Author's Note: Before we begin, I feel like I should explain my idea to switch Castiel's gender instead of getting hate for it. To begin, I am more comfortable with writing from a female's perspective since that is my gender. I also have been cosplaying a lot of Fem!Cas, or Castielle, recently and have become rather fond of the thought of how Castiel would react to a different vessel. It is an idea that is rarely approached in fanfiction. Lastly, I would like to add that I have nothing against gay relationships, such as the typical Destiel. On the contrary, I support it. I just thought this would be an interesting twist to the Destiel relationship.
On another note, this particular fic contains spoilers the season eight finale of Supernatural, Sacrifice. If you have not seen the episode or are unaware of what happens, I highly recommend you come back and read this fic once you have :) I believe I've talked for enough now, so enjoy the fic!
I knock on a hotel door labeled with an insignificant number that hardly distinguishes this room from any other. The variation is not the number nor the furniture that it holds inside, but rather the individuals that temporarily inhabit the modified living conditions. This particular identical hotel room hosts Sam and Dean Winchester. Several muted curses arise through the thin cracks in the door as they groggily argue over who will be the one to break their serenity of sleep to open the door at this absurd hour. After a silent game of rock, paper, scissors and the resulting curse from Dean, the door is wrenched open. It reveals Dean in nothing but a pair of shorts, and I quickly avert my eyes, abashed.
Immediately I notice that he glances over me, a small female with cinnamon curls and rather apparent azure eyes, before his expression eases into something less harsh. "Listen, I don't know who you are, but my brother and I have only gotten about four hours of sleep this week between us, so if you could come back later that would be fan-freakin'-tastic."
He is beginning to shut the duplicated door on me when I mumble, "Please, Dean. I don't know where else to go."
The door's swift motion pauses, and Dean's gruff voice emanates from the little space that classifies it as remaining open. "How do you know my name?"
"It is not a shock that you are unable to recognize me," I say, rather informatively for I was attempting to keep my newly discovered emotions removed from the conversation. "I hardly was able to identify myself."
"Are you gonna tell me who you are or keep being cryptic?" Dean demanded, rapidly becoming irritated and once again yanking the door open.
I glance over his familiar features, hardened with hidden frustration. Though Dean attempts to express his emotions as little as possible, I have learned how to see the subtle subtext. "It's me, Cas." Sam appears behind a skeptical Dean, once again scrutinizing me and causing me to fidget nervously.
"No, you aren't," Dean responds defiantly. "Cas is a dude, and you're certainly not."
"Something went amiss when I…" My voice suddenly becomes inaudible, the sound relocated to the place where my Grace should be. My back feels bare without the wings that usually adorn it, a feathery sense of loss that is a constant irritant, and I adjust my back to accommodate it. "I do not understand precisely why I took this form rather than my usual, but I may be able to reappear in my regular vessel in a couple of days."
"I don't understand," Sam admitted, his eyebrows drawn over his sympathetic brown eyes. "What logical explanation is there for that?"
My mind mulls over the multiple possibilities, settling upon the most likely. I believe that there are still traces of my Grace tainting my true vessel, meaning I am incapable of inhabiting Jimmy as I would prefer until all the Grace has been washed from his form. I am unclear to whether his consciousness has regained command of his physical being, but at the moment it is not of importance. However, as Sam and Dean are unaware of my recent plummet, I cannot explain this to them. The only alternative seems to be lying, which is something I'm neither fond of nor decent at. "I am not confident in an explanation."
Dean infers that I am finished on the particular subject. "See, I value my four hours over this little chat right now, so how 'bout we continue it later?," Dean interjects, agitated. He gestures into the darkened hotel room and then silently shuts the oak door behind me. "I know you don't sleep, so just… no creepy keeping watch over," Dean stumbled, nearly saying me before catching himself, "us, alright?" I nod solemnly. Dean and Sam amble back to their individual beds before lying down and shutting their heavy eyelids. Sam begins to snore lightly, and then about five minutes later, Dean's breath becomes more even as each exhale comes at a constant rate. I feel a slight aching in my body, and my mind becomes contorted as the world becomes blurry for an unidentified cause. Rest may aid me in appeasing this exhaustion, so I sink onto the velvet couch hoping that it will replenish my energy. The world twists into a daze as sleep, an unfamiliar sensation, consumes me.
Searing wings turn to ash, leaving a trail of broken, bloodied feathers that gracefully waltz through the air. The metallic tint of blood stains the atmosphere, dousing the angels in the scarlet of their mangled wings. Grace is forcefully being extracted from every individual angel, with one exception – the merciless Metatron, leaving our home in Heaven barren and in consuming flames. The newfound humans plunge towards Earth's ground, powerless to support themselves without their elaborate wings. The intolerable pain and suffering pulsates through the sky full of fallen stars, fallen angels.
Their inhuman shrieks pursue my formless soul until the voices distort into a singular, monotonous murmur. "You did this. You did this, Castiel." The repetitive statements glide into a hiss, the consonants being elongated. "You did this. This is entirely your fault. You caused this."
"No," I croak, the sound emanating from an unknown source. Instantaneously I was able to determine that it was not the voice of my true vessel, Jimmy, because it lacked the deep baritone.
"The angels wouldn't have fallen if it wasn't for you. You broke Heaven, Castiel. Then you gleefully emptied it out. You are glad you don't have to find a way to handle the struggle against the stress that accompanies along with any kind of position in leadership, for you would repeat the same offenses. Remember the Leviathan?" I realize the words resound through the crevices of my mind, and I attempt to force the malicious words out to purify my thoughts. There is suddenly a hollow chasm where my larynx previously was, and despite this, I can still feel the atrocious laughter resonating with cruelty escaping my lips. "Yes, it's me, Metatron." He indicates to the gruesome scene surrounding the body we are sharing. "I didn't bring this about alone, Castiel. You caused it with your overwhelming need to compensate for your mistakes, for that made you easy to manipulate. You not only harmed yourself, but every remaining brother and sister that you hadn't previously murdered."
Crimson flames are produced from alternative sources of fuel, blazing across the earth while scorching the remains of my home in Heaven. Before I am entirely aware, every individual being, human or not, is burning with the excruciating agony I was the source of. The smoke obscures my vision as the Grace of a myriad of shattered angels entraps me.
I awake with a sharp inhale, my senses beginning to gradually comprehend the near silence settled over the serene hotel room. My eyes take a decent amount of time to adjust to the frigid color of night while I attempt to wrangle my scattered thoughts into a defense against my recent nightmare. It may have been my fault, but I was tricked. Metatron told me that the spell would simply close off Heaven, forcing its inhabitants to fix their several problems. It's not my fault… Despite this, I lose confidence every time I repeat the statement.
The shadows contort to form a figure looming above me, and I dismiss the danger due to the illusion I still have my angel abilities. By the time I remember recent events, I am able to recognize the person. "Cas," There is a pause, allowing Dean to adjust to the new form he associates the word with, "were you sleeping?"
"I believe so," I muse, keeping my tone quiet so I wouldn't wake up Sam. I have learned previously that he does not appreciate that.
"I thought angels don't sleep." His outline becomes more defined as my eyes continue to focus through the darkness, and I can see that he crosses his arms.
Hesitation causes me to falter, trying to determine what extent of the truth I should share with Dean. More profound bond, scurries through my mind. "They don't." His confusion is evident through his unnatural silence, contradicting who Dean is as an individual. "I'm not an angel anymore, Dean." Further silence implies that I did not clarify to the extent that Dean was hoping for. "We, I, fell from Heaven after Metatron stole my Grace." Guilt twists my words into a more downcast tone, which Dean appears to notice.
"I'm sure we can get it back," Dean attempts to reassure me.
I shake my head, unnaturally long hair whipping around my head in a rather irritating movement. I could be mistaken, but I believe Dean chuckles. "I- I don't think we can, Dean. Metatron is most likely storing it in heaven, which I no longer have access to."
"What about the other angels? Can't they just snap their fingers and get it?"
"They fell too. They burned, Dean, and it is all because I was unable to realize that Metatron was manipulating me. I caused every single one of my siblings an unimaginable amount of pain." The devastating event begins a cycle through my thoughts, wracked with emotion, and causes an involuntary irregularity in my breathing and constant sharp pricks behind my eyes.
After a couple of moments, Dean sits down beside me and clumsily places his arms around my shoulder in a comforting gesture. For an unexplainable reason, it appears to make me feel a little better. "Is that what your nightmare was about?" I give Dean an expression that conveyed how perplexed I was that he was able to deduce that as quickly as he did. "I'm not an idiot, Cas, despite common belief. You were asleep, and then you woke up in distress."
"You are correct. I am more attuned to their agony, magnified by Metatron's malevolence. But it's my fault, and I can't stop thinking about it." Dean, unsure of how to verbally respond to this, just tightens his grip around me protectively. Fatigue begins to ebb into my thoughts, and I wearily rest my head on Dean's bare shoulder.
We stay in the same, silent position for an incalculable amount of time before Dean laughs, a gruff sound muted to assure his brother's sleep. "What's humorous?" I inquire, incapable of understanding why he was suddenly content.
"You reek, Cas. What are you wearing anyways?"
I glance down as a futile attempt to answer his question, but the darkness prevents it. "I… I don't know. It was not of importance."
"Well, it certainly is now." He stands, causing me to readjust to compensate for his movement, and walks over to the bag settled at the bottom of his bed's headboard before rummaging through its contents. He grabs an item and saunters over to me, holding a blue, plaid shirt. "Here, put this on." I take the cozy flannel shirt, already unbuttoned, and begin to pull the long sleeves over the ones that I have previously on. Dean shakes his head, amused. "No, Cas. The idea is that you can change out of your dirty clothes and put on something clean." I nod, nearly grasping the concept, and timidly take the shirt to the small bathroom next to the bed Sam's snores are emanating from. The blinding light reveals that I am wearing a worn pair of sneakers, filthy socks, jeans ripped in the knees, and a simple tee shirt. I begin to undress, layer by layer, and then pull Dean's comfortable shirt over my head. It smells like him, I think, recognizing the diverse scents of both greasy fast food and an aura of the outdoors. I proceed to pushing the sleeves back to my elbows, for they are much too long, and button up Dean's large shirt before fingerbrushing the knotted curls. Bending down to reach the clothes gathered in a rather messy heap on the floor, I retrieve them and pile them nicely under the sink. I then turn the florescent bathroom light off and stumble over the blindness to stand by the couch, my eyelids feeling as if they were to droop over my eyes.
"Better." Dean nods approvingly. "Now, I still need my four hours, so we'll talk more in the morning." He sinks into the mattress, offering sleep permission to overtake him.
Embarrassed of what I am about to ask, I drop my hands to my sides, the sleeves slipping past my elbows to my fingertips, and nervously fuss with the hem of the shirt. "Dean?"
There is a note of frustration in his voice. "What?"
"How do I prevent those illusions you call dreams?"
He briefly considers the question before his temper, shorted by his lack of sleep, responds for him. "You can't really. You just have to struggle through them." He shifts his position from his back to one of his shoulders.
"May I…," I begin, already apprehensive of the question, "can I sleep next to you?"
"Why?" It is a single, disbelieving syllable, echoing with another emotion I haven't been able to identify yet.
I stutter over a response, my cheeks rather heated and my thoughts abandoning any logical reply. "I… uh, nevermind," I falter.
"Wuss," Dean mutters. "You're not gonna make a request like that without an explanation." There once again is the appeal to lie instead of admitting that I feel protected when near Dean, but the muddled words come out as a flustered, nearly inaudible sound. "Spit it out, Cas. You sound like a preteen girl with a crush." The analogy is more accurate than I care to admit, but I decide to keep that particular portion of information to myself. "Fine," Dean mumbles, turning over and attempting to fall back asleep.
I fathom that this is my last opportunity, so I begin talking at such a speed that my words blend together in an attempt to get them out as quick as possible. "IfeelsafewhenIamwithyoulikethingsmayactuallybealr ightforamomentItfeelslikethereissomeonewhomayaccep tmedespitethecircumstances."
"Cas, I didn't understand a word of that."
I nervously run my fingers through my hair before taking a deep breath and repeating what I said previously at a slower pace. "I feel safe when I am with you, Dean, like things may actually be alright for a moment. It feels like there is someone who may accept me despite the circumstances." The words are bulky when I'm saying them, but there is an undeniable truth that remains that makes them sound much better once they are said. Dean sits up, looking at me through a haze of night with emerald eyes that I can picture clearly.
"Me too." The idea that this particular, very human sensation may be mutual spreads unusual warmth throughout me for reasons that I can't quite interpret.
"So, um, may I?" Dean nods, acknowledging and furthermore accepting the request nonverbally, and simply watches as I sit down next to him crosslegged on the rather narrow hotel bed. "Thank you. I just don't want to have another nightmare."
Dean chuckles quietly, and I become aware that we are sitting in rather close proximity to one another. "I hate to tell you this, but they don't really go away." His voice, in its reduced volume, sounds even more coarse than usual.
"Why not?"
"I wish I could tell you, Cas. It's just a normal part of human life." He sounds bitter, as if nightmares are a frequent occurrence for him.
For a moment, I am filled with an insatiable curiosity for an explanation of this complicated man who I've known for years and still can't quite comprehend. My interest consumes me, and I feel compelled to speak. "What do you have nightmares about?"
His initial response is defensive, as I expected. "That's kind of personal." The exhaustion I have been fighting is starting to overpower me, and I lay down, resting my head on the pillow and sliding under the blankets. Dean soon mimics my actions, and his outline becomes more defined as my gaze fixates on him in the dim light. "Hell," he states. "But I suppose that's expected. It's more than that though; it's what I did there to all those souls, how I tortured them." His voice transitions into something with a sorrowful subtext. "And nightmares about losing the few people I have left. Charlie, Sam, you…" He fumbles around until he finds my hand, tentatively entwining his fingers with mine. "And airplanes." Dean shudders, causing me to laugh quietly. The chuckle is concluded with a weary yawn. "I think you should probably go to sleep Cas."
"I'm still not very fond of the idea," I admit apprehensively.
"It'll be alright," Dean assures me. He shifts so that he is even closer than before, sending my heart into strange rhythms that I don't recognize, and untwines our fingers so he can wrap an arm around me, making me feel precisely as I was attempting to explain previously. He falls asleep before I do, but I allow sleep to soon engulf me and follow quickly behind.
Author's Note: Well guys, that's the end of Chapter One! Chapter Two is currently in the works and hopefully should be posted shortly. I hope you enjoyed it, for I certainly enjoyed writing that bit of fluff at the end :)
Please review! What takes me hours to write only takes you a couple of seconds to review.
Until the next chapter!
-NN