Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Gabriel, you can’t–” Castiel followed him down the Bunker corridor. “You can’t just leave when the world is at stake. You cannot abandon your–”

Gabriel whirled around, eyes crackling stark cerulean. His grace popped and sizzled like a log split in flames and the bare white walls of the corridor became smothered by the rising shadow of black plumes. “Do not talk to me about abandonment, Cassie boy. You don’t even know the word like I do.”

Castiel took a step back, his jaw tightening, trying not to show the spike of fear that surged through him in the moment. Gabriel was his brother, he reminded himself. But he was also an archangel, and Castiel had already died at the hands of two other archangels. The smell of their unbridled power surging with a thousand tongues of anger was all too familiar to him. “We didn’t know you were there,” he said as calmly as he could. “You know we would have come for you if we did.”

“Do I? Do I know that? Cuz last I checked the Hardy boys only ever looked out for their own hide.” Gabriel moved closer, wagging a finger in his face. Swirls of grace haloed the tip of his finger like storm clouds circling before their descent. “I was left to die! Do you have any idea of what’s that like?”

Castiel held his gaze. “Yes,” he said stonily.

The expression on the archangel’s face morphed from one of fury to disdain. “Kiddo, I highly doubt that.” A curious smirk played at the corner of his lips and he placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Don’t–” the word got stuck in Castiel’s throat as the wave of Gabriel’s grace washed over him and he jerked away instinctively, spine scraping against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled to the ground when Gabriel recoiled. “I don’t…why did you do that?”

“Wanted to prove that you were lying.” His voice sounded strange now, a galaxy away, almost lost. “You weren’t.”

Castiel lifted his eyes to see his older brother staring at him with a look of abject horror. He realized belatedly that Gabriel had reached out to connect their grace and share memories in the tradition of angels; something that Castiel had not done for centuries. He could only recall the sensation of that act with having his memories ripped from him.

“How many times have you died?” Gabriel asked, lines of pain creasing his forehead.

“It’s not–”

“Castiel.”

He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to let his mind fill with all the soundless screams. “Five. But, it’s not of import,” Castiel added hastily, gesturing weakly at the archangel. “You, too, have–”

“I faked my death, Cassie, I wasn’t murdered by my own family. Again and again.” Gabriel moved forward and Castiel shifted his body away. It was a reaction unbidden, before he could even stop it.

A tornado of guilt and regret churned through Gabriel’s eyes and he lowered his hand. “You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” Castiel shook his head insistently, not sure of who he was trying to convince more. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Castiel. I really am.” For everything, was the unspoken end of the sentence. Gabriel lifted his hand slowly and looked at Castiel with open sincerity, his grace unfolding in pastels like layers of cumulus clouds. “May I?”

Castiel nodded and tried to relax, hands pressed flat at his side. I’m not afraid. I’m safe, he chanted in his mind. I’m safe. Gabriel’s hand came to rest gently on his shoulder again and this time when the archangel’s grace submerged him he was ready for it.

“Oh, Cassie,” Gabriel murmured, wrapping his other arm around him and pulling him in close. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Castiel whispered, closing his eyes. He’d forgotten how warm it felt to embraced by another angel’s grace. It felt like the color of sunflower petals, the scent of a kitchen after the last tray is out of the oven, and the shape of that extra space on the sofa saved just for you. And through it all he could hear Gabriel’s voice, pressed like a bookmark to his heart:

I’m not going to hurt you. I love you.

Chapter Text

Every breath Jack takes tastes like dust. Bitter and grainy inside his his throat. He covers his mouth with his arm as he coughs, chest folding in and out like a paper fan. They’ve been stuck down here for two hours now. His broken ankle sits propped up on a makeshift pillow of rocks, still pulsing red and angry.

Beside him he feels Cas shift, trying to nudge his shoulder closer to him, but he doesn’t take the offered support. Cas is already pale and bathed in a glittery sheen of sweat, his own hands clasped around a dark stain at his side. It was supposed to be a simple hunt, like all the cases they’d been taking. In fact just the other day Jack had complained to himself how it seemed like Cas was purposely avoiding the more challenging hunts and he wished they’d get to take on something more exciting. Being stuck in a collapsed cave after taking out a family of wendigos certainly wasn’t what had in mind.

“Jack,” Castiel rasps. “I will be healed soon. Just a little longer and I can get us out of here.”

He’s been saying the same line for the past two hours. At least this one doesn’t come framed by apologies like the others. There really is nothing for Cas to be sorry for. The father wendigo had knocked Cas down and snatched up the angel blade that clattered from his hand. If Cas hadn’t reacted quickly enough the blade would have gone clean through his gut instead of grazing his side. Of course if Jack hadn’t hesitated before lining up the shot to take out the daughter wendigo he wouldn’t have tripped and hurt himself, leaving Cas exposed like that. And if he still had his powers he wouldn’t be–

He shuts his eyes against the next fine shower of dust from the shifting rocks above. If the lack of air doesn’t suffocate him then the amount of what ifs swarming like attack bees through his head certainly will.

Castiel breathes in and out noisily. Whenever Jack looks at him he tries to give him an encouraging smile that feels more like a stab wound. Jack is so tired of being weak, of being the one in need of comfort. He wants to be strong, enough to put fear in the heart of anyone who tries to hurt his family. He wants to be the monsters run from, not the one they’re chasing. He wants Cas to look at him with pride and not pity.

But still when another rock collapses down beside him Jack jerks back, panting hard. The space they’re sitting in is getting smaller and he tries not to notice it but he feels the change of air even when his eyes are closed. “We gotta get out here, Cas.”

“Soon.”

Jack balls his fists against the uneven ground. “How soon?”

“You’re scared.” Cas says it quietly, like a judge passing a sentence.

“So what if I am?” he snaps back. “I’m still going to get us out here. And I’m going to fight whatever monster we face next. I’m not–” weak useless poor pathetic

“I’m scared too.” Cas exhales shakily and then inhales again. He doesn’t look at Jack for a moment.

Jack uncurls his fingers. His chest loosens, taking in a long gulp of air along with all those hundreds of irritating little specks of dust. When Cas pushes his shoulder against his he drops his head down on it this time. He can feel the sweat through the layers of Cas’ coat, the heaving of his shoulders as Cas tries to breathe steadily, and how it starts to become less and less labored.

“What are you afraid of?” Jack whispers eventually. His lips are so dry the words seem to peel off them. But if he hears Cas say what’s terrifying him–dying here, dying here slowly, watching Cas die here slowly–then maybe the weight will lessen.

It takes awhile for Cas to answer. Jack counts forty-three ants crawling past his knee in the meantime.

“Right now or in general?” Cas asks.

“Both,” Jack shrugs.

“Losing you,” Cas says softly, like a prayer. He doesn’t add anything else so that must the answer for both questions.

Jack tucks his arm around Cas’ and reaches for his hand. It’s covered in blood from pressing on the wound in his side, warm sticky blood that’s now smearing between his fingers. Cas has started to sit up straighter, his breathing almost imperceptible, so he must be almost healed. They’ll be out of here soon, just like he promised. But Jack needs to say this now, before the noise of their lives outside the cave make him forget again, because he’s heard that regret in Cas’ voice enough times now to recognize where it’s coming from.

“It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t there when I was born. It wasn’t your fault that you died.”

Jack feels Cas squeezing his hand gently and he clasps his other hand around their folded fingers. The dust falls down on them like color penciled stars.

Chapter Text

The dream always starts the same but each time it’s different. The tide rolls in black and scratching. It becomes, it creates, it breathes and a roar spreads out like a disease. Then someone is standing there: a friend, a foe, a family, an amalgam of the three. And Castiel tells himself it’s not them, speaking with locusts for words and pythons for touch. It’s not them looking at him with twin black holes.

Of course it’s them, it’s them, it’s those he’s failed.

Tonight it’s Jack rising from the puddle. His hair is ruffled playfully and his eyes are long dark smears from cheek to chin. “You let me die twice,” he says, voice full of childish injury. His arms fold over his small chest and his elbows become sharp spears. “You promised my mother that you would take care of me. And you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel chatters, teeth knocking his jaw up through his nose. “I’m so sorry. I tried to–”

“All you ever do is try, Cas.” Jack grins and dead planets fall from his gums. “All your trying ever does is bring death. Don’t you ever notice the way people die around you?”

Castiel drops to his knees, or his knees drop him. “I wanted to save you,” he whispers to his broken hands.

“But you didn’t!” sings Jack, head tilted slightly. He switches to the other side and his neck snaps, bone protruding through the skin. “You promised you would keep me safe and instead I burned from the inside out before your very eyes.”

Castiel wakes up with a scream locked inside his throat. It stays there for the rest of the night. In the morning Dean comes into the room with toast and coffee on a tray and he can’t even swallow a single bite around the unreleased sound residing in his esophagus.

“How did you sleep?” Dean asks with an expression that already knows the answer.

Pushing the coffee aside Castiel drops his head down in his hands. “When will it stop?” he breathes aloud, accidentally.

The bed shifts from the weight of Dean sitting down next to him. “Whatever you’re seeing or hearing isn’t true, you know.”

Through the space between his fingers Castiel glares at the Winchester. “You know that’s not true.”

Dean hums faintly, because he must know, like all hunters, how djinn and shapeshifters and cosmic deities use a grain of the reality of personal fears and desires in their arsenal. Otherwise the torture wouldn’t be as effective. “Okay, but there are other truths that are more important.”

Castiel lowers his hands. “Like what.”

“Well, for one, we love you no matter what.” Dean holds up three fingers. A fourth finger pops up. “And however you think you’ve failed us–”

“Not think. I know.”

Some mix of patience tinged with sadness crossed Dean’s eyes. “Okay. No matter how you’ve failed us, we forgive you.” The last finger arises. “And you need to let it all go.” His face suddenly brightens. “I should write these down! So you don’t forget ‘em.”

He disappears and reappears in the space of time it takes Castiel to pick up the cup and take another sip of coffee. Either he’s moving out of time or Castiel’s hand is shaking so much it’s taken him that long to grip the cup handle. But Dean’s back now, and pushing a yellow square that’s sticky on the back into his hand.

“See? Actually lemme put this up somewhere…” the paper flies out of Castiel’s hand and he watches it soar around the room until it lands on the wall behind the bedside table, right beneath the glow of the lamp. Dean comes back to sit beside him, rocking back and forth with a little smile. “There we go.”

Castiel sits back and lets his head fall on his shoulder, only because his neck is tired. It’s easier to see the paper from this angle anyways.

1. jack loves you
2. sam loves you
3. dean loves you
4. we forgive you
5. you can forgive yourself

Chapter Text

The two Winchesters are behind her, guns raised, but fingers off the trigger. She knows they wouldn’t dare fire, not when she has their precious angel handcuffed to the bedpost and with his blade now in her hands.

“You promised,” she pushes the words out through her clenched teeth. “I heard what you said to my dad before you took him again. You said ‘we always keep our promises.’ But you didn’t. My dad died and my mom ran off and I was left alone and I was–” a knot thickens in her throat. “I was alone. I wasn’t safe. You promised to keep me safe and you didn’t.”

“We didn’t know about your mom,” comes the half-hearted excuse from the younger Winchester and she whips her head around to glare at him.

“He knew. I prayed to him, all the time. He just ignored them because he was too busy to care.” Turning back to the angel she brings the blade down to rest against his chest. “Now I’ll make sure you have the time to–” her voice falters when she realizes that Castiel has undone the handcuffs and is rising to stand. He must have picked them while she had her back turned, just for a moment. She keeps the blade pointed at him but it’s shaking a little, swaying with the quiver in her arm as he gets to his feet.

“You’re right,” Castiel says. Not to the men behind her. To her. There’s a look in his eyes that doesn’t match what she expected to see. Defiance, pride, or resistance, anything but that shade of sorrow.

His eyes flick up to the Winchesters and he looks deeply apologetic. “Sam. Dean.” He takes a deep breath. “Thank you for everything. Please take care of yourselves.”

Then Castiel lifts a hand and she ducks instinctively, thinking he’s about to smite her, but all she hears is the aborted shouts of the boys as they are flung out of the motel room and the door is slammed shut. Streaks of blonde hair fly across her face as she glances from the door–the boys hollering behind it, the handle glowing white hot—and back to Castiel, who’s returned to sitting on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the shape of his knees, like he’s waiting for her.

Waiting for her to kill him.

“I know it doesn’t mean much to you,” he says softly, eyes all full of pain’s dark blue hue, “but I am sorry for what happened.”

“Stop looking at me,” she snaps and he shuts his eyes obediently.

“Your father loved you,” he continues. “And I’m sure your mother does too. I’m so sorry that I ever took them away from you.”

Claire still doesn’t move towards him. Her eyes are watching the door, wondering if the Winchesters are going to burst back in, guns firing in synchronized beats. She realizes that Castiel must be keeping the door shut with his angel powers. The minute she kills him, Dean and Sam will come charging in, and most likely kill her too. The worst part is that the thought of dying doesn’t bother her. She wishes it did.

“Did it hurt,” she begins, holding the blade out at the angel’s chest again, “when my dad died?”

Castiel seems taken aback by the question, enough to prompt him to open his eyes. “I don’t–I don’t remember. Raphael was ripping me apart and I was screaming and–” he drops his head. “I think Raphael must have released Jimmy’s soul before he started.”

The blade now rests snugly over the angel’s heart. “Who’s Raphael?”

“The archangel who killed me,” Castiel answers blandly. “The first time,” he corrects, like there’s a distinction. Then he closes his eyes again and sits there silently, throat working slightly. He’s right where she wants him to be, at the center of the moment she’s spent years dreaming about. And yet it’s still not right.

Nothing in her life will ever be right again.

She lets go of the blade and grabs him by the sides of his coat. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t react when she jerks him forward and screams. His eyes fly open and she screams at him again and again, blue perforating the scrape of her lungs, her jaw strained open wide, the creases around his eyes, her eyes blurring, blinking to the shrill sound, begging, a child asking her daddy to stay, leaving, shaking the fabric of his coat, not his, echoes flickering between the tears running down her face and she buries her face into his chest and screams harder until her voice is drained down to thin, strangled sobs. When his arms come up to hold her trembling shoulders she’s too tired to brush them off.

Chapter Text

When Castiel opens his eyes Lucifer is standing over him, arms crossed, bloodied face a little lopsided. “That sucked,” he sighs, shaking his twisted left leg at Castiel. “I need some of your grace to patch me up.”

Castiel pushes himself up against the wall and glances around the wreckage of the Bunker in his mind. Sam. Dean. Time travel. The banishing sigil. The shapes of what happened slide into place and then his eyes travel back to Lucifer. “No.” The landscape around them changes immediately, iron bars sliding up the walls and locks clanging. He has to protect his grace. It’s the only purity left in this existence of abomination.

“Oh, come on, lil bro!” Lucifer stomps his good foot petulantly. “You invited me in, be a good host and get the tea and cookies, okay? I’m not gonna drain it all, I just need a little.” He limps in a crooked circle, arms flailing like a court jester. “Unless, of course, you want me to go nab one of our other siblings for a little pick me up snack.”

Jophiel. Issac. Castiel had watched Lucifer kill them with his own hands, had felt the terror burning through their grace milliseconds before they were eviscerated. He shakes his head numbly.

“Or.” Lucifer drops down one knee and reaches out a hand. Castiel flinches away hard, slamming the back of his head against the wall.

“Or.” Lucifer lunges out again and grabs his chin in his fingers. “I could torture you for a bit. Wait until you’re begging for mercy and give it to me then. But you could also do this pain-free, buddy. You’re making everything much harder than it needs to be.”

“I said yes for you to fight Amara,” Castiel manages, sounding much hoarser than he wants to be. “My grace was never an option.”

“Well, I can’t help it that your little pets threw us into the ether, right? You said yes to me, and me needs to be strong enough to fight Auntie Amara, and this–” he glances at the gaping hole in his side “–this isn’t gonna be strong enough. You wouldn’t want your little sacrifice to be in vain, would you?”

Slowly the iron bars dissipate, the locks falling open to the ground, the bare white walls exposed.

Lucifer steps back with a satisfied smile.

Castiel pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he unfurls his grace inch by inch. It comes cascading down the walls in wispy trickles, flowing down towards the ground. He tries to steel himself for the revulsion when Lucifer puts his hand on it but nothing can prepare him for the disgust that churns through the tunnels of his insides as Lucifer pries a strand free and slurps it down.

“Bit expired, that stuff.” The archangel wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and gestures. “I need more, Castiel.”

“Please.” His teeth are knocking into each other so hard he can’t stop it. “Don’t.” Brother, comes out as a thin, desperate afterthought, and he hates himself for it. But if Lucifer touches his grace again he thinks that nothing he ever does for the rest of his life will ever wash the stain clean.

“More,” Lucifer barks, eyes flaring red, and Castiel braces his head down against his knees. The sound of his grace leaking in rivulets down the walls rings in his ears, the way it’s whimpering as Lucifer snags mouthfuls and Castiel forces the image of Sam to the front of his mind, Sam is safe, Sam looking at him in horrified confusion, Sam is safe, Sam speaking to him with gentle concern, Sam is safe–he bites through his lip to keep from choking on bile as Lucifer yanks out another strand–Sam is safe. His fingertips are numb from gripping his own arms so tight but he keeps up the mantra, the only whisper in his chest that doesn’t bruise.

Chapter Text

Every few minutes Castiel glances in the rearview mirror to check on Metatron. Sometimes he and Sam’s meet there. Evidently the younger Winchester has the same concern, even though the former scribe is handcuffed with Enochian cuffs on both hands and feet. Sam had wanted to finish the interrogation then and there at Heaven’s gate, but Castiel knew that other angels would be surfacing once the alarms had gone off in the white halls. Taking Metatron with them as they put some distance between them and the sandbox was the only option.

“Roadtrip!” Metatron croons gleefully from the back, prompting a “shut up!” from both of them.

“Oh, come on, Asstiel, don’t be poor sport. I’m the one who gave you the best bit of backstory with that whole human arc.” The sound of the handcuffs clinking together echoes after his words. “And then you made it even better with a little cannibalism! That’s something not even I could have written in.”

Castiel keeps his hands on the steering wheel. Squeezing the life out of the steering wheel.

“Didn’t think it would poison you, did ya?” Metatron leans forward between the shoulder of the seats. “But you welcomed that death, remember? You were totally gonna die for your sins, when everyone knows that trope only works if everyone sees you do it,” he says, nudging Sam’s arm and receiving a sharp blow in return.

“Stay back there or I’ll sit back there with you myself,” Sam snaps. Then his demeanor shifts into soft strained lines of worry. Castiel avoids looking at it by staring at the road ahead. 

“See? Sammy here was left out of the exciting chapters.” Metatron’s face comes popping back up again. “Tell him about how another angel had to die to keep you alive. No wonder the other angels hate you, they only ever see you at the other end of your blade.”

Castiel jerks his elbow back, landing it into Metatron’s nose and the scribe shrinks back with a mewling whimper. “Crowley did it,” he says to the silence from Sam’s end. “He wanted me to be able to reach Dean in time….I wasn’t going to do it. I would have rather–”

“–died,” Sam finishes quietly. He sounds disappointed and that hurts more than Metatron’s words ever could.

The trees blur past the car window for a moment because Sam speaks again, his voice all braided in pain and what Castiel now realizes isn’t disappointment, it’s that familiar bite of guilt. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Me too,” Castiel says, looking over at Sam with a faint smile. He doesn’t know how to explain that he didn’t want to die but he knew he deserved to, and how those two things are necessarily the same.

Before Sam can respond, though, Metatron’s sneer comes ringing out again. “Well, that’s sweet, but you’re burning out again anyways. Whose throat are you gonna cut this time, Castiel? You talk a heroic game, but killing your own kind to prolong your life is nothing short of monstrous.”

“Pull over,” Sam snaps suddenly. There’s an intensity tightening his jaw that Castiel doesn’t want to argue with. He parks at the side of the empty road and Sam pushes the door open and turns to the backseat, an angel blade gripped in one hand.

“You said you needed me,” Metatron smirks, even as he backs away fearfully.

Sam grabs him by the handcuffs and yanks him forward to the edge of the backseat. “You are a monster, Metatron. And I don’t mean in the way a vampire or djinn or werewolf is. You don’t kill people out of instinct or for desire or survival. You hurt people just to make yourself feel bigger.” He squats down to be on eye level with the ex-scribe. “There’s nothing more despicable than that.”

Metatron is hushed for a second and Sam glances up at Castiel, a wordless conversation. Castiel touches the base of his own throat lightly and Sam angles the tip of the blade to Metatron’s throat.

“What,” Metatron croaks. “Is this some kind of revenge?”

“Not even close.” Sam’s eyes darken fiercely. “You deserve much, much worse for what you did. This is a precaution.” The blade swipes and Castiel instinctively looks away. His own fingers haven’t left his throat and he thinks of Metatron looming over him while he struggled and Theo gazing back at him in shock. He’s not aware of how he’s started shaking minutely until he feels Sam putting a hand of his arm, stilling him.

Looking down he sees the vial of grace in Sam’s hand and reaches over to heal Metatron before he bleeds to death. The ex-scribe is whimpering like a dog on the street.

Sam keeps his hand on Castiel’s arm and he leans into the touch for a moment, letting it ground him. “He’s not going to be able to hurt you anymore,” Sam says gently. “Or anyone else.”

Chapter Text

Uriel is the one who comes up to Castiel first after Amara’s introduction speech. Castiel tries not to let the nerves he feels pricking his fingertips show. They’re in Heaven, and there are plenty of other angels around. Angels who should step in should Uriel start trying to kill him again.

“Castiel,” Uriel says slowly. “It appears that I am once more under your command. What would you have me do?”

“There’s no more command anymore, Uriel.” He gestures to the Heaven around them. “We’re all free to do whatever you want, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. Maybe Jack will need help with–”

“Free?” Uriel chuckles, deep like the soul of thunder. “Castiel, you were never free. You may have resisted the guidance of Heaven, but from what I’ve heard you simply yoked yourself to another master. Do not tell me the Winchesters were any less cruel than Heaven’s laws.”

Fury spikes through Castiel. “They weren’t my masters,” he bristles while still trying to keep his voice calm. “I chose humanity, and I chose them. I wasn’t ordered to do anything.”

Uriel raises an eyebrow. “Brother, could you truly tell me that every time you suffered and died was not for them?”

“Yes. Sometimes it was my own mistakes I was paying the price for.”

“Mistakes made in a brave attempt to save them, were they not?” While Castiel scrambles to find a rebuttal Uriel goes on. “You were dissatisfied with our God, much as I was while on Earth. I found a faith in Lucifer, and yours went to two humans who used you as the fatted calf for every sacrifice.”

Castiel feels his repeated deaths running in cold rivers through his bones but he still shakes his head “That’s not–”

“When have you ever defied the words of Sam and Dean?”

Castiel stares at the ground for a second before looking up, a lightness bridging his eyes. “I have a son. Not mine, but–” he glances over to where Jack is talking excitedly with Hannah. “He chose me and I chose him. I stood with him against–” Sam. Dean. Chuck. “–everyone.”

Uriel follows his gaze warily. “The nephil boy?”

“His name is Jack,” Castiel says firmly. “And I love him.”

There’s a strained look in Uriel’s eyes, one of dismay and also frustration, but he doesn’t say anything. He offers one more piteous glance at Castiel before walking away to join the rest of the angels. Castiel stands there, watching him stand with Rachel and Miriam and Jonah. They’re conversing in low tones but their eyes travel over their shoulder to look back at him.

Their disdain is all too familiar. He has to turn away, and his eyes fall on Jack who waves eagerly at him. The boy’s eyes are bright and face flush with a wide smile and Castiel can’t help but smile back. Jack comes sprinting over with Hannah in tow, rambling about getting Gabriel to show him that trick with the stars he promised, and Castiel nods approvingly.

Hannah stands next to Castiel and together they watch Jack skipping through the crowd. She presses her shoulder to Castiel’s and smiles, as if reading his mind. “He loves you, too,” she says proudly.

“I know,” Castiel says, his eyes still following Jack. He thinks about how God and the universe itself could not separate them and wonders how he could ever explain to Uriel, to anyone, a love like that.

Chapter Text

While Castiel is stocking the canned goods shelf he hears a woman behind him talking about to another man about replacing the bathroom tiling in her home. There’s a clear huff of annoyance in her tone as she describes the mistake her husband made in buying ceramic, not porcelain tiles. Castiel mentally notes down her complaint in his mind to add to the portrait he’s been creating in his mind of his home. Every time he hears someone divulging a detail of their home life he steals it–no, he borrows it, he tells himself, so that he can create a home that he can bring up in conversations with Nora and Allen, the other Gas n Sip worker, and Phil, the delivery man.

He tells them about renting a tiny studio apartment (this is a term he overheard from the college students who cleared out the candy shelf) with picture windows (from the woman who lectured him endlessly about the right way to make her nachos). When Nora comments about never having enough time to clean her house Castiel talks about how he uses Ultra Power Plus (from a commercial he saw on TV) and complains about having to vacuum the porch (from a ten minute argument a business had on his phone on the bus). Sometimes he gets strange looks from people when he says things abut his imaginary home, and he thinks they must suspect him of lying. Their eyes bore into him, chanting silently you have no home not anymore.

Sometimes to help him fall asleep at night, back aching against the hard spine of the storeroom floor, he adds new furniture to his home. A rocking chair, like the one Frank from the shelter talked about his grandmother having. An espresso maker, the kind Allen showed him on his phone that he was getting for his girlfriend’s birthday. A pot of dandelions, the ones that would grow up through the spaces of the park bench he slept on.

On weekends when he has the day off he takes the bus to different neighborhoods in the city, looking at different houses and wondering what kind of lives people live inside, if they laugh and spill their food and fix what’s broken and cry and are asked to leave.

Then he usually tries to walk for the rest of the afternoon, until he’s too tired to walk anymore. It makes it easier to fall asleep on the bus stop bench that way. He hopes that once he gets his first paycheck he can afford a room on Sundays.

Today, though, just as he’s dragging his feet up to his favorite bus stop, a car slows beside him. The window rolls down and a woman with friendly eyes calls out “Castiel?”

Immediately he reaches for the blade in his shoulder bag. He doesn’t want to kill another one of his siblings but he will protect himself as necessary. However the next sentence she says makes him let go of the blade’s handle. “I’m Jody Mills.”

“Oh.” Castiel moves closer to the car, squinting curiously. “How did you find me?”

“Sam asked me to look out for you. He was worried about the angels being after you.” She glances him up and down. “I wasn’t sure where to look, to be honest, but a friend of mine passed through her recently and said she saw someone who looked like the sketch I had on my desk.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” He tries not to lean his shoulder on the car, giving away how close he is to exhaustion. “I appreciate your concern.”

“Well, get in.” The passenger door opens. “I’ll give you a lift back home.”

It’s so nice to hear the last word that he folds himself into the warm, soft seat without thinking. When the sheriff asks for his address he gives the Gas n Sip one by habit.

“Ah, so that’s where you’ve been working,” she smiles. “Not bad. So where have you been staying?”

The car is so warm. His back sinks against the embrace of the seat. He thinks if he can stay here just a few more minutes it will make sleeping on the bench less painful tonight. So he ignores her question and just stares down at his feet. There’s a bottle of water in the corner that looks like a fountain to him right now.

Jody picks up the bottle of water and pushes it into his hands, causing him to look up gratefully. “I don’t–this is yours,” Castiel manages.

“And now it’s yours. Now where should I drop you off?”

Castiel takes a long, sweet drink of water and repeats the Gas n Sip address.

The car slows and then stops. Castiel glances around and realizes that Jody’s pulled over. This is the part where she makes him get out. Of course. He straightens his shoulders, trying not to show the disappointment.

“Castiel,” she says quietly. “When you finish work, where do you go to sleep?”

He keeps his eyes on the water bottle lid. It’s dark blue and if he stares at it long enough it looks like a piece of sky.

Jody exhales faintly beside him. “Okay. I’m going to get you a room at a motel near where you work. If I had known earlier…” she breathes out again. “Listen, I’ll come back on Monday and see what I can do to help you get a more permanent situation. Also there’s an extended holiday weekend coming up. You’re welcome to come over to my home if you don’t have any plans.”

Castiel whips his head up, fearful that he might not hearing right.

“I mean, it’s not much,” Jody chuckles. “But it should be–”

“Thank you,” Castiel whispers, quickly, before his voice cracks.

He should say more, he knows. There should be some profound expression of gratitude given to someone as kind as her, but the tears are pushing against his eyelids and he turns away, leaning his head on the window. His fingers tighten around the water bottle and he blinks hard. Jody reaches out to his shoulder, gently rubbing her hand up and down his arm, and that just makes the tears spill out even faster.