maychorian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maychorian) wrote2008-12-01 02:25 pm
maychorian) wrote2008-12-01 02:25 pm
Entry tags:
Entertaining Angels (7/?)
Fandom: 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: 1721
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Oh lordy, you guys, never google Kentucky when all you need is a stinkin’ town name. I get too wrapped in the details even though real life accuracy really, honestly, and truly means nothing at all.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
7
They bundled Castiel up in clothes that were miles too big for him, a flannel shirt of Dean’s draped around him like a blanket, Sam’s cavernous hoodie over that, socks pulled over his bandaged feet then rolled and held with rubber bands they found in the kitchenette’s junk drawer. (“And this is called a rubber band.” “Rubber…band.” “Later I’ll show you something fun we can do with those. Sam won’t know what hit him.” “Dean, I can hear you chuckling evilly to yourself. Stop it.”)
The motel room was paid through the next day, so the clerk was surprised when Sam went to the office to check out early, but there wasn’t any trouble. Dean sat with Castiel in the car, still pointing at things and saying words. (“This is a gear shift.” “Gear shift.” “This is a tape deck.” “Tape deck.” “This is the only good music in the world.” “Music.”)
Leitchfield, Kentucky was only half an hour away down the state route, but Dean kept getting distracted pointing at things for Castiel to parrot. The boy sat in the backseat with his nose pressed to the window, watching the countryside flow by with wide-eyed fascination, responding absently. After Sam threatened to grab the wheel and take over for the fifth time, Dean settled down a little, though he checked the rearview mirror far more often than was necessary. He just regretted that the scenery was so drab, all grays and browns and beiges, too late for autumn glory and too early for white-draped winter. Castiel didn’t seem to mind, though.
Sam’s first shopping stop (Madame Rubin’s Odds n’ Ends) was only a few minutes from a secondhand clothes shop, so Dean stopped off with Castiel and let Sam take the car with the admonishment that he was not, under any circumstances, to purchase any crystals. Inside, the cashier lady accepted Dean’s half-assed story about his young cousin losing everything in a fire with barely a blink, too busy cooing over “the little darling” holding Dean’s hand with white-knuckled intensity. Castiel smiled back and relaxed slightly, shoulders coming down from around his ears, though his grip around Dean’s fingers did not loosen.
The middle-aged woman blinked dazedly at the boy’s smile, stars in her eyes, but Dean couldn’t blame her. He’d already figured Castiel’s smile for a lady-killer. She was delighted to help them find everything they needed.
“He’s a quiet dear, isn’t he?” she asked at one point, digging in a pile of shoes for something that might fit. “What a little angel!”
Dean gave her a sharp look, glancing up from checking the soles of a little pair of sneakers against Castiel’s feet, the boy sitting on a waist-high counter to make the process easier. “Yeah, quiet.”
“He hasn’t said a single word! Doesn’t he talk? At all?”
He frowned, realizing that yeah, it was pretty weird for a seemingly eight-year-old boy to be so utterly silent. This was not the kind of attention they wanted to draw. “Uh, psychological stuff. Fire. You know. We’re working on it. Saying words, working up to sentences.”
Castiel patted his chest. “Okay, Dean. Good.”
Dean gave him a grin. That was the closest the kid had come yet to piecing together an entire thought all on his own. “You’d better believe we’re good. We’re freaking awesome. Okay, how ‘bout we keep practicing? These are shoes.”
“Shoes.”
It turned out that a secondhand shop was a veritable treasure trove of objects that needed to be named and cataloged. After they had found a few outfits and gotten Castiel looking a little more normal, they wandered around, digging into forgotten corners while they waited for Sam. Dean led the way deep into the dark end of the musty store crowded with racks and bins and articles hanging from overloaded hooks, into the smell of mothballs and seasoned leather, continually picking things up and putting them down seconds later. Cas followed, keeping two fingers hooked through his belt loop as if worried that the man would wander off.
“This is a toaster.”
“Toaster.”
“This is a friggin’ ugly lady’s handbag.”
“Bag.”
“This is a jar of marbles.”
“Marbles.”
“This is…you know what, never mind what that is. Hey, dude! It’s a cowboy hat!”
“Cowboy hat.”
Dean beamed down at his little shadow for that, more proud than he could really articulate. That was the first three-syllable phrase to come out without any apparent effort. He placed the hat (bright red and studded with rhinestones) on the kid’s head, biting his lip to keep from laughing when the brim fell down somewhere around his nose. “Oh, yeah, that’s totally awesome. We’re definitely keeping that one.”
Castiel pushed the brim of the hat up with one finger to reveal his eyes, unconsciously echoing who-knew-how-many old westerns Dean had watched in an endless parade of ratty motel rooms and busted-down tenements. And really, Dean wasn’t one to coo over puppies and babies and rainbows and shit (unlike the cashier lady up front, who was still watching them fondly), but there was absolutely no way he could deny that that little gesture was freaking ridiculously adorable.
God, what was this kid doing to him? He was turning into a huge softy. Sam would laugh and laugh.
Then he noticed that Castiel was shifting from foot to foot, a vague grimace of discomfort shadowing his face under the bright red brim. “Hey, what’s wrong? You bored of this?”
The boy shook his head distractedly, already leaning toward another bin to study the strange and varied articles within. Nah, this kid didn’t get bored, like, ever. His feet were still shifting restlessly, though, new-to-him shoes scuffing against the dirty linoleum.
Oh, crap. No calluses. How long had they been walking around the back end of the store without taking a break?
No sooner had the thought occurred to him than Dean scooped the kid up in his arms. Cas’s legs instinctively rose to straddle his waist, and Dean shifted him into a comfortable hold. “Hey, your feet hurt, don’t they?”
The boy nodded, looking away, too-big hat askew on his head. Dean muttered and plucked it off, tossing it back in the corner. “You gotta tell me this stuff, buddy. Remember what I said about pain? Pain is bad. If you hurt, we need to change something.” He squeezed the kid to him, trying to capture his attention.
Castiel finally looked into his face, little face solemn at the mild scolding. “Feet hurt.”
Dean sighed. “Okay, that’s good. You told me and you even used words. Thanks, Cas. We’ll figure this out, okay? We’re both learning.” He looked back to the front of the shop, where the cashier lady was bent over a magazine. “Dammit, where is Sam? It’s totally true—he does shop like a girl.”
X
Sam stepped out of Madame Rubin’s chased by the heady scent of hemp and incense, clutching his armful of herb packets and other items. Okay, he had bought one crystal, but only because it might be useful for a ritual he’d been studying. Dean couldn’t complain about that one. It was not a girly purchase.
He hurried around the corner toward where he’d parked the Impala, aware that he had been lingering over the shelf of spell books for quite a while longer than they had merited. You never knew when you’d find something useful buried in with the tourist crap, though. Surely finding a whole wardrobe for a kid would take longer than that, right?
Ruby was standing by the car, arms crossed over her chest. Sam started and almost dropped several fragile bundles, then held himself still, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. “Ruby! I’ve been hoping to see you.”
Her face opened in surprise, arms dropping from her defiant pose. “Really? The way you guys took off, I figured you wouldn’t take too kindly to me popping around again.”
“Yeah, well…” Sam fumbled one-handed for the keys and brushed by her to open the trunk. “We kinda need your help.”
When he turned back, Ruby’s eyes were shuttered again, the momentary vulnerability shifted away. “With what?”
He paused, his hand on the trunk lid. “You haven’t…you haven’t heard anything?”
“About what?”
Sam swallowed, holding back the somewhat hysterical laughter burning in his throat. Ruby hadn’t heard anything. Yet another difference between this situation and the last one. What did it mean?
“C’mon, Sam. You’re not making a lot of sense here.”
He stood still, looking at her. He’d been hoping for her help earlier, but that was when he thought that she could tell them something. Him telling her about this, though, was an entirely different matter. It was one thing for him to trust Ruby with his life, even with his brother’s. But the life of this little boy?
That was something else.
Before he could stop her, Ruby circled around to the trunk and started pawing through the packets of herbs, lifting one to sniff it, just touching others. As soon as he realized what she was doing, though, he grabbed her wrist, pushed her away, and shut the trunk with a resounding bang. Ruby stood there, defiant, wide pink lips hard and tight. “You’re trying to put together one of my extra-crunchy hex bags. Why?”
“Just a precaution. You know how we Winchesters are—don’t like anyone on our tails, no matter what color their wings are.”
Her nostrils flared, eyes sparking. “It’s not like a cookie recipe, Sam. You can’t just pour everything into the bowl and expect it to turn out okay. There are procedures to follow, words that have to be said.”
He nodded shortly. “I kinda figured. You want to help me out?”
“Even then, it’s not like this is some magic fix-all. Demons and angels will notice the void, too. Especially when it’s you and Dean falling off the radar screen. Everyone wants to keep their eyes on you two. Everyone.”
Sam hesitated, biting his lip. That actually made a lot of sense. Damn it. “What if I said that it’s not for us?”
“Not for…” She paused, studying him, dark eyes darting quickly back and forth. Her next words came slowly, wondering. “What is this about?”
Sam took a deep breath, and held it, not sure what to say.
Part 8
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: 1721
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It’s a sad, sad world we live in.
Author’s Note: Oh lordy, you guys, never google Kentucky when all you need is a stinkin’ town name. I get too wrapped in the details even though real life accuracy really, honestly, and truly means nothing at all.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
7They bundled Castiel up in clothes that were miles too big for him, a flannel shirt of Dean’s draped around him like a blanket, Sam’s cavernous hoodie over that, socks pulled over his bandaged feet then rolled and held with rubber bands they found in the kitchenette’s junk drawer. (“And this is called a rubber band.” “Rubber…band.” “Later I’ll show you something fun we can do with those. Sam won’t know what hit him.” “Dean, I can hear you chuckling evilly to yourself. Stop it.”)
The motel room was paid through the next day, so the clerk was surprised when Sam went to the office to check out early, but there wasn’t any trouble. Dean sat with Castiel in the car, still pointing at things and saying words. (“This is a gear shift.” “Gear shift.” “This is a tape deck.” “Tape deck.” “This is the only good music in the world.” “Music.”)
Leitchfield, Kentucky was only half an hour away down the state route, but Dean kept getting distracted pointing at things for Castiel to parrot. The boy sat in the backseat with his nose pressed to the window, watching the countryside flow by with wide-eyed fascination, responding absently. After Sam threatened to grab the wheel and take over for the fifth time, Dean settled down a little, though he checked the rearview mirror far more often than was necessary. He just regretted that the scenery was so drab, all grays and browns and beiges, too late for autumn glory and too early for white-draped winter. Castiel didn’t seem to mind, though.
Sam’s first shopping stop (Madame Rubin’s Odds n’ Ends) was only a few minutes from a secondhand clothes shop, so Dean stopped off with Castiel and let Sam take the car with the admonishment that he was not, under any circumstances, to purchase any crystals. Inside, the cashier lady accepted Dean’s half-assed story about his young cousin losing everything in a fire with barely a blink, too busy cooing over “the little darling” holding Dean’s hand with white-knuckled intensity. Castiel smiled back and relaxed slightly, shoulders coming down from around his ears, though his grip around Dean’s fingers did not loosen.
The middle-aged woman blinked dazedly at the boy’s smile, stars in her eyes, but Dean couldn’t blame her. He’d already figured Castiel’s smile for a lady-killer. She was delighted to help them find everything they needed.
“He’s a quiet dear, isn’t he?” she asked at one point, digging in a pile of shoes for something that might fit. “What a little angel!”
Dean gave her a sharp look, glancing up from checking the soles of a little pair of sneakers against Castiel’s feet, the boy sitting on a waist-high counter to make the process easier. “Yeah, quiet.”
“He hasn’t said a single word! Doesn’t he talk? At all?”
He frowned, realizing that yeah, it was pretty weird for a seemingly eight-year-old boy to be so utterly silent. This was not the kind of attention they wanted to draw. “Uh, psychological stuff. Fire. You know. We’re working on it. Saying words, working up to sentences.”
Castiel patted his chest. “Okay, Dean. Good.”
Dean gave him a grin. That was the closest the kid had come yet to piecing together an entire thought all on his own. “You’d better believe we’re good. We’re freaking awesome. Okay, how ‘bout we keep practicing? These are shoes.”
“Shoes.”
It turned out that a secondhand shop was a veritable treasure trove of objects that needed to be named and cataloged. After they had found a few outfits and gotten Castiel looking a little more normal, they wandered around, digging into forgotten corners while they waited for Sam. Dean led the way deep into the dark end of the musty store crowded with racks and bins and articles hanging from overloaded hooks, into the smell of mothballs and seasoned leather, continually picking things up and putting them down seconds later. Cas followed, keeping two fingers hooked through his belt loop as if worried that the man would wander off.
“This is a toaster.”
“Toaster.”
“This is a friggin’ ugly lady’s handbag.”
“Bag.”
“This is a jar of marbles.”
“Marbles.”
“This is…you know what, never mind what that is. Hey, dude! It’s a cowboy hat!”
“Cowboy hat.”
Dean beamed down at his little shadow for that, more proud than he could really articulate. That was the first three-syllable phrase to come out without any apparent effort. He placed the hat (bright red and studded with rhinestones) on the kid’s head, biting his lip to keep from laughing when the brim fell down somewhere around his nose. “Oh, yeah, that’s totally awesome. We’re definitely keeping that one.”
Castiel pushed the brim of the hat up with one finger to reveal his eyes, unconsciously echoing who-knew-how-many old westerns Dean had watched in an endless parade of ratty motel rooms and busted-down tenements. And really, Dean wasn’t one to coo over puppies and babies and rainbows and shit (unlike the cashier lady up front, who was still watching them fondly), but there was absolutely no way he could deny that that little gesture was freaking ridiculously adorable.
God, what was this kid doing to him? He was turning into a huge softy. Sam would laugh and laugh.
Then he noticed that Castiel was shifting from foot to foot, a vague grimace of discomfort shadowing his face under the bright red brim. “Hey, what’s wrong? You bored of this?”
The boy shook his head distractedly, already leaning toward another bin to study the strange and varied articles within. Nah, this kid didn’t get bored, like, ever. His feet were still shifting restlessly, though, new-to-him shoes scuffing against the dirty linoleum.
Oh, crap. No calluses. How long had they been walking around the back end of the store without taking a break?
No sooner had the thought occurred to him than Dean scooped the kid up in his arms. Cas’s legs instinctively rose to straddle his waist, and Dean shifted him into a comfortable hold. “Hey, your feet hurt, don’t they?”
The boy nodded, looking away, too-big hat askew on his head. Dean muttered and plucked it off, tossing it back in the corner. “You gotta tell me this stuff, buddy. Remember what I said about pain? Pain is bad. If you hurt, we need to change something.” He squeezed the kid to him, trying to capture his attention.
Castiel finally looked into his face, little face solemn at the mild scolding. “Feet hurt.”
Dean sighed. “Okay, that’s good. You told me and you even used words. Thanks, Cas. We’ll figure this out, okay? We’re both learning.” He looked back to the front of the shop, where the cashier lady was bent over a magazine. “Dammit, where is Sam? It’s totally true—he does shop like a girl.”
X
Sam stepped out of Madame Rubin’s chased by the heady scent of hemp and incense, clutching his armful of herb packets and other items. Okay, he had bought one crystal, but only because it might be useful for a ritual he’d been studying. Dean couldn’t complain about that one. It was not a girly purchase.
He hurried around the corner toward where he’d parked the Impala, aware that he had been lingering over the shelf of spell books for quite a while longer than they had merited. You never knew when you’d find something useful buried in with the tourist crap, though. Surely finding a whole wardrobe for a kid would take longer than that, right?
Ruby was standing by the car, arms crossed over her chest. Sam started and almost dropped several fragile bundles, then held himself still, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. “Ruby! I’ve been hoping to see you.”
Her face opened in surprise, arms dropping from her defiant pose. “Really? The way you guys took off, I figured you wouldn’t take too kindly to me popping around again.”
“Yeah, well…” Sam fumbled one-handed for the keys and brushed by her to open the trunk. “We kinda need your help.”
When he turned back, Ruby’s eyes were shuttered again, the momentary vulnerability shifted away. “With what?”
He paused, his hand on the trunk lid. “You haven’t…you haven’t heard anything?”
“About what?”
Sam swallowed, holding back the somewhat hysterical laughter burning in his throat. Ruby hadn’t heard anything. Yet another difference between this situation and the last one. What did it mean?
“C’mon, Sam. You’re not making a lot of sense here.”
He stood still, looking at her. He’d been hoping for her help earlier, but that was when he thought that she could tell them something. Him telling her about this, though, was an entirely different matter. It was one thing for him to trust Ruby with his life, even with his brother’s. But the life of this little boy?
That was something else.
Before he could stop her, Ruby circled around to the trunk and started pawing through the packets of herbs, lifting one to sniff it, just touching others. As soon as he realized what she was doing, though, he grabbed her wrist, pushed her away, and shut the trunk with a resounding bang. Ruby stood there, defiant, wide pink lips hard and tight. “You’re trying to put together one of my extra-crunchy hex bags. Why?”
“Just a precaution. You know how we Winchesters are—don’t like anyone on our tails, no matter what color their wings are.”
Her nostrils flared, eyes sparking. “It’s not like a cookie recipe, Sam. You can’t just pour everything into the bowl and expect it to turn out okay. There are procedures to follow, words that have to be said.”
He nodded shortly. “I kinda figured. You want to help me out?”
“Even then, it’s not like this is some magic fix-all. Demons and angels will notice the void, too. Especially when it’s you and Dean falling off the radar screen. Everyone wants to keep their eyes on you two. Everyone.”
Sam hesitated, biting his lip. That actually made a lot of sense. Damn it. “What if I said that it’s not for us?”
“Not for…” She paused, studying him, dark eyes darting quickly back and forth. Her next words came slowly, wondering. “What is this about?”
Sam took a deep breath, and held it, not sure what to say.
Part 8