AN: Hey guys! Gotta lot of Holiday traveling to do tomorrow, so you guys get this chapter a day early! Also, this fic has art! It was done by the amazing kuwlshadow! Since Fan Fiction dot net is still stupid and doesn't allow hyperlinks, you'll find the link in my profile.
Castiel sat on the bed next to Dean. He watched Dean's breath rise and fall in sync with Sam's, even as far away as they were. His ran his fingers over the edge of his new paperback book, Cat's Cradle. It was one Dean had shoved into his chest and said with his serious voice, "I won't love you anymore if you don't read it."
Castiel was fairly sure Dean had been joking, but he took the book nonetheless and began reading it that night.
He enjoyed reading, now that he knew it could be an experience. After leaving Purgatory, he had indulged in many books, ranging from a variety of genres. Non-fiction, craft books, to high fantasy like Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire. Reading, like his knitting, was mentally reinvigorating. A way to release the taxing exhaustion the day had dealt them.
These last few days had been extremely mentally exhausting, more so than the usual kind he and the brothers endured.
Castiel was still concerned about John Winchester's sudden appearance. It had to either be angels or demons who had brought the man down from his heaven and back to life. And Castiel still couldn't decipher any sort of motivation for either side to want John Winchester alive.
He sighed and bookmarked his page, making sure to use a slip of paper, and not "dog-ear" it to avoid angering Dean. He could see the stress John Winchester's appearance had made on both brothers. It was odd, however, because though they were obviously stressed, they still seemed happy to have their father back. And Castiel tried to emphasize. He had never met his father, but the desire to one day meet God never dissolved. Dean and Sam may have carried some resentment for their father, but he was still their father. Their family.
Castiel looked over at both brothers. Their eyelids were twitching rapidly, indicating they had entered REM sleep.
Castiel wondered what it was like, to dream. He understood it, intellectually. Understood that it was nothing more than the brain processing stressors and events. It was like watching a movie, the images dancing around and the dreamer was a spectator to them. Sometimes the dreamer wasn't aware that they were actually dreaming, but sometimes they did.
Yes, Castiel understood dreaming, but that was nothing like experiencing it.
And yet, he was terrified of experiencing it. Dean suffered from nightmares, relived Hell and was taken with cold sweats and tremors. Castiel was able to soothe them with little use of his grace, but he didn't like to see Dean in pain, even pain that might not be so serious compared to the severities it could reach.
There was a knock on the door. Castiel frowned and left the bed. He looked through the eyehole in the door and saw John Winchester standing on the other side, looking impatient.
What would John be doing up at this night? Had he found another case?
Castiel quickly undid the deadbolt and opened the door.
John smiled warmly. Castiel noticed John was wearing the sweater Castiel had made him. It made him smile too.
"Can I talk to you?" John whispered, peering past Castiel into the room. "We haven't had a chance to speak with each other alone. I'd like to get to know you better."
Castiel looked over his shoulder. Sam and Dean were both sleeping peacefully. Dean had turned over onto his stomach and curled into the warm space Castiel had left. He snored then, and smacked his lips obnoxiously.
Truth be told, Castiel wanted to speak with John himself. This was the man that had raised Sam and Dean; the man that loved Dean so much, he sold his soul for him. The world's greatest hunter. Castiel respected the man, and he was Sam and Dean's family. He owed it to John to be respectful, and accept him as family.
"Of course," Castiel said, stepping forward. He closed the door behind him. It automatically locked behind him.
"Let's go for a drive," John said, stepping onto the parking lot. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out what Castiel recognized as Dean's keyring. "Don't tell Dean," John said, laughing slightly.
He opened the driver side door and started the engine. It roared to life and the lights shone brightly against the row of rose bushes in front of it. Castiel slide into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.
There was a clicking noise right beside his head.
Castiel froze.
"Don't move," John growled.
Castiel's hand was still wrapped around the door handle. He swallowed and looked out of the corner of his eye. John Winchester held the Colt. Castiel felt the cold steel of the barrel pressed against his temple.
There was a rattling sound.
"Put your hands out in front of you," John said. "Now." He dug the barrel of the gun against the sensitive skin of Castiel's temple.
Castiel slowly moved his hands in front of him. He kept his head still, but never took his eyes away from the weapon pressed against his head.
John reached in front of him, struggling to keep the weapon still.
With one hand, John snapped on the handcuffs, adjusting them to their full tightness. They bit into the skin around his wrists, and they burned. Castiel clenched his teeth together to hold back the hiss of pain. It wasn't just around his wrists, either, but it went deeper, into him and his mind. His vision failed, fuzzy and blurred colors the only thing he was able to make out. He was unable to read the sigils etched into the cuffs. But he couldn't move his wings, or reach his smiting powers to blast the damn cuffs off.
It was very similar to the collar the demons in Ohio had made him wear.
"What are you doing?" Castiel managed to gasp. He didn't understand. He thought John liked him. He thought…
He was so stupid.
"Protecting my family," John said. He shifted the car into gear and rammed the gas, sending it circling out of the parking space. Castiel's stomach lurched with it; an unsettling sensation came about him once the car began to move forward. His stomach felt heavy and bubbly, and he felt very, very hot. The heat went straight to his face, down his throat, and sweat began to bead at his hairline.
He gasped for breath like he couldn't get enough. It was an unsettling feeling. He felt out of control of his vessel.
"Who's the poor bastard you're possessing?" John said.
"What?"
John struck him against the head with the Colt. Pain exploded in Castiel's head. His vision blurred even worse, funny shapes appearing in the mix of blurred colors.
"Who are you possessing?" John said again, slowly. It was a deep, guttural growl.
"I'm not possessing anyone," Castiel answered, swallowing. Warm blood trickled down his temple, around the auricle of his ear. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hand. "This body is mine."
"No it's not," John snarled. The car moved faster. Castiel's throat burned. "I've been reading about your kind. 'Angels'. You can't interact on Earth without a vessel. Like demons."
Castiel shook his head. "You're not wrong. Angels do need a vessel. Our true forms can be…overwhelming for the human mind. But, we do not possess. We're not like demons. We can only take a vessel with explicit permission. And, the man who used to own this body is gone."
Castiel's eyes burned when he thought of Jimmy Novak. Poor Jimmy Novak. He had wanted to serve God, but not like this. No, at the end, Jimmy's decision had nothing to do with God, but been only his desire to protect his family, in whatever way possible.
"This body was a gift," Castiel said. Not just from Jimmy, but from God. When Lucifer had nearly annihilated him, killing Jimmy, God recreated Castiel in this likeness.
John snorted. "You're dangerous. Hideously so. I saw you take out that djinn, and those demons, with your bare hands. It was only a matter of time before you went rogue and used that fancy 'grace' of yours to take out Sam and Dean, wasn't it?"
"What? No!"
John raised the gun again and Castiel flinched. John's jaw tightened and he lowered the gun minutely.
"Sam and Dean," Castiel felt the panic settle in his chest, squirming like a fist full of worms. "They're my family. I would never hurt them."
"Of course you would. You were just waiting for the right time. You're a monster, sure as day. You been using mind control on them, make them keep you around?"
"Of course not!"
It was then Castiel realized he might die. John Winchester had the Colt, Castiel was bound, both in body and grace; he was weak, nearly human, and John Winchester had a vendetta and a weapon that could bring him harm just millimeters from his head. John was angry, deluded, even. Anger clouded judgement, and it would only take John just squeezing his finger slightly and Castiel would be dead.
He inhaled shakily. What would Sam and Dean think, when they found out? Would they ever know the truth? If they knew the truth, would they care? Castiel knew how much Dean loved his father. Would Dean's love for John outweigh John's crimes against Castiel?
Castiel's vision was slowly recovering from the head blow. He shifted his eyes to look out the windshield. He saw the black of the asphalt, the occasional blur of a tree, or building. He didn't understand these human road systems, though. He didn't know where John was taking him, and how he might get back to the boys if he could escape.
He contemplated jumping out the car door. He estimated the car was going sixty miles an hour, which meant he was moving at sixty miles an hour. If he jumped out the car, he would definitely obtain injuries to the skin and muscle, road burns. He risked breaking bones, and more head injuries.
However, he was certain that it wouldn't kill him. Even with the cuffs, bodily harm wouldn't be enough to kill him.
A shot in the head from the Colt that John Winchester held in his hands could definitely kill him.
He moved. He lunged for the door handle and pressed all his weight against the door—
And nothing moved. Castiel moved the door handle again and it barely shifted. The outside environment buzzed by, and the panic in Castiel's chest exploded, escaping in heavy breaths.
"Don't even think about it," John said. "You move for that lock, I'll blow your brains out right here, right now."
Castiel looked at the door lock. The irony of the situation was painful; just a silver peg was his wall before freedom and death. And if he took it, he would encounter death.
"Answer me, now," John said. "How have you been using your magic on my boys?"
"I don't—" Castiel began to say, then swallowed. "I help them. I heal their injuries, I aide them to sleep—"
"You brainwash them, don't you."
"No! I would never….the mind is sacred, I would never invade their privacy in such a way."
When he first met Dean, he had seen into the Righteous Man's mind; seen the depth of his despair, his pitiful self-loathing, self-hatred. It was the only time he ever peered into a human's subconscious, seen them at their most vulnerable. He had never peered into Dean's mind since. Somethings, he knew, were just too personal to share with anyone, somethings needed to be kept strictly to oneself, not even shared with loved ones.
He loved Dean and Sam. He would never betray them in such a way.
"You're lying," John said. "My boys would never let something like you live, if you weren't influencing them somehow."
Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line. He could see where the Winchester boys got their irritating stubbornness from.
The car skidded to a halt. Castiel's body was thrown forward and his face hit the dashboard. His mouth filled with blood instantly, and he prodded at a loose tooth with his tongue.
There was the popping of the car locks. John exited the car, slamming the driver's door shut. He wrenched open the passenger's side and grabbed Castiel by the handcuffs, hauling him bodily out. Castiel failed to get his footing and slumped to his knees hard against the asphalt. The shock raced up his femurs and spine.
With these cuffs, he was very nearly human human. Castiel remembered what it was like to scrap the edge of humanity, during that period where he was Falling and becoming less angel every day. When sleep and food were necessities and every day aches and pains built on top of one another. These aches he had now were not the simple, mundane aches of humanity.
He forced his eyes open through the pain. They were in front of an old, beat up storage unit. Castiel looked over his shoulder. The main road was about fifty feet away. A car drove past just as he watched.
If he screamed, would somehow hear him?
Would John Winchester kill him?
John grabbed him by the elbow. "Get. Up." John twisted at Castiel's arm and pulled him up. Castiel's feet were wobbly, but he focused his attention on keeping on his feet.
He felt something press against his back. "Move," John said, clamping a hard hand on Castiel's shoulder. He shoved Castiel forward, into the building. Castiel allowed it. It was in his best interest to obey John, at least until he could devise an escape plan.
It was dark, damp, and smelly. There was no natural light. John shoved him into the center of the room, and then he let go.
"Don't get any funny ideas," John said.
There was a subtle, sudden sloshing noise.
John shoved something heavy into his hands. "Pour a circle."
Castiel furrowed his brow, until he realized what he was holding. It was the jug of holy oil the boys kept in their trunk. Its weight seemed to double in Castiel's hand. He looked up at John. John was glancing down at his cell phone several feet away.
He must have felt Castiel's stare. He looked up, and his features darkened. "Pour the circle, now." He raised the Colt.
"Please," Castiel said. He hadn't meant to say it, to sound so desperate, but the fear of being trapped behind holy fire outweighed his pride. "There must be some sort of misunderstanding. Sam and Dean are my family."
"The circle."
"There is no need for this," Castiel said. "The handcuffs, there are enough to keep me contained. Really, the oil is an unnecessary redundancy—"
The shot fired off. Castiel fell to the ground, a fiery pain burning just underneath his knee. The jug fell to the ground, and the noise echoed throughout the small room. Castiel's hand instinctively went to the pain site. He peeled it away, and his palm was wet, sticky red. A lump formed in his throat. John Winchester's footsteps paced around his head.
John bent down. He hand wrapped around the plastic jug and lifted it. A drop of oil slugged down and dripped beside Castiel's nose. The stench was repulsive, and only added to the heaviness in Castiel's stomach.
He heard the familiar sound of the oil being placed, mixed in with John's footsteps circling him.
The stimulation was too much. There was the dull, but present pain in his head, the new, fiery pain in his leg, his stomach, his blotchy vision, and John Winchester, all demanding parts of his attention.
There was a small click and a whoosh. Bright flames shot up around Castiel. Something instinctual stirred inside Castiel, some itch inside his brain. He pulled his wings as close to him as he could, pulled his hands towards his center. The cuffs bound his grace, but the fire could still kill him with just a touch.
He looked up to John. John staring down at him with murderous intent.
Yet, if John wanted to kill him, he had all the opportunities to do so. Why bother with the oil at all? John could've killed him outside the motel room with the Colt.
"What are you going to do with me?" Castiel asked.
"Get you out of the way," John said. He walked away to the corner. Castiel arched his neck uncomfortably, but couldn't see what John was picking up. "Don't worry, I've got it all figured out."
"The boys will never forgive you."
Castiel heard the sound of the oil dripping again, heard the familiar click of the lighter.
"That's where you're wrong. See, once I get you out of the way, your little magic voodoo thing is gonna disappear. They're gonna be thinking clearly for the first time since you ever shoved your way into their lives. They're gonna be thankful."
Castiel saw something long and dark swinging object in John's hand. The top part was red and smoldering.
"We've got ourselves a little time, though," John said. He swung the object in his hand, creating a whooshing noise. John raised it above his head. "How about we have a little fun?"