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"So dream on, little Broomstick Cowboy,
Dream while you can;
For soon, you'll be a dreadful thing:
My son, you'll be a man."
Castiel’s time spent as a mortal was a period of reverent self-discovery.
He learned he was rather fond of taking showers. The human experience was a tedious one, fraught with disgusting bodily necessities and even more revolting emotions to accompany them—eons of being able to simply wave a hand and rid his vessel of grime and filth became obsolete as he stepped into the scathing water, feeling each individual droplet unravel all of the complex knots that lay beneath his wingless back. The somewhat burning sensation that coursed down along his spine was a thankful reminder that he’s made it out of yet another battle in one piece.
It was considerate of the boys to give him his own room in the Bunker. He wasn’t obligated to, but Hell, they were the ones that insisted he stay put for a while to “recharge his batteries;” while the angel didn’t fully understand the reference, he was incredibly appreciative of their offer and decided to accept. Sam had even taken the liberty to make it a tad more homey for him, leaving out a variety of literature from the Men of Letters’ library and a list of Netflix shows he could binge (as well as the accompanying instructions on how to handle the remote).
Was the shower perhaps the only physical location on his Father’s Green Earth where an individual could experience their most coherent thoughts, Castiel pondered? Watching blood and dirt alike be scrubbed from his skin and swirl down the drain, he recalls Claire showing him a blog containing the farcical “Shower Thoughts” of humans on the interweb in passing. To the most clever ones, she would let out a sensible chuckle and proceed to explain the context to him. Castiel enjoyed hearing her laugh but couldn’t quite relate, considering the only conviction that plagued his conscience both in and out of the water was: why has Dean been acting so skittish today?
Out on the field, Castiel could sense that Dean had been teetering on the edge of his headspace since they left at seven that morning. The Vodyanoy Dean had saved a small boy from all but tore off his left leg, nearly drowning the two in the process. Thankfully, Sam was able to shoot it from the dock with the buttons Castiel had provided him and they managed to drag Dean and the child from the lake in the knick of time. The boy’s father had been an influential contractor who planned to drain the creature’s home to erect some fancy apartment complexes—no wonder it wanted his son dead, too. The last time Dean had almost drowned on a hunt was a little over a decade ago, and Cas knew that this time around he would likely be more willing to display or talk about his trauma reaction than when he was physically younger. But, of course, trying to get either of the boys to talk about that sort of thing was easier said than done.
In becoming a Caregiver, Castiel was now unknowingly hyper-aware of any major or minor shifts in Dean’s mood; he wasn’t blind to the tears that welled up at the corners of the hunter’s eyes upon finally being able to pack away their guns, slumping his shoulders in exhausted victory. When Dean tries to get into the driver’s side of the Impala, Castiel is quick to stop him. For once in his life he doesn’t fight back, allowing Sam to gently nudge him into the back seat and lay his weary head to rest, if even just for a little while. The soft whirring of Baby’s engine was the sweetest melody to ever lull a tired babe to rest, after all.
Winchesters were masters of masking their feelings... no, “masking” was the incorrect term: perhaps “salting and burning those feelings to sawdust before burrowing them so deep in their own subconscious the only way any human being could possibly unearth them was through the power of some sick, Freudien therapy” was a more appropriate phrasing. Castiel knew better than to bring up Dean’s Littlespace in front of anyone that wasn't Sam, and the few instances the youngest Winchester got a glimpse of baby Dean, the Little in question’s face turned the loveliest shade of pink any artist would have been grateful to reproduce in paint form for their next piece.
One way or another, all Castiel knew was that he’d be dealing with a very clingy kiddo when they were safe at home, behind plenty of locked doors.
He turns off the valve and steps out of the shower, grabbing a clean towel from the rack by the door and makes haste drying himself off. Right away he notices that the dirty clothes he discarded on the tile floor were missing. Sitting innocently on the countertop by the sink were now a pair of flannel pants, forest-green zip-up hoodie, and simple grey tee-shirt. It had been strange for Sam and Dean to see Castiel wear clothing that wasn’t his regular business attire, but as long as he was comfortable, that was all that mattered to them. Dean had once compared him to an onion, muttering something about him wearing “too many friggin’ layers,” which was a reference that Castiel did understand.
He isn’t surprised to find the Righteous Man himself curled into the fetal position atop the bland, flannel-covered twin mattress. As he studies the scene further, Cas notes that Dean’s using his trenchcoat as a makeshift blanket. He’s holding onto the thing for dear life, his nose buried deep into the well-loved fabric of the garment as if worried it’ll miraculously disappear or be taken away from him. The angel is content to take a moment to watch his boy’s chest rise and fall, indicating his heart’s return to a relaxed state after yet another day of putting his life on the line for the betterment of humankind.
At the beginning of their relationship Dean surely would’ve wasted no time to chastise him any time Castiel healed his injuries after a hunt or watched over him whilst he slept, silencing the bellowing voices in his head so he could get a few more hours of rest. While both men were grateful Dean had overcome the hurdle of finally being comfortable enough to accept the care of someone that wasn’t himself, no matter how many times he had regressed since they defined necessary terms, a little part of the eldest Winchester still couldn’t fathom the notion that he was worthy of a devoted, loving partner, much less a Caregiver.
Castiel pads over to the side of the bed and kneels down slowly, using his index finger to gently rub at Dean’s left cheek in hopes of waking him.
“Dean?” he whispers—no, prays—in a barely audible hush, waiting not long for those beautiful green eyes to flutter open and register the baby-blues that gaze affectionately down at him. His lips smack together and he rubs at his face, finding that Castiel’s hand was still there.
Clearing his throat, the hunter flashes a shy smile and moves his body so that he is no longer lying down. Hopefully this short nap would hold him off long enough for Castiel to bathe him and get some food in his tummy, but he wouldn’t hold his breath.
“C-Cas, hey. I, uh. I was, just, um…” his voice is a muted rasp, gravelly from just being welcomed back to the land of the living. “I brought your clothes t-to the laundry room, but ‘m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to steal this from ya...” Dean quickly holds out the coat to his friend, nearly shoving it in his grasp. He’d come in there with one intention, and one intention only, but now he felt as though he didn’t have the strength to do what he’d so profoundly wanted to.
“I saw. Thank you, Dean. It’s no trouble.” Castiel remains kneeling, waiting for him to state the inevitable. Their fingers intertwined as if by a force of nature and Cas can feel Dean give his hand a tiny squeeze. “Why didn’t you come get me? If I’d known you were in here, I would have drawn you a bath far sooner.”
“...Didn’t wanna bother you, ‘s all,” he shrugs.
Castiel tuts. “You are never a bother to me. And you never will be, Dean.”
A single nod.
As if his sheepish sleepiness and slurred speech weren’t indicators enough, Castiel could tell that Dean wouldn’t be fighting his headspace for much longer. It’d been quite some time since either of them took up their respective roles as child and father, having so much else on their plates at present, but tonight it was all coming to an end. “But, I was, um, actually kinda wondering if we could… y’know, if we could, uh...”
Studying Dean’s countenance, Castiel can feel his own expression grow soft with regards to the blatant vulnerability displayed on the boy’s face. The childlike, flustered atmosphere about him made his Caregiver’s heart spring into action. Standing up and outstretching his free hand, Castiel slowly takes the coat from him. Despite the garment currently being a staple of filth (blood, tears, and other bodily fluids having burrowed deep into its cloth), he knew that his trench coat happened to be one of Little Dean’s favourite comfort items.
“You’ve worked very hard today, haven’t you, baby bee?”
Big, wet eyes met his own in silent agreement and practically begged for Cas to scoop him up and smother him with all the love he craved so dearly. He barely had enough energy left in him to muster another nod, much less vocalise complex sentences, but he knew all he had to say was one magic word and everything his heart desired would be well within his reach.
“Papa...”
Dean’s voice is laced with exhaustion, a croaky cacophony that is nothing like how a little one should be sounding. Cas’ soul nearly shatters as he hears the child’s breathing hitch and he gently, openly sobs, burying his bruised face in his even dirtier hands, pleading for his Papa to take the reins. When they were first working out this dimension of their relationship, Dean had made it incredibly clear to Cas that any variation of Dad had dug up a plethora of painful sentiments he harboured towards one John Winchester. He certainly had no business in Dean’s second childhood, and after a trial run of a few different names for Baby De to call him they both found that Papa fit like a glove.
Paternal pride swells in his chest as he scoops up the weeping babe, switching positions on the bed with him so that Dean’s now seated comfortably on his Papa’s lap, balling into his shoulder.
“So-sorry, I sorry, Papa,” Dean wept.
Castiel gently rocks them back and forth in a faithful attempt to distract him or better yet, calm him down, but Dean just cried and cried and cried. After all, when you can't remember how to speak, it's all you can do. He clung to Castiel like his life depended on it because in a variety of ways, it did.
“Oh, honeybee, what’s wrong?” But Dean didn’t reply, overwhelmed by the myriad of emotions swimming around in his system. “Shh, shh, I know, I know words are hard, aren’t they? Papa’s got you. I got you, honey.”
They continued to sway as one until his crying had reduced in volume to quiet snivels. Cas knew he would eventually spill the beans about what ailed him so, but for now he would make sure his baby boy was cleaned up and put to bed in a reasonable timeframe. Castiel takes a moment to nudge Dean out of the crook of his neck to take a look at his face: wet from copious tears and running snot (which was all wiped on his Papa’s tee-shirt… not that he cared, of course) with wistful, bloodshot eyes.
“Deanie, can you show Papa where your nose is?” Castiel asks. And while a rather strange question to overhear in nature, when Dean is utterly unresponsive to his question, he can safely estimate how young his headspace is and move forward accordingly from there. Just as he suspected, Dean showed no inclination to answer him back, content to simply gnaw on his fingers while they undulated to and fro.
He wasted no time bathing Dean, but undressing a fully grown, adult man proved to be a bit of a challenge. Were this any other day he’d regressed, Cas would've been more than happy to play pirates and mermaids with him and get fully drenched in soapy water, but tonight he figured it would be best to skip all of that—they were nearly halfway asleep, anyhow. He made sure to be extra careful washing the boy’s hair, supporting the back of his neck with one hand as he washed the product out. In the beginning, it was incredibly frightening whenever he would pick Dean up and see his head loll back as though his neck was made of jelly—to see the same, stubborn, beautiful Dean Winchester who’d fought tooth and nail for forty years to see that everyone and everything excluding himself was safe from harm’s way be so pliant and trustworthy to just let Castiel care for him meant the world to him. Forty years was mere infancy to a being like Castiel, but the astounding empathy that flowed like honey from his heart allowed him to comprehend the extreme complexities of Dean's traumatic life.
In many ways, their arrangement made perfect sense: Dean, who’d never truly experienced the unconditional love of a parent, and Castiel, who oozed absolute devotion for him in every sense of the word. It would’ve been wise to perhaps begin all of this just a little sooner, but better late than never, as the saying goes.
Baby De loved the sound of his Papa’s voice—couldn’t get enough of it, as a matter of fact. A rumbling baritone that rivalled a mid-summer’s quiet thunderstorm, Castiel’s voice was the perfect remedy for alleviating any fussiness during a change or after a long nap. All Castiel had to do was place his head against his chest and murmur a lyric-less lullaby and his boy would be out like a light. Keeping his brain engaged during a period of regression was a top priority: he didn’t want Dean to age up feeling disoriented after however long of not exactly using it for the usual, adult purposes. Sam had taken his big brother role very seriously and made a grand effort by purchasing some developmentally appropriate toys for him to play with on top of the great variety of books he was beyond happy to read him (well, more like show the colourful illustrations to. Even adult Dean enjoyed a picture book once in a while).
Castiel drains the tub and lifts Dean out, taking the clean, yellow towel that hung on the back of the bathroom door off its hook. He carries the babbling babe over to the bed and lays him on the fluffy towel, drying and diapering him in no time.
“There we go, nice and clean,” he remarks. Castiel stands and walks over to their shared dresser, taking hold of the middle drawer and picking out a simple blue onesie and some grey sweatpants. He places a hand on Dean’s belly absentmindedly, eyes widening when he can feel an audible growl—Cas would never send his boy off to Dreamland without a proper meal. “Are you hungry, Dean?”
Dean coos up in response. Duh!
“Uh, Cas?”
“Yes, Sam?” he calls out from the kitchen.
“Dean’s drooling. Like, a lot. Is that normal?” Sam shifted his brother in his arms, using the cloth Cas provided to wipe up a majority of the saliva around his mouth. The little hunter then proceeds to shove his beloved stuffed horse in the same general area, coating its brown fur in his slobber. “Dude! Don’t put that in your mouth! That’s yucky, bud.”
Castiel walks out of the kitchen with a different rag over his shoulder, a clean pacifier, and a freshly warmed bottle of milk in his left hand.
“Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose.” He recalled the many, many baby books he read prior to Jack’s birth, remembering that it was, in fact, completely commonplace for babies from infancy to 24 months old to salivate so excessively—and on everything. Mostly during the teething period, but it also had something to do with developing the necessary muscles to swallow and all that. Dean, of course, couldn’t be bothered to obey his brother and simply continued on chewing away at his stuffed horse.
“Papa! Hoo-seee,” Dean exclaims with unfiltered glee.
The two adults grin at each other. God, this kid could get away with murder in their eyes. “Yes, little one, I see your horsie! I think Arlo missed you very much,” Cas comments.
Arlo was a gift from Sam, given to him around the time he first learned of Dean’s Littlespace; he never needed acceptance from anyone other than Castiel, but it meant the world to Dean that his baby brother would love him no matter what. (Nothing in their life was orthodox, so who was Sam to judge his coping mechanism?) It was a two man job to pry the plush from Dean’s grasp so they could wash the horse when necessary, he adored the thing so dearly.
“Okay, cowboy, I think you’ve eaten enough horse hair for one night. That can’t be yummy.” Dean giggles. Sammy was smart, but he could be so silly!
Handing Sam the still-warm bottle, Cas sits in the lounge chair adjacent to the brothers, feeling his bones settle comfortably in the plush leather cushions. They discuss business in hushed voices while the baby drowsily drinks down his dinner, his left hand closed tightly around his brother’s shirt as if to ensure he is still, in fact, there. Cas smiles deliberately when he brings up Eileen in passing and Sam’s ears rival a cherry tomato. Young love, he mused. Peace seldom made an appearance in the presence of Winchester and Co., but when a moment’s tranquility did grace beneath their roof, it never went unappreciated.
When Dean’s eyelids grow heavy and the bottle has virtually emptied, Sam gingerly removes it from his lips and begins to pat his brother’s back. Slowly rising to his feet, the youngest Winchester silently conveys to the angel that he doesn’t mind carrying him to the bedroom; Sam knew damn well that Castiel was perfectly capable of transferring him from place to place on his own, but tonight had been the first genuine interaction he had with Baby De, so sue him if he wanted to be selfish and hang onto this living memory for another minute more.
Dean whines when he senses that the comfortable position he was in was being blatantly disrupted, clinging tighter to Sammy as he felt him place one arm under his padded bum and a sturdy hand on the middle of his back. With his head resting on his brother’s shoulder, Dean could see his Papa trailing right behind them. Oh. Wasn’t as bad as he thought.
But, wait, where on Earth was Sammy taking him?
Turning the corner, the men pass by the Bunker’s library and take note of the pristine stillness of the night. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this tuckered out before, Cas. Not like this, anyway.”
“Food is usually the quickest way to get Dean to sit still, and you know whenever he can sit still for longer than two minutes, he tires rather easily,” Cas states, matter-of-factly. It was especially cute whenever he would lay Dean down for a change and he’d be snoring within seconds of his head grazing against anything remotely resembling plushy material.
“He really isn’t so different when he’s like this, huh?”
The angel grins. “No. No, I suppose not.”
They make it to the bedroom and Sam finally makes peace with the fact that he’s got to hand the boy over to his Papa. Sam didn’t know when the next time he’d get to see Little Dean would be, and a very big part of him ached to be sad, but he was holding out on that since tonight had gone so well that Cas would ask him to take on a bigger role during Dean’s next period of regression. He’d have to wait and see, he guessed. Cas accepts the babe with open arms, kissing him on the side of his face. Now then, where did he put that pacifier from earlier...
“Shh, shh,” he solaces, rubbing soothing circles all along the small of his boy’s back, waiting for the baby to wear himself out once again. “It’s time for bed. You were halfway asleep not too long ago... What ails you, small one?”
“Yeah, buddy,” Sam chimes in, hoping his agreeable nature would rub off on his Little brother. “Even Sammy’s kinda tired after what we went through today. I promise, we’ll be right here when you wake up.”
He knew that, he wasn’t some stupid baby… but why were Sammy and Papa trying to force him to go to sleep right now? He wasn’t even that tired! Besides, they were having such a great time, he didn’t want to go to bed! He wanted to cuddle with Arlo and listen to Sammy and Papa talk about dopey grown up stuff, damn it! Suddenly, a wave of intense recollection washes over him and Dean fusses extravagantly (drama had always been a strong suit of his). Dean may not have known much, but all that he did know was that as soon as he shut his eyes again, he’d have to relive the same godawful events that shook him to his very core. The last thing he ever wanted was to go to sleep and wake up and find that neither Castiel nor Sam ever came looking for him, ever again.
Dean looks frantically at them both before promptly bursting into a fit of siren-grade wailing, digging his nose in between the space where Castiel’s shoulder-blade met his neck. What could’ve possibly brought this on? They think in unison with a shared glance.
Sam and Castiel go down the list of potential causes in a fruitless attempt to locate the root of Dean’s not-yet obvious problem. He couldn’t still be hungry, so they first checked his diaper (finding that it’s perfectly dry), then his temperature (a healthy 98.6°F), and moved down the litany until it appeared that every other basic need was more than satisfied. Eventually, they accepted that all they could do was wait until he’d finished. Babies cry, it’s what they do.
Sam knew better than to comment on the budding migraine that blossomed as a result of his brother’s bawling. Throughout his lengthy thirty-six years, the youngest Winchester couldn’t think of a time when he’d watched his sibling cry so... voluntarily. Tough-as-nails Dean Winchester who reeked of motor oil and beer and leather, unfazed by everyone and everything. The same Dean Winchester who’d fought off Sam’s playground bullies and frightened just about every Big Bad in the Men of Letters archives (and then some), who could charm any woman and intimidate any man. This had always been what he needed: to be able to let go and stop pretending. To at long last watch the walls he spent years erecting crumble. To be taken care of.
To say the least, Sam couldn’t be more grateful to Castiel for being Dean’s refuge.
Minutes later, Dean’s sobs diminish into snivels. The adults never once left his side, wordlessly reminding him he doesn’t have to bear his mental load by himself. They knew he’d speak when he was ready to. When they hear the distraught boy huff a monumental sigh, they internally brace for impact.
“...Don’ wan’ anoth-er nigh’mare.”
Oh.
Focusing on his breathing, Dean presses on. “E-earlier. Sorry ‘bout n-not coming to see you when I ha-ad a nigh’mare.” Sam scooches closer to Cas, who had Dean positioned on his lap once again, reaching over to wipe away a few stray tears that rolled down his warm cheeks. “Papa mad?”
This certainly had been the most talking Dean had ever done in Littlespace, Castiel noticed. He would periodically babble a few nonsensical syllables on top of Papa, Sammy, baba, or his personal favourite, no, indicating that Dean wasn’t entirely Little at the moment, adult thoughts slipping through the thin cracks of his already fragile headspace.
“No, honey, Papa isn’t mad at all,” he begins. “You don’t have to be sorry for that, either, baby bee. I just wished you’d come to one of us sooner, so you didn’t have to be alone when you were feeling sad.” At this point in their lives, there had been no secrets kept between the three of them—but, Castiel had yet to hear about this particular nightmare that plagued his little boy’s thoughts and scarred him so deeply. “Promise Papa that anytime you have a bad dream—even if you’re Big—you’ll come to me or Sammy?”
Sam solemnly nods. “Yeah, kiddo, you can come to us for anything.”
“Bu-ut… ‘s late. Didn’ wan’ wake you!”
Cas shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter, you are far more important.”
Dean couldn’t handle all this kindness at once. No matter how many times his Papa told him otherwise, there would always be John’s voice nagging at the back of his head, screaming lies that would haunt him until the day he breathed his last. Worthless. Ungrateful. Spoiled. Undeserving. He could only imagine the sentiments his father would throw at him if he found he coped in the manner that he did purposefully.
Tears welling up once again, he tries to wiggle free from Castiel’s embrace, only to feel his grip tighten. Why couldn’t they just let him be!
“Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking, Dean Winchester, and you know that none of that is true,” his Papa scolded lovingly. Cas knew the brothers hated whenever he would read their thoughts, but tonight’s circumstances were remotely dissimilar to anything he’d dealt with in the past.
“D-Don’ wanna s’eep! Not tir’d!”
The stubborn baby clenches his beloved plushie closer to his chest—he was determined to stay awake, it appeared. Castiel sighs, but won’t allow this to continue for much longer. “I’ll be right here with you, and your brother is only two rooms away,” consoles the angel, slightly rocking them back and forth.
“Yeah! The Bunker is warded top to bottom with sigils and spells. Those monsters will have to get through your Papa and me if they wanna gobble you whole.” Sam’s fingers quickly dance up and down Dean’s body, tickling him just enough that his brother omits those precious, sleepy baby giggles that could generate enough electricity to light up a suburban town. Castiel chuckles along with them, wishing he could bottle up the sound of his baby’s undiluted elation. “Plus, you’ve got this.”
He stops tickling him to tap the left side of his chest gently. Dean tilts his head to the side, narrowing his gaze in an adorable state of blatant confusion—he certainly took after his Papa in that department. Sam takes the same hand and tugs down the neck hole of his own shirt, Castiel mirroring the movement on the boy so he could make the connection in his brain. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together, Dean’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree: Sammy was big and strong and he had this same squiggly mark that De had, so that obviously means De is just like Sammy! The boy is elated. “I’ve got one too, see?”
Castiel smiles, yet uses the same serious, determined tone to remind Dean of the sincerity of their conversation. “Nothing and nobody can hurt you when you’ve got a family like ours.”
Huh.
Well, the two of them made quite the parenting team, as Dean’s countenance grew significantly less troubled: his brow unfurls as the last of his tears are shed, his body now slack compared to the bundle of nerves he was prior to their calming words. Cas can begin to see the Little’s eyelids fight his present lucidity. The adults exchange a look, one that gave Sam the ‘okay’ to rise and head toward the door.
“Sammy?”
That perks Sam right up. “Yeah, buddy, Sammy’s right here.”
Dean hiccups a little. “‘Lub you, Sammy…”
Castiel and Sam could get used to Dean being this affectionate all the time. Sam swallows back the sob that nearly escapes his throat. Damn. When did he allow himself to get so soft? Perhaps it was just the effect the kid had on him. “I love you too, Dean. Sweet dreams, kiddo.”
“Goodnight, Sam.” Castiel gives the youngest Winchester a lethargic smile before he departs, his heart both light as a feather and well worn out.
Castiel pulls back the heavy covers and Dean crawls right under, cocooning himself like a little... caterpillar-burrito-swaddle hybrid. When the angel follows suit, he draws his baby closer to him, his wings invisibly wrapping around them as an extra layer of protection. Turning off the bedside lamp with a small grunt, Castiel has decided to wait in the darkness until he hears the rhythmic respirations of his charge. While Castiel would never require rest to function at full capacity, he liked to pretend he could, simply in order to feel more connected to Dean. In all honesty, the monotony of Circadian patterns brought him immeasurable satisfaction: his life was seldom predictable, but the promise of sleep had always been something he looked forward to, especially now, considering that he was able to share it with the human he defied Heaven for.
“Papa?” Dean whispers. The boy feels a nod against his cheek. Good, he was listening. “What you dream ‘bout?”
Castiel hums. “‘What does Papa dream about?’” he parrots.
Dean slips his thumb into his mouth and begins to suck lazily on the digit. Were this any other night, Castiel would have insisted on a pacifier, but he was far too exhausted to protest. “Uh huh…”
“...Well, I suppose we won’t find out until the morning.”
The vibrations produced from his Papa’s chest are plenty enough to lull the baby to sleep, and with a final, swift kiss brushed upon the child-of-mind’s forehead, the angel is able to fill his head with visions of shangri-la. Of him and Sam and all of their dearest friends—their family—together as one, not a Big Bad in sight.
Yes, Castiel had learned a great many things about what encompassed being human, but the most important lesson of them all was cradled peacefully under his impenetrable wing, snoring gently, reliant on him for so much.
“I dream of you,” Castiel confessed. “I have always dreamt of you.”
Dean Winchester had taught him to love.