AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Enochian is in bold
(RE)BORN YESTERDAY
PART 1
Castiel sat on the couch in patient observation of the newly-reunited Winchester family. The night had been quiet so far, allowing the angel time to contemplate his father's actions. The healing of Sam Winchester's soul through the use of God's own grace was an astonishing gift. And like everything associated with his father's "mysterious ways," it was wrapped in layers of complications.
Sam was essentially now the first fledgling since the creation of the Earth. There was no guarantee the Heavenly flock would accept him on sight and Castiel worried for the boy's safety. He also had concerns about his own ability to teach Sam control. Castiel was a soldier—he had been trained in strategy, tactics, and how to win battles. He had never been a nurturer or trained healer. His experience with young angels was limited to passing observation. All of Heaven held them as their most precious commodity, especially since the angels didn't reproduce among themselves. God had created each and every one of them, from the archangels all the way down to the cupids. And now he had recreated Sam Winchester.
He stared intently at the small form of his young friend, remembering the terror he'd felt when the woman from the British Men of Letters had banished him from Sam's side. It had taken him a couple hours to return to the bunker. His fear and guilt at being unable to protect the only remaining Winchester was a driving force and he'd arrived prepared for the worst. But when he discovered Dean and Mary...
As an angel, human emotions had always been a mystery. Even during the months he spent living as a human, emotions had taken a back seat to understanding the new bodily sensations of hunger and exhaustion. But since his co-habitation with Lucifer and his return to the waking world where his father was now with them in the bunker, emotions were stronger and more prominent. None more so than the joy and relief he felt at finding his best friend alive and well.
Meeting Mary was a rushed moment, overshadowed by his need to find Sam. But he recognized that there was a conflict of feeling—happiness for the boys who had lived without a loving parent most of their lives, and another emotion that made his stomach sour and chest tighten.
There had been no time to analyze what he had felt in that moment as they rushed into the bunker and discovered a pool of blood and no Sam. Protectiveness? Jealousy? Castiel mused as his gaze shifted to the boys' mother. The sour feeling from before had long faded. He knew that initial stab of jealousy was a result of seeing the boys as his charges for so many years. Fear that she would try to replace him eased when he realized she had lost as much as the rest of them.
As the evening progressed, he saw how unsure she was in her interaction with her sons. Seeing Sam for the first time had shocked all of them. Mary didn't know the boy, and Dean was torn between suspicion and incredulous disbelief. But Castiel knew the child as soon as he saw him. What shocked him wasn't the fact that Sam looked younger and smaller. No, it was the powerful radiating grace intertwined with the now-glowing familiar soul. Never before had Castiel witnessed such a combination, and the urge to protect him was fierce.
By the time the Winchesters were asleep and Castiel had soothed away the beginnings of a nightmare for Mary, he realized he already considered her as another one of his charges. Perhaps it would have been different if Sam was still fully human. Then, Castiel would have been struggling with being the outcast of their little family. But Sam was now more than a metaphoric brother—he was literally Castiel's youngest sibling.
A tiny whimper drew his attention back to the brothers. Sam was restless, turning away from his brother to face the wall. The blankets had fallen off and the boy's body was tightly curled in on itself. With barely a thought, Castiel flew to the bed, silently landing in the space between Sam and the wall without disturbing Dean.
He placed a hand on Sam's back, trying to comfort him without the use of grace. There was no telling how the new fledgling would react to it while asleep, but he suspected it would not go over well. When Castiel had held Sam in the hallway to prevent his falling, the boy had reacted violently. The words spoken in Enochian clued him in to the problem—that Sam recognized the sensation of grace and equated it with torture.
Remembering Sam's more positive reaction to his wings, Castiel unfurled the right one and brushed his feathers across Sam's face and arms. Vague memories of his own experiences as a young angel floated through his mind and he recalled the contentment and warmth found wrapped in a caretaker's embrace.
Sam shifted closer as Castiel continued rubbing small circles on his back. Hazel eyes blinked open, confused and sleepy, and looked up at him. Recognition seemed to wake him up further and Castiel retracted his wing and hand as Sam pushed himself up to sitting. His head swung around, taking in the sleeping figures of his brother and mother before returning to look at quiet angel.
"Castiel?" he whispered.
"Yes, Samuel?" Castiel replied, following Sam's lead in using Enochian.
"What...what doing?"
Castiel wondered if Sam's use of broken Enochian was due to a lack of vocabulary or an affectation of fear associated to how he'd learned the language. He desperately hoped it was the former. Enochian was a beautiful language, complex in meaning and sound. It was meant to create and worship, not hurt and destroy.
"You were troubled in your sleep. I was trying to ease you back to a peaceful state, but you woke up. Are you alright?"
Sam nodded and rubbed at his eyes. Castiel watched him fight a yawn, but before he could suggest going back to sleep he saw Sam's wide eyes focus just past Castiel's shoulder. The angel smiled, knowing his wings were the object of Sam's fascination, and extended the right one. Sam pulled back as it came closer. When the wing stopped, he glanced up at Castiel before leaning in for a better look.
The colors were reminiscent of an oil spill—black with swirls of bright colors reflecting on the surface. Sam reached out a hand toward them, but yanked it back before they touched. "Sorry!"
Castiel gave him a puzzled look, "Why are you sorry?"
Sam ducked his head in avoidance, "Is rude? Touch is rude?"
"Are you asking if it is rude to touch my wings?"
Sam nodded, but refused to look up. Castiel pondered the situation for a second, unsure how to respond.
"It is not considered rude for an angel to touch another angel's wings in Heaven. In fact, it is quite common among those who have a close bond. When we are young, caretakers would spend many hours grooming their charges' wings. And the healers often focus on them when they healed and cleansed the grace of wounded soldiers."
He watched Sam's hands tighten in the blankets as though keeping himself from reaching out again. "Is rude for..." he struggled to find the right word, "not-angel?"
"Most non-angels are not capable of seeing our wings unless we manifest them. And even then, they usually only perceive their shadows. So, I would not say it is 'rude' for them to touch as much as it is rarely a possibility."
Sam stayed quiet, occasionally glancing at the feathers out of the corner of his eye. Castiel forced himself to remain still even as every instinct screamed to reach out and console his troubled friend. It felt so wrong to see a fledgling carry such pain and fear and sorrow. Even those destined to be warriors of Heaven spent centuries being nurtured and trained. As far as Castiel knew, there was not a single member of the Host who had experienced what Sam had in their early life—including the fallen angels. It was simply unheard of among creatures of grace.
Taking a chance and praying he was not wrong, Castiel flicked the tip of his wing so a single feather tapped Sam's shoulder. The boy gasped and scrambled back a few inches, stopping when he felt Castiel's steadying hand on his back. He looked up at Castiel with uncertain eyes. "But...but I not-angel!" he said in a voice laced with shock and a hint of accusation.
Castiel tilted his head, listening to the unique hum of Sam's grace-soul. It was a fascinating blend between what he called "Winchester humanity" (a soul shaped by sacrifice) and the perfection of his father's love and grace. "Samuel," he smiled and bent down so they were eye-to-eye, "you have been part of my family for a long time. And now, you carry the grace of our father. You are my family by choice and blood. The only reason you have not been able to touch my wings before is because you were incapable of seeing or feeling them. Now, you may."
Uncertainty washed away as tears filled Sam's eyes. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Castiel reached his other hand toward the boy and pulled him in to a hug. He felt the body tense before relaxing against his chest with a huff, circling his arms around Castiel's neck. They sat there in silence for several minutes. Then, Sam moved one of his hands to brush a finger against a wing.
Castiel jumped slightly and made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. Sam immediately pulled back to look at his face, tiny features etched in worry and guilt. But instead of anger or pain, he was greeted with an embarrassed smile. "You didn't hurt me, Sam. It just," Castiel's cheeks turned a slightly pink, "I believe the closest term would be 'tickled.'" The switch to English seemed to take Sam a second longer to process, but Castiel took it as a good sign when he sighed in relief.
"Ugh," a gruff, deep voice sounded from beneath the blankets, startling both of them. "What could you two possibly be whispering about at oh-dark-thirty in the morning?" Dean pushed the blankets back and blinked up at them. Then he blinked several more times like he didn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Cas? Why are you in the bed?" His eyes darted between Castiel's chagrined expression and Sam, who was kneeling on the angel's lap and clutching his tiny hand to his chest like it had just been burned. "Sammy, you okay? What's wrong?" Dean sat up, fully awake and prepared for crisis management.
"I...yes, I mean...I didn't...Sorry! I not touch!" Sam stammered, unsure of what he should express to whom.
"Sam, there is no need for apologies. Like I said, it just tickled and it surprised me. You may touch them whenever you wish."
"Whoa! Hold the phone!" Dean said loudly.
Castiel frowned. He let go of Sam to reach into the trench coat pocket and pull out his cell phone. Then he turned expectantly toward Dean. "Is this phone acceptable for holding?"
"What? No! I swear, Cas, sometimes..." Dean rubbed his face with his hands.
"Then why did you tell me to hold one? What is the purpose?" Castiel looked to Sam for clarification, but the boy was bent over. Seeing his hands over his mouth and shoulders shaking, Castiel's confusion turned to concern. "Sam? Are you...?" But as he reached out and touched Sam's shoulder, a jolt of amusement and mirth ran through him. "Are you laughing at me?"
"Of course he's laughing at you! I'd be laughing too, but I need coffee. How long have you been around us? 'Hold the phone' means to stop what you're doing or saying! How did Metatron miss that in his pop culture upload to your brain?"
Castiel searched his memory and quickly realized that there were indeed several repetitions of that phrase in the thousands of stories given to him by the Scribe of God. "Sorry, Dean," Castiel was flushed again with embarrassment, "You are right. I was just distracted and..."
"Is everything alright?" Mary's voice was soft with sleep. A small lamp turned on and they all looked to see her sitting up, tired but ready to act if needed.
"Yeah," Dean smiled and waved a hand at the two beside him, "just awkward early morning conversations with Thing 1 and Thing 2 here. Sorry for waking you up, mom."
Castiel felt the burst of joy from all three Winchesters at the sound of her title. He cleared his throat, "Yes, I apologize for waking both of you. Sam and I were discussing my wings, and I discovered that they are slightly ticklish."
Dean looked at Sam now that there was enough light to really see. His little brother looked tired and tense, but his eyes were shining with laughter and he was smiling. "I don't even want to know." A glance at his watch showed it was just after five o'clock in the morning. "Well, since we're all up, who wants breakfast?"
Castiel found crawling off the bed to be much more cumbersome than flying onto it, but he managed. Dean was already out the door and Mary was sitting on the edge of her bed, brushing out the tangles in her hair with her fingers. He looked back in time to see Sam slide off the bed onto unsteady feet.
Moving forward to help him, he stopped when Sam glared. "No! You..." he shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed for a second. It was clear he was frustrated and struggling internally with something. When he started again, Castiel was relieved to hear him use clear English. "You are not going to carry me everywhere. I am smaller, not injured. It'll just take me a bit to get used to—which won't happen if everyone keeps picking me up like some infant!"
"As you wish," Castiel nodded and saw Mary stand to join them, "although we should find you some socks. And pants."
Sam stopped by the door to turn and give Castiel a withering look. "The only socks we have would be the size of pants."
"Well, Dean said something about shopping today," Mary said, smiling at the too-familiar scowl, "It seems we are both in need of a new wardrobe."
Sam tried to smile back, but it came out twisted and forced. "I hate clothes shopping." He turned to make his way toward the kitchen only to run smack into Dean.
"Don't lie. You hate shopping period." Dean teased, grabbing his brother before he could fall. Without pausing, he scooped Sam up and kept walking toward their kitchen.
"Damn it all! Put me down, Dean!" Sam yelled, digging his feet into Dean's stomach and sides. "I swear to g—Chuck, if you don't put me down I will kick you in the balls."
Dean stopped walking, but kept his hold firm. "What is wrong with you? Quit that! If I drop you on your head, you'll have no one but yourself to blame...AHH!" Dean cut off in a painful squawk and let go of Sam in favor of grabbing the nipple that had just been viciously twisted by little fingers.
Sam fell, landing on his butt instead of his head. He quickly grabbed the hem of his over-sized shirt to keep covered when he remembered that no pants also meant no underwear. He looked up to see Castiel sporting his usual long-suffering expression saved for when he was forced to endure the brothers' squabbles. Mary, however, had her hands on her hips and an unreadable look on her face. She seemed torn about whether or not she should intervene.
"Do they...?" she started, nudging Castiel with her elbow.
"This is normal. And frequent," he sighed, frowning at Sam when the boy kicked out a leg which connected with Dean's shin.
"Ow! Stop that you little shit!" Dean yelled, taking a wide step around his brother and stomping off down the hall. "See if you get any cool clothes. I may just get you princess dresses!"
Castiel watched as Sam's anger became mixed with wary sadness, and wondered if clothes were a loaded topic for the boys. He knew Dean was extremely partial to his old band shirts, but Sam didn't seem to have any particular attachment to clothing items. Occasionally, the boys would make a run to a local thrift shop when their hunting clothes were destroyed beyond salvaging. Sam always complained because they rarely carried anything in his size, but he never pushed to look in stores that sold new clothing. In fact, Castiel was certain that Sam could still fit his entire wardrobe in one duffle bag in spite of having lived in the bunker for a few years now.
He heard Mary let out a huff as she went and crouched down by her youngest. "Are you hurt?"
Sam looked up in surprise and shook his head with a slight smile. "Only my pride."
"Yeah, that runs deep on both sides of our family." She held out a hand and waited for him to take it. "Come on, let's make sure he doesn't burn all your food out of spite."
After some hesitation, Castiel was pleased to see Sam reach up and take the offered help. With Sam on his feet, however, Mary kept a firm grip on him and started walking slowly in the direction her eldest had stormed. Sam stared mystified at their hands as he moved alongside his mother.
"He won't burn the food." Sam said instead of addressing the hand-holding situation.
"Oh? How can you be sure?" Mary asked, curious about how her sons' relationship worked.
"Because we..." Sam broke off abruptly and looked forward to avoid Mary's gaze.
Castiel could feel the swirls of emotions emanating from the boy and opened himself to read it fully. Images of empty cupboards and cold soup flowed with feelings of hunger and restless fear. He heard the unspoken words Sam refused to say: Because we know better than to waste food. Because we have been hungry and didn't know when or where our next meal would come from.
"Dean is a very good cook." Castiel spoke up. He received a surprised grateful smile from Sam. Mary looked suspicious, but decided not to push.
"I see. Does he cook a lot then?"
Sam nodded, "Yeah, he loves it now that we have a kitchen. You should have seen him when we first found the bunker and decided to stay. He nested for months."
Mary frowned, "Did you not have a kitchen before you moved here?"
"Well, I guess some of the motels had kitchenettes," Sam shrugged, "But we usually just got take-out or went to diners."
Her frown deepened, "And when you were growing up? Did your father teach him how to cook? Because the John I remember could barely boil water."
Sam's laugh sounded strained, "Uh, no. Dean didn't even trust him to heat up my food when there was a microwave."
Castiel saw Mary open her mouth a few times like she wanted to ask more questions but kept stopping herself. He knew that John had been a terrible father even though he'd meant well. The boys were raised as soldiers, not children. And he had the feeling that Mary would not be happy when she found out the details of the boys' early life.
The sounds of water running and pans clanging led them to the kitchen where they found Dean assembling what seemed to be a feast's worth of ingredients. The aroma of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. "Took you guys long enough," Dean spoke loudly over all the noise, "Coffee's ready. Cas, can you grab the flour and sugar from the pantry?"
"What are you making?" Mary asked as she let go of Sam's hand to pour herself a cup.
When Castiel returned with two canisters he saw Sam trying to reach for a mug from the stack next to the percolator.
"Pancakes! From scratch." Dean declared proudly. "Cas! Don't just stand there. Give me those."
Castiel set the flour and sugar on the counter without taking his eyes off Sam. The boy had pulled a stool over to the coffee stand and was now standing on his tiptoes to get the mug. When he saw him turn to grab the coffee pot, Castiel moved swiftly. "Sam," he said, looking down at the deceptively innocent face, "what are you trying to do?"
The others turned to look at them and Sam self-consciously withdrew his hand from the handle. "Um, getting coffee?"
"More like 'trying to get third degree burns.'" Dean grunted while rolling his eyes.
"Should you even be drinking coffee now?" Mary asked.
"What?!" Sam sputtered indignantly, "I...yes, I always drink coffee!"
Mary raised an eyebrow, "In kindergarten?"
Sam's jaw dropped, "I'm not in kindergarten! And I'm not actually six."
"Actually," Dean spoke as he began measuring out ingredients for the pancake batter, "Sam did drink coffee in kindergarten. Pretty sure I did too."
"Why?" her voice was tense.
Hearing the change in her tone, Dean looked up to see her watching him over the rim of her mug. His eyes darted to Sam and Castiel. The angel was unreadable, but Sam looked as lost as he felt. Dean cleared his throat before addressing their mother again. "Um, well, I guess because we would sometimes stay up late. And it kept us from getting in trouble for falling asleep in class," he shrugged and looked down as he stirred the batter, "I was already making it for dad before I left for school, so I just started drinking it too." He didn't mention that it was often their only option besides tap water—orange juice didn't come free with their motel rooms and John refused to buy milk if they had no fridge. He also didn't bring up the fact that they usually stayed up late because their father would be gone hunting and they were too anxious to sleep, equally worried about monsters and social services.
Dean shook his head, clearing away the memories. Plastering a wide grin on his face, he tried to redirect the conversation, "So, how does everyone want their eggs?"
Mary pursed her lips, but allowed the change of topic and moved to help him with food prep.
With the crisis diverted, Castiel continued staring down at Sam who gave him a cheeky grin and held out his cup in a silent plea. Sighing, he took it. "Go sit down and I'll bring it to you."
"Thanks Cas!" Sam jumped down and scrambled into a chair. The coffee was placed in front of him and he frowned at the half-filled cup. "Hey..."
"Coffee can stunt the growth of children." Castiel stated calmly, sitting next to him.
"Did I look like my growth was stunted?" Sam asked with a scowl, but quickly started sipping the hot drink before it could be taken away. "And I'm not a child."
Castiel studied the 'not-child' intensely. By human standards, the Winchester brothers had been adults for many years—far earlier than most people deemed healthy. In fact, both would be considered elderly if their ages were measured by memories. But Sam was incredibly young by angelic standards. It took several centuries just to reach adolescence.
"It is true that, as a human, you have been an adult for many years. However, to angels you are known as a fledgling—a very young child. I..." Castiel paused, wishing Sam would look at him, "I know this is not easy for you, Sam. You see yourself as an adult and as such, you expect to act and be treated a certain way. But everything is different now. You are different now."
Sam finally looked up, "So what am I?"
"You are a child of Heaven." Castiel said seriously.
"That's all very sweet, Cas," Sam cringed, "but I need something more specific. Like, how am I different? I mean, you're right—I keep expecting to react to things one way, but I don't! Instead, I'm crying or angry or scared. And it's not like I've never felt these things before, but I can usually control myself better. I could push it down and lock it away until there was time to deal with it. Now," he shook his head, "now everything strong, loud, and I not.." His throat burned, and he stopped speaking to avoid the indignity of more tears.
"Samuel, when I say 'child of Heaven' I do not use it as a turn of phrase." Castiel rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Grace is the raw essence of God, the fundamental fabric of creation. It makes you an incredibly powerful being because it connects us to the foundations of the universe. You exist in more dimensions, can travel through time-lines and realities, manipulate matter. But it takes time to learn and understand. It takes experience. Until then, the grace will probably be overwhelming."
"What are you two nerds talking about now?" Dean asked, placing platters of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table.
"Grace," Castiel answered simply. Dean nodded and left again to retrieve plates and silverware.
Mary joined them with the pancakes and a glass of milk which she set in front of Sam. "You mentioned grace yesterday," she said as she and Dean sat across from them, "I have to admit, I didn't understand any of it. I was pretty much stuck at 'angels are real' and 'God is a guy named Chuck.'"
Castiel explained the basics of grace while Dean served up the food. She asked a few questions about angels and Heaven and religion, but didn't stray into personal territory. No one wanted to spoil their first family breakfast with stories of trauma. And Castiel knew Mary was smart enough to recognize that her boys had definitely experienced numerous hardships. However, he didn't think she quite realized the extent of it all yet.
Throughout the meal, they told funny stories of prank wars, embarrassing hunting events, and good times with friends. Mary shared memories of them prior to her death—family outings, diaper disasters, and Dean as a toddler. The boys listened in awe, hanging on her every word. Their father had never discussed life before Mary. Within an hour, they knew more about their early life than they ever dreamed.
Castiel mostly observed, only chiming in occasionally. He watched Dean fret over how much food to give Sam and fuss over his mother like a hyper-vigilant waiter. Sam picked at his food, preferring to stare at Mary like she might disappear if he blinked. And Mary seemed content with being able to give her boys pieces of their history, bonding with them anew.
"So," Mary started when they had cleared all the dishes from the table, "when do we go shopping? Because I'm not sure how long I can go around wearing pants that are in constant danger of falling off. And Sam needs...well, everything, I guess." She looked over her youngest with a critical eye, taking in his round cheeks and soft curls in his hair. "How old do you think you are now, Sam? I mean, physically?"
"Um..." Sam looked down at his hands, but had no real memories to reference.
"Six, maybe six and a half." Dean said with confidence. Mary and Sam stared in surprise.
"How do you know?" asked Castiel when no one else spoke.
Dean reached over and tugged gently on one of Sam's curls. "His hair. It stopped curling by the time he was seven, and it wasn't this long until he was about six." He let go of the curl and smiled when it bounced up and hit Sam's nose. "Alright kids, let's get this shopping fiasco out of the way."