Chapter Text
“I think it’s time for me to move on.” Castiel marches slowly up the bunker stairs, his legs growing weaker and weaker with every step. He wants to turn back but he can’t. He waits for Dean to call out to him… tell him this is all unnecessary.
That doesn’t happen.
He finds himself alone, once more, in the brisk air, dreading his next steps.
Castiel doesn’t make it far. The nearest tree serves as his leaning post as he absorbs the fact that he’s lost everything. All he ever wanted was the Winchester’s respect… to be called family and have them mean it. Dean’s love… his trust. Those things are – invaluable beyond words to him.
The door cracks open and his heart lurches, yet he can’t bring himself to get up.
But Dean doesn’t even stop to look at him, he continues with a determined gait and hops into the Impala. Castiel surmises that he’s gone out for a drink, a hook-up perhaps.
He sinks back into his position, resigned.
When it finally sinks in that Dean isn’t coming back for the night, he allows himself to make his way back to the bunker.
Sam at least deserves to have a good bye in person.
It feels forbidden, now, walking into the bunker. Like he doesn’t belong. Like he’s a toxin the building is trying to reject. His hand lingers on the railing and he looks up when he reaches the bottom of the stair case. He envisages Dean standing desolately – uncaringly at that table. Shaking himself out of that memory he decides to stop. No Dean. No sadness.
He’s here for a few last moments with Sam.
Sam.
Would Sam even want to see him now?
Castiel is the reason he’d been forced to kill Rowena.
What if Dean had been sparing his feelings by not telling him that Sam is the one he needs to leave for? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
He meanders around a bit.
Drinking in the last sights of the placed he’d always dreamed of calling home and the mementoes of the people he wished would call him family. He heads to Dean’s room first. Luckily the door is already sprawling open; that doesn’t make him feel less guilty though. He knows exactly how Dean feels about his privacy… about his personal space.
Touching Dean’s clothes, he remembers the memories that came with them. Him and Dean dressing up like cowboys for a case. He still isn’t entirely sure that was necessary, but Castiel went along anyway… because it made Dean happy. Or the shirt he’d worn when they finally found him while he was possessed by Michael. The one he wore to Jack’s funeral… the one he wore to Mary’s
Castiel turns away. He can’t stand to hover in this room any longer. Not when all it does is remind him of Dean… of something he could have had… had he not ruined everything.
But as Castiel moves down the corridor hurriedly, memories of their first meetings assaulted him. Him trusting Dean enough to share his doubts; Dean trusting him enough to go along with his plans. Backing him up with everyone stood against him and even though he was in the wrong. He’d scattered that trust. Now the wind has finally blown the pieces away and Dean is too tired to chase after them anymore. And who would blame him?
The library is yet another trove of memories. Mostly Sam this time. Hours of research, sitting in companionable silence sharing the occasional fun fact when things were going slow. He’d miss that more than anything.
He fingers the shelves of artefacts that the Winchesters had collected over the years. Blades, totems, charms and the like.
Cocking his head he bends next to the small white ball. It looks like a tic tac but completely spherical. It must have fallen off the shelves. He bends to pick it up, rolling it over gently in his fingers before he glances up at Sam’s startled exclamation: “Cass don’t touch that!”
…
Dean starts the Impala’s engine with a great huff. Cass couldn’t have gotten far. He’s wingless and carless for goodness sake.
He begins a slow crawl across the roads leading to Lebanon, assuming Cass would head to the city to stock up and get a ride.
Stupid asshole.
Dean could look at him. Had looked at him pointedly, in fact, while he was being accused of the opposite.
He’d expected a blow out, sure. That was the new normal for them lately.
But Cass just leaving… that had stunned him.
And leave he had.
Dean finds no trace of the angel’s presence. No trench-coated figure in the distance. No gruff, baritone voice snapping at him. Just a whole road of nothing.
He gets to Lebanon anyway unable to turn around and head back to the Cass-less bunker and a depressed Sam. Drinking then. That sounds reasonable. Dean’s normal. Except something feels off.
Wandering the streets of Lebanon a bottle of whiskey wrapped in a brown bag at his side isn’t what Dean had planned, but it’s what he gets in any case.
Still no Cass.
Dean begins to wonder if he’d even been real all this time or if he’d been an … imaginary friend that Chuck concocted to keep them in check. His world tilts, he’s way too drunk to be thinking about this shit.
Head pounding he takes a break near the gate of a house.
Wailing greets him.
Throwing up his hands in defeat he takes another swing and curses. Of course he had to choose the one place on the block with a screaming baby in it. Only… the pained shrieks aren’t coming from inside. They seem to be emanating from just a few paces away by his estimate… not that he can estimate all that well right now.
The bushes nearby rustle and he approaches slowly. The child sits there wailing and sniffling and in his shock Dean drenches him in whiskey.
“Shit.” He mutters looking around. “What kind of bastard leaves a baby out in the street.”
The streetlight is shot and it’s so dark he can barely make out the outline of the baby … except, not really a baby. Given his size Dean would guess he’s around two or three. In the moonlight he manages to make out the faintest hint of silver blue eyes. In that instant, Dean is as lucid as ever and he knows one thing for sure. This child will get his unyielding protection and he’d never abandon it.
Resolutely, he marches back to the Impala with the little cherub cradled securely in his arms. He’s as naked as the day he was born and Dean swaddles him with his green jacket smiling as he coos. “You think you’re cute huh?” he pokes at his cheeks. “Well you are. Got me whipped as hell.”
The child grabs hold of his finger, yanking with a force a three year old couldn’t possibly have. “Stay.” He begs, popping Dean’s finger into his mouth and sucking gently.
“I’m keeping you he promises.” Letting the child nibble away. “Don’t care what Sammy says, I’ll sneak you in alright?”
…
Sam hears a strange noise. Someone walked through the bunker. He knows that Dean left so it must be Cass. He’d been wanting to check on the angel for some time now, but he’d been too lost in his grief to even move.
Now though, he knows he needs to make the effort.
He heads down the hall, to the source of the noise and freezes dead in his tracks.
“Cass don’t touch that!” But it’s too late.
The angel just stares at him wide eyed, the magical pearl clutched tightly before a pop resounds and his trench-coat billows towards the floor.
Sam catapults himself forward grabbing onto the coat and the small mass inside it. A child sits there proudly, naked and with bright blue eyes.
And just as suddenly the child blips away leaving Sam staring at the unfilled trench-coat and the magical pearl that grants your heart’s greatest desire.
Instantly he goes into panic mode. His mind immediately heads to Dean. He’d be pissed that Cass had… vanished? Died? He doesn’t even know. On Sam’s watch.
Scrambling for his phone he punches in Dean’s cell faster than he ever has in his life.
“C’mon.” he pleads.
Voice mail.
Damnit!
But then the bunker door creeks open and Sam stands there like a deer in the headlights, caught between relief and fear. Dean’s here now, he can fix this.
Except… something’s wrong.
He watches from behind the wall as Dean creeps slowly down the stairs, ensuring that his footfalls are almost silent. Stranger still is huge bag strapped to his back… if Sam didn’t know better he’s say its… moving?
Blinking rapidly, he tries to find a plausible explanation, even as they call do their best to elude him.
“Dean?” he asks.
Dean freezes up like some kind of criminal when put on the stand to testify. He gives a wavering smile, fiddling with the straps of his bag. “Sammy.” He glances away, “Gotta head to bed bro.”
Bro?
“Dean!” he snaps, letting his worry show, “Cass just… vanished in a plume of … trench-coat and before that… I saw something… I don’t even understand this.” He sputters.
Impassive, Dean just glances towards the exit. Of all the reactions Sam had expected this one never even made the list.
“Did you hear me?” he tries again.
“Yup.” Dean assures, still glancing at the door, “Heard you like a bell. We’ll talk in the morning Sammy. Night.”
“Night?” he parrots.
He yanks Cass’ trench-coat up. “Cass is in trouble.”
“Cass is a um, heh.” He laughs, “Big boy.”
“Dean what the hell?” Why isn’t he doing anything? And what’s in that damn bag?
Sam wrenches it open, jumping back as he sees the child sitting peacefully inside it.
“Did you kidnap someone?” he wonders.
“I found him on the street.” Dean snaps. “And I am never abandoning him okay?”
Numbly, Sam nods. He doesn’t see any other option. Clearly, Dean had lost his mind. Cass had lost himself and Sam… well …
The hell.
Sam takes a good long look at the child who now sits happily at their table. Glow-y blue eyes, hair dark as night, an unflinching stare that seems to be directed only at Dean as though he’d hung the sun and stars… chewing on Dean’s index finger like it’s candy. With jerky motions he wraps the trench-coat around the child, still unable to reconcile what he knows with what he sees.
Dean laughs loudly, “Now you really are a baby in a trench-coat.”
Dean’s face twists in pain as the child clamps his jaw down in the finger he’d just been so lovingly sucking. Pulling away and yelping, Dean looks to Sam for support.
But Sam can’t support anyone… not even himself… he finds himself flat on the floor staring up at baby Cass and wondering when things had gotten so royally fucked.