Chapter title is from song by Chris Cornell.
38
As Hope and Promise Fade – Chris Cornell
The moves Castiel taught Toby were like none Zee had ever seen before. Working with the boy, the angel slowed the speed of his movements from a near invisible blur and adjusted the length of his steps with a patience not unlike Dean's, the evenness of his voice eerily reminiscent of his friend. Zee wondered if Castiel had ever taught anyone before, if angels were ever children, or cherubs, or if they just emerged into the world fully formed with all they needed to know emblazoned in their minds.
They worked until Toby was exhausted enough to sleep at night, and then Toby spent far too much time staring and studying the sigils on the walls until she was sure he had them memorized. She caught Toby staring fixedly at the blood sigil Castiel had painted on the hallway wall with a casual slice of his own palm, with movements efficient and familiar like the angel had done it too many times before, and said firmly, "No."
"But…" Toby protested.
"You're not big enough yet. You'll pass out from blood loss before you get halfway done."
"What if…"
"No. You run."
Toby tucked his lower lip in and frowned stubbornly.
"Promise, Toby."
Toby's face set.
"You're no good to me unconscious on the ground, bleeding. When you weigh enough, we'll talk about it."
"How much?"
"At least 110 pounds. That's how much you have to weigh to donate blood. Fair enough?"
Toby nodded reluctantly before walking away with a begrudging, "Okay."
Cas padded up silently beside her from where he had been listening to the exchange.
"You do not want him to know all these things."
She did not turn to look at the angel, staring instead at the shadows on the pale wooden floor.
"It's a bit late for that."
More than sight, she sensed Cas' frown.
"You don't want him to learn to defend himself?"
She slid a sideways look at the puzzlement on Castiel's face, the furrow between his brows, trying to understand, like the luxury of innocence was a concept he had never known. Perhaps it was so, if he had been born or made with the moves of battle woven into his being, intrinsic to him, and had never known otherwise. She stopped for a moment to consider the half-ex-angel besides her, perplexity still in his eyes.
"No. I would rather he had a choice."
Blue eyes, piercing and deep, regarded her with searching intensity. Without a word Cas turned on his heel to follow Toby where the boy had wandered down the hall to stare at a different sigil, drawing on his palm to commit it to memory. Toby looked up briefly, startled by the angel's shadow suddenly looming over him. Too late Zee recalled what Cas had done for Dean to give Lisa and Ben their normal lives. She only managed a sound when Cas placed his palm flat on Toby's chest and two fingers to his forehead, and caught the boy when he slumped over in sleep without a whimper. She was by his side then, looking at the peaceful face of the sleeping child and the haggard face of the angel holding him, before she whispered, "You made him forget?"
Cas looked surprised.
"No."
"Then what did you do?"
"I carved an Enochian warding into his ribs. He is invisible to the angels now."
She caught Toby in her arms as Cas shivered suddenly and sagged against the wall, his hand trembling with something like the shakes.
"Castiel."
"I'll be alright. I just…need a moment." He drew a steadying breath, fisting the shaking hand to control it. "This grace, it's not mine."
"Cas." She placed her hand over his fist. "Sit before you fall over."
He sunk heavily to the floor, sliding down the wall for support. She reached around the burden of the child in her arms and touched the angel's cheek lightly, frowning at the gray pallor of his skin and the dark pockets that had bloomed beneath his eyes. Castiel looked up at her apologetically.
"I am afraid I cannot repeat the same warding for you. There is not enough grace left."
"And when it goes?"
"I go."
She kept her touch light on the dying angel's face, the pattern of sunlight streaming down onto her arm striated by the Enochian drawn on the skylight above. Something pressed down on her chest, looking into those wide blue eyes, the preciousness of the grace so thoughtlessly given to heal her, to protect Toby, and yet the first words to cross his lips were of apology. Labored human breaths moved the angel's chest up and down, and his skin was clammy cold beneath her fingertips. The large bruise and scab on his neck remained from where the angel blade had punctured his throat days ago, he had not bothered to heal that. She did not know of this creature before her what parts were grace and what parts flesh and blood, and she could do nothing about the grace or the guilt that laid heavy in his eyes, but if he breathed and bled then those were the only, if paltry, things she knew how to help him with.
She pulled her hand back and rearranged Toby in her arms so she could carry Toby to bed. Turning her head slightly as she stood, she addressed the trench-coated angel still leaning against the wall on the ground.
"Come on. That looks like shock. Let's try getting some food into you."
The bunker was too small. Too quiet. Too still.
Too much like a tomb.
"Got anything?"
Sam looked up from his laptop, drawing his lips into a patient line.
"The Fallen have been out of circulation for millennia, Dean. I have to dig."
"Well, dig faster."
Sam twitched on a swallowed rebuttal. He knew he was trying Sam's patience, but he couldn't help it. He hated this. Feeling. That sense of being suspended in the air, a part of himself hanging out there, vulnerable. He wanted it to stop.
He wanted to not care.
His right hand flexed. Sam's eye came up at that motion—the twitch of his hand looking for the weapon that belonged there. Sam fixed him with a stare.
He wanted to ask Sam what it mattered. He was so tired. What difference did it make? There was only one way this was all going to end. He should pick up the First Blade and just go. Take care of things. Find this Ramiel douche, and he would find him, archangel or not, and have it out. Knock down, drag out, fight to the end.
The things he could do now. He'd give Ramiel a run for his money, that much his gut said, that much the fear and consideration in Crowley's eyes had told him. He could do that much.
"Dean." Sam was standing up, one hand closing the lid of his laptop. "We could just call Cas. Just to check in and see how they're doing. We could."
He pivoted away from Sam, from Sam's reasonableness. That was how they had gotten sunk into this mess in the first place, Sam's reasonableness. And now there were pieces of himself just billowing out there in the wind, in the world, and he couldn't reach out and gather them in because his hands were fire. It was pure torture. It was better if he touched nothing at all.
He should just go.
Some of his thought must have bled through in his eyes, because in two steps Sam was besides him.
"No. Don't you dare."
He had no idea if the bunker's warding could keep him in. It was designed to keep things out.
"Dean."
He looked at Sam. His brother. Trying to remember the face of his brother. Was that a good idea? Wouldn't it be easier if it all didn't matter?
"Dean."
He'd never been able to stand it when Sam did that. It hurt. It hurt because he couldn't fix it. He had never been able to fix it—the giant rent in his family that Azazeal had torn, the metallic smell of blood dripping from above and the heat lash of fire in his face, Dad thrusting Sammy into his arms and ordering him to run, Dad's voice broken and the wet kiss of Dad's tears with the smell of ash and smoke, everything ripping apart and apart and he'd never been able to fix it, patch it over, make things normal again. He'd never be able to go home again, never be able to square things for his little brother, and Death would always be a shadow over Sam's shoulder.
Wouldn't it be easier just to not care?
Sam had his phone out, dialing.
Dean swiped it from his hand and disconnected the call. For a long moment he just held the phone in his hand, his eyes closed around a tremble, his knuckles white, trying to remember to breathe in and breathe out, everything too close to the surface, trying not to crack. He could feel Sam's stillness, without looking, the hard compression of Sam's expression, waiting the moment out.
He cracked open his eyes on a pursed frown and slowly walked himself over to the long library table, piled high with fragile manuscripts and archaic, spidery books. Sam watched him, the careful evenness of his steps and the deliberateness of his motion as he pulled out a chair and sat down, before rejoining him at the mound of research that seemed like it would never end.
"Alright. Where do you want me to start? It'll go faster with two of us."