right. I get it.” Dean glanced back to Castiel, who was silent, leaning into the couch and watching them both with that impenetrable blue gaze. “We’ll have to be careful with him.”
“Yeah.” Sam looked at the little boy for a long moment, just taking him in, then came to a decision and stood up, heading to the coat stand for his jacket. “I’ll go shopping. You should maybe get him to drink something, to start with. There’s OJ in the mini-fridge.”
“Okay.”
Dean watched him go, then looked back to Castiel, unaccountably nervous about being left alone with this little boy, so familiar and so strange, suddenly his charge to protect. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me. How’s that sound?”
Castiel blinked, calm and quiet, then smiled and reached a hand toward him, offering or asking, Dean wasn’t sure which. He caught his breath and extended a hand in return, watching breathlessly as the child twined his small, soft fingers through his, and held on tight. “Good,” the boy said. “Good.”
Part 3
Title: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Crackiness, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam’s motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he’s there to help them—they can’t quite tell.
Word Count: 1610
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Eh, this part might be a little boring. Hope you enjoy anyway. This story has totally dug its sharp little fingers into my soul, and it's not letting go anytime soon.
Part 1
2
Castiel seemed to be having trouble with using his voice, trouble forming thoughts into words. He was also incredibly distractible, gaze constantly flicking away to stare with intense focus at some ordinary object or another. Everything in the world was fascinating to him. As if everything in the world was brand-new.
Perhaps it was because this child was brand-new to the world.
They sat on the couch, Castiel cross-legged, his back against a worn arm, body leaning sideways against the cushions. Dean sat facing him, one leg tucked under the opposite knee so he too could sit sideways. No matter where Castiel’s eyes wandered, his attention constantly returned to Dean, studying his face, watching every tiny movement, listening to every word, and trying to respond with limited success. Sam sat nearby, watching but offering no help.
“Castiel, I need to know what’s going on,” Dean tried again. “Did you fall? Did you tear your grace out?” Damn, that didn’t sound any less weird coming from his mouth than from Anna’s.
Castiel frowned and looked down at himself, touching a hand to his chest. His shoulders moved in a shrug, a gesture he had picked up from Sam almost immediately. Which was just peachy keen, Dean had to say. Now he had two uncommunicative little cusses to deal with.
“Words, buddy. I need you to use words. I know it’s tough, but please try. For me?”
The boy looked back to Dean’s face, squinting as if against some sort of light. He nodded, solemn and slow, and managed to echo one word. “Try.”
“Okay, good. Thanks for trying. Now, can you tell me what happened? What happened to your vessel?”
Again the concentrated frown. The word was slow, broken into two separate syllables. “Vessel?”
“The guy…the holy tax accountant. The person whose body you were wearing. Is this it? Is this him? Something happened to make your vessel into a child?”
Castiel pressed both hands to his chest at this, as if trying to feel inside himself. The frown pulled his face down, made him look far too old for his apparent age. “Human,” he said at last, then smiled brilliantly, pleased with himself for figuring that out.
“Yeah, I got that.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face and tried not to sigh in frustration. The kid was trying, he was trying really hard, but none of this was making sense. “You’re definitely feeling more emotions than the average angel, and your usual transportation mojo seems to be missing. We’re just trying to figure out how this happened.”
Sam leaned forward, sitting in the wooden chair he had dragged over from the table. “Castiel, if you fell, you could be in danger. We don’t really know how this works. We want to help you.”
Castiel turned his head, still letting it lean against the back of the couch, and smiled at him. “Sam,” he said, the same way he had before, gentle and relieved and thankful.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Sam rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle wearily. While Dean was beginning his initial attempts at conversation with their strange visitor, Sam had taken the time to shower and dress, so at least outwardly he appeared marginally more able to deal with this bizarre situation than Dean, who was still wearing his sleep boxers and baggy shirt. It was probably an illusion, though.
None of them was remotely prepared for this.
“Do you remember anything?” Dean asked. “Anything from before this happened, from before you were in…this body?”
Castiel looked down at his lap, staring at the fabric over his thighs, rubbing a finger wonderingly over it. Distracted again.
Dean sighed. “Cas. Try to stick with me, here. What do you remember?”
The boy flinched at the irritation in his voice and looked back to Dean’s face, instantly contrite. “Remember…you. Dean. Sam.” His fingers fluttered at his throat, the soft spot under his chin. Dean swallowed, stomach churning, remembering evil fingers that had pressed there, choking, hurting. “Remember you…” He faltered, unable to find the word, and looked at Dean imploringly. “Rescue. You. Rescue.”
The child was trembling now, folding himself into a little ball in the corner of the couch, eyes wide with the memory. Dean’s hands moved forward of their own volition, cupping the small shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles in the hollows between arms and chest. “Sorry, kiddo. Sorry. It’s okay. Yeah. Rescue. That was me. That’s why you came here, came to me?”
Castiel blinked and nodded, chin jerking slightly with his trembling. The words were whispered, barely audible. “You. Safe.”
“Yeah. Safe with me.” Dean sighed and looked to Sam, silently pleading for his brother to take over. God, an angel child had come to him for protection. It was just a tiny bit too much.
Sam opened his mouth, then shook his head, eyes wide, and leaned back in his chair. Too much for all of them.
A low grumble interrupted his shell-shocked musings, and Dean looked back to the little boy. “Dude, was that your tummy? I think that was your tummy.”
Castiel’s knees came down a little bit from his chest so he could fold both hands against his stomach, eyes wide, wide and blue. The trembling was fading as he concentrated on this new sensation. He looked back to Dean and nodded faintly.
“Man, that sounded like a bear.” Dean grinned, still holding the kid’s shoulders. “Did you know that your stomach could sound like a bear? That’s pretty awesome, huh?”
Castiel looked down at his hands, pressed against his belly, knees coming down a little more. “Awesome,” he echoed. Then he looked up, face twisted in what might very well be his first grimace. “Hungry.”
“Yeah, I bet. Guess we’d better feed that bear.” The trembling was gone now. Dean carefully released his shoulders and sat back. “Sam? Do we have any food for a bear?”
Sam was looking at Castiel with the scary-sharp focus he usually reserved for a particularly puzzling piece of research. “How long have you been in this body? Did you eat at all in that time?”
The boy squinted at him. “Long?”
“It’s been three days since we last saw you and Uriel.” Sam held up three fingers. “That long?”
Castiel shook his head, still unable to grasp the concept. “Just…woke.”
“Okay. Was it light or dark when you woke up for the first time like this?”
“Light.” He blinked, finally getting it. “Light, dark, light, dark. Here. You. Dean and Sam.”
It was the most words he had strung together yet. Dean found himself feeling strangely proud of the accomplishment.
Sam nodded. “Okay. Two days. Did you eat anything, or were you just walking?”
Castiel touched one hand to his bandaged foot, eyes far away. “Walking. Walked far.”
Dean bit his lip, suddenly seeing the way the little boy lay against the couch cushions, weary and limp, the circles under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. Shit. Two days. He hoped the kid had at least managed to drink some water—dehydration was nothing to mess around with. Maybe the trouble he was having with talking wasn’t only caused by the whole new-to-having-a-child’s-mouth-and-throat thing.
He looked to Sam, instinctively trusting his brother to know how to fix this. “Dude, we gotta feed him. Are there any M&Ms left in the car?”
Sam shook his head, spreading his hands. “Dean, we can’t just give him junk food.”
Dean frowned at him. “If this is going to turn into one of your health lectures, Mr. Jolly Green Giant…”
“No, I mean, his body won’t take it. If this really is a brand-new body, which is what it looks like, what with the lack of calluses and scars and everything, he’s going to have to work up to being able to handle all the fat and salt and preservatives that we put in our food. He needs something that’ll be easy to digest, at least for awhile.”
Dean huffed out a breath. “Okay, okay. How do you know this stuff?”
It was meant to be rhetorical, but Sam answered anyway, his face earnest. “This guy I knew at Stanford, Rick Deerford. He’d been in the Peace Corps, some place in West Africa. The village where he lived and worked was isolated, and everything they ate was simple, pretty much straight from the field and into the pot. He said coming back was hell on his body—trying to eat a burger and fries made him sick for days. You gotta accustom yourself to all the crap Americans put in food.”
“All right. I get it.” Dean glanced back to Castiel, who was silent, leaning into the couch and watching them both with that impenetrable blue gaze. “We’ll have to be careful with him.”
“Yeah.” Sam looked at the little boy for a long moment, just taking him in, then came to a decision and stood up, heading to the coat stand for his jacket. “I’ll go shopping. You should maybe get him to drink something, to start with. There’s OJ in the mini-fridge.”
“Okay.”
Dean watched him go, then looked back to Castiel, unaccountably nervous about being left alone with this little boy, so familiar and so strange, suddenly his charge to protect. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me. How’s that sound?”
Castiel blinked, calm and quiet, then smiled and reached a hand toward him, offering or asking, Dean wasn’t sure which. He caught his breath and extended a hand in return, watching breathlessly as the child twined his small, soft fingers through his, and held on tight. “Good,” the boy said. “Good.”
Part 3
