A/N: A few people asked for a continuation of this, and the muse was more than willing! And this way Cas gets some much-needed and deserved closure. ^_^
Thank you Miyth and 29Pieces for beta reading!
Every last fiber of Castiel's instincts are screaming at him to run, to get as far away from here as possible. His stomach feels as though it's been shredded and the pieces twisted into knots, and his heart pounds painfully against his ribs as he approaches the cabin door. It's like dragging himself through a quagmire.
Dean is right behind him, a solid, bolstering presence. The hunter is guarded, but somehow unafraid. Castiel tries to draw strength from that.
Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the knob and forces himself to push the door open. He's spent the past several months living in this cabin, calling it home, but now its rugged walls feel like a prison. It's difficult to rove his gaze over the interior and see anything else, even though he can look at the small table near the kitchenette and remember sitting with Dylan and teaching him how to read and write in Enochian, Latin, and English. There's a bed in the far corner where Castiel had tucked Dylan in every night and told him a story to fall asleep to—usually one of the Winchesters' many heroic deeds and adventures.
Castiel's stomach cramps more violently. Everything about this place is quaint and picturesque, but it makes his skin crawl. Sam and Dylan are at one of the windows, the boy showing the gigantic man the various pieces of stained glass mobiles he had made. Dylan had been the one to first use his power to crystallize sand, but Castiel had guided him in how to make it into carefully crafted art. The child had even given some as gifts to a few of the townspeople. Had…had that been Castiel's idea, or Dylan's?
Sam and Dylan look over at his entrance, and Dylan's eyes light up. He jumps down from the chair he's standing on and runs over. Castiel goes ramrod still, and might have fled if it weren't for Dean standing directly behind him, blocking the exit. Castiel grits his teeth and forces himself not to react, not to agitate this immensely powerful being who could obliterate the Winchesters with a snap of his tiny fingers. His mind is a roiling maelstrom of conflicting sensations, current horror colliding with memories of smiles and laughter. Castiel can't tell what's real and what's not, and it paralyzes him further.
"Sam really likes the stained glass we made," Dylan tells him with a beaming smile. Castiel knows he should say something, do something. Pat Dylan on the head or at least smile back. He can't.
"Dean, do you want to see?" Dylan asks, turning his attention toward the older Winchester. Castiel suddenly feels the urge to grab Dean and shove him away from the boy, but he doesn't. He sees an image of Dylan proudly completing his first piece, hears his own voice ask the sweet child where he would like to hang it. It's like he's living in two different worlds, and the pressure in his skull of trying to reconcile them is getting to be too much.
"Sure," Dean says, and gently nudges past Castiel.
He and Sam pass each other in the middle of the room, and then Sam is coming up to Castiel, expression simultaneously overjoyed and concerned. He reaches out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder. Sam doesn't say anything, but his eyes convey it all—Castiel was missed; they had worried about him; neither of them blame him for his actions or are holding a grudge. Castiel tries to focus on that, and miraculously manages the barest fraction of a smile. Sam returns it, and then clears his throat to address the others.
"I was able to order pizza," he says. "Should be here in fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes seems like an eternity in which Castiel doesn't know what to do with himself. Technically, he is the host here and Sam and Dean are the guests, but Castiel can't for the life of him figure out how to move. He sees Dean casting him furtive glances as Dylan goes on and on about the items in their 'home'. Sam doesn't move from Castiel's side.
"What- what's happened while I was…away?" Castiel asks quietly.
Sam's eyes darken with sorrow for a moment before he masks it, but Castiel's throat tightens with the foreboding sense that they've gone through something terrible…and Castiel hadn't been there for his friends, his family.
Sam clears his throat. "Some stuff with the British Men of Letters. They're no longer around. Mostly we were looking for you."
Castiel drops his gaze. He should feel warmed by the Winchesters' steadfast devotion, even when Castiel had essentially abandoned them, but mostly he just feels hollow. Like Dylan had scooped out the core of his essence and filled it with this fake…thing. What had Dean called him? A Stepford wife. A wind-up toy. Is there even anything left of himself to properly raise Dylan? Or is he just a husk now? Incapable of being what a child—or his family—needs.
"I tried clay once," Dylan says boisterously, and then giggles. "I like how squishy it is! Until you bake it. Then it gets hard and crackly." He goes to a small end table and picks up a ceramic figurine, more of a blob with appendages, really. One of the legs is chipped, and the left arm is melded with the torso. The right had accidentally broken off at some point, but it bears an arching wingspan, albeit chipped as well. The paint has been put on clumsily, lots of beige slivers left uncovered by black brush strokes and cerulean blue.
Dylan holds it up to Dean, who takes it gingerly.
"Huh," Dean says. "Is that…Cas?"
"Yup! I made it for him."
Castiel remembers that day.
They'd gone into town so he could begin teaching Dylan about humans and their ways. And then he'd gotten distracted by a woman who'd insisted on gushing over Dylan, and somehow the boy had wandered off. Castiel had been nearly frantic searching for him, but finally found him around the corner in an older gentleman's pottery shed where he was giving a class to a group of children. Dylan, of course, was gifted as a quick study, and was just finishing his figurine when Castiel entered. Then Dylan had proudly presented his work to Castiel, saying all the other children were making presents for their parents, and he wanted to do the same. Castiel had been touched, and after a gentle reprimand for disappearing like that, had taken Dylan to a nearby store to buy some paint.
Castiel gives himself a rough shake to wrench himself free of the memory. He doesn't want those invasive, seditious feelings. They're not his. They belong to someone else.
Dylan's face suddenly falls as he contemplates the ceramic angel. "It's not very good, is it?" Dylan turns toward him. "Do you want me to make you a nicer one, Castiel? I can make you something better."
Castiel jolts at the almost desperate pleading in the boy's tone, as though Dylan is willing to do anything to regain Castiel's affection. It takes his already warped view of the world and tilts it again.
Sam and Dean are gazing at him intently, though Castiel can't begin to discern what they want him to do. Or maybe that's it. Sam's eyes almost seem to be encouraging, while Dean's expression is carefully neutral. He, at least, is not going to tell Castiel what to do. Dean wants him to choose his next action.
He swallows against a lump in his throat, and attempts to draw upon that memory again, to tap into the eddy of feelings and emotions he's honestly too afraid to embrace, but thinks he needs to if he's ever going to get past this point and do what needs to be done in taking care of this nephilim child.
"No," Castiel says, voice gravelly. He pauses to compose himself. "No, it's beautiful just the way it is."
And he thinks, perhaps, even if only on a small level for now, he means it.
Dylan purses his mouth and angles his gaze back toward the statue in Dean's hands. "But it's not perfect. And it's broken."
Castiel shifts his weight. "That's what makes it beautiful," he says, and recalls all the times he's tried to convince other angels of this very thing. "Flaws emphasize beauty."
Dylan cants his head at him. "How?"
Castiel falters for a moment as he grasps for a way to explain it. "In Japanese culture, there's an art called 'kintsukuroi.' They repair pottery with gold or silver lacquer, because they believe that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken."
Dylan considers this for a moment. "Is it the same for people?" he finally asks, and Castiel finds himself startled by the boy's insight.
"Yes," Castiel replies. There are no two greater examples than the men standing in this cabin with them.
Sam and Dean are looking at him, both with an emotion Castiel can't quite identify.
Dylan carefully takes the ceramic angel from Dean and brings it over to Castiel. "Can we get some silver to fill the cracks?" he asks tentatively.
"If you want," Castiel says. "But it doesn't need it."
Dylan nods firmly. "Yes, it does. I wanted to make it to look like you."
Castiel blinks, unsure how that relates.
Dean's lips, however, are curving upward slightly, the first genuine glimpse of lightness he's expressed since arriving. "Hey, kid's pretty smart."
Castiel frowns down at the ceramic angel, suddenly uncomfortable with the parallel he'd unintentionally drawn. Because now he can't un-see the similarities, can't look at the chipped and contorted statue without feeling the brittle cracks inside himself. There's no silver to mend those fissures with.
"Cas," Sam says softly. "No matter what you've been through, you've always come out stronger for it."
You will this time, too.
Castiel isn't sure he believes that. But he desperately wants to.
He hears the crunch of gravel outside. It's the pizza delivery. Sam pays the driver and gives him a tip, and then carries the box over to the small table and flips the lid open. The aroma of baked bread crust, melted cheese, and sizzling sausage waft up to permeate the entire cabin.
"Okay, Dylan," Dean says almost cheerfully. "Time for your first lesson in gourmet American cuisine." He pauses as he looks at the pizza. "Sammy, what is that?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Green bell peppers. Get over it. You think I'm going to let you turn this kid against vegetables?"
Dean scowls, and slides out a slice to put on one of the plates that came with the order. He hands it to Dylan. "Careful, it's hot."
Dylan's eyes are wide like saucers as he takes in the pizza. He fumbles with picking it up by the wider end, but Dean leans over to help. Castiel can only watch dubiously. He's actually concerned Dylan will only be able to taste molecules and that the experience will be unpleasant. He doesn't want this to trigger mistrust of the Winchesters.
But after the boy takes a small bite and chews carefully, his face breaks into a beaming smile, and he shoves a bigger portion into his mouth.
"Mhmp, 's good!"
"Told ya," Dean says, and takes a slice for himself, as does Sam.
Castiel watches awkwardly as the three of them eat.
"Don't you want some, Castiel?" Dylan asks.
"No, thank you."
The pizza disappears quickly, and Dylan goes off to play with some of his toys, leaving the adults to sit around the table and discuss their next move.
"So, head back to the bunker?" Dean posits.
Castiel yearns for his room there. It may be sparse and more of an underground cell than this cabin that gets sunlight and has birds chirping outside the window, but it's home.
"Are you and Sam sure?" he asks, because he's still not.
"Would you rather stay here?" Sam responds.
Dean doesn't look thrilled by the idea, but nevertheless shrugs. "I mean, if you're more comfortable here, we can get a motel room in town. It's not far."
"No," Castiel says quickly, then checks himself. "I mean, no, I'm not more comfortable here." He sags slightly. "But Dylan might be."
Sam's expression turns thoughtful. "Yeah, maybe. But this place isn't that small. Me and Dean can take turns staying nights here with you two while the other stays at a motel."
Castiel starts. It seems out of the way and inconvenient for them, and yet Castiel is more overcome by a sense of gratitude that they would so willingly suggest it. He hadn't realized how afraid he is of being alone.
"I don't want to be alone."
Castiel thinks that maybe he understands a little more.
He catches movement in his peripheral vision, and turns his head to find Dylan climbing up to stand on the bed as he reaches for a book off a high shelf.
"Shoes off the bed, Dylan," Castiel automatically says, and then freezes, because he's told the boy that before, and the words echo in his ears like ghosts from the haunted past.
Dylan hastily jumps down. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, but he has his book, and settles down on the floor to read it.
Castiel turns back to the Winchesters, dazed and confused. The brothers, however, are looking at him in something like barely concealed amusement. "What?" he asks self-consciously.
Dean shakes his head. "Nothing. Just that I wouldn't have pictured you being a stickler about shoes on the bed."
Castiel frowns. "Aren't all children taught not to climb on their beds in their shoes?"
Dean shrugs. "Hell if I know."
Castiel reconsiders the rule. He'd implemented it because he was sure it came up in all of the stories involving children that Metatron had downloaded into his brain so long ago. And it seemed a sound regulation; shoes were worn outside and they tracked dirt inside, which could be swept off the floor, but cleaning it off the bed took more work, not to mention it could transfer to clothes and hair when anyone laid down on the bed. Castiel didn't see any reason for such limitations to not be followed. So he would keep the rule.
Wait…he had established that rule. From his own set of knowledge. Was…was Dean right, that despite being influenced by Dylan, part of Castiel had still been acting as he normally would have, had he chosen to care for the child of his own volition?
He mulls that over more carefully, turning the idea around and around, examining it from every angle. It isn't just the 'no shoes on the bed'—Dylan had a bedtime that Castiel ensured he followed every night, Castiel made the boy clean up his toys and put them away when he was done. There was never an instance when, overcome with a child's tantrum, Dylan had used his powers to change Castiel's mind about those things. Castiel closes his eyes as another memory surfaces.
Dylan was sitting under a tree, using a stick to poke a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and broken its wing.
"Dylan, what are you doing?" Castiel asked with stark disapproval.
The boy had canted his head up at him. "It can't fly."
"Why are you hurting it?" Castiel demanded.
Dylan's brow furrowed, and he glanced back at the bird. "Isn't it going to die anyway?"
Castiel crouched down to the child's eye level. "Alone like this, yes, it will. But it's not alone. You found it."
Dylan's expression pinched further as he considered the baby bird cheeping pitifully in the dirt. After several moments, he reached out a tiny hand and laid it over the helpless creature. When he drew his hand back, the broken wing was mended. The baby bird gave a loud chirp, and with a strenuous flap of its brand new wings, it managed to take flight into a brand new world.
Castiel smiled at Dylan. "See? There was a reason you found it."
Dylan grinned back at him. "Like you found me."
"Cas, you okay?" Dean's voice breaks through Castiel's thoughts.
"Yes," he says, forcing his eyes open. And each time he says it, it feels a little more like truth. Maybe…maybe he can do this after all.
"I think we should stay here for a few days at least," he goes on. "There are still some people in town Dylan can help."
Dean nods as if he has no argument, and Castiel has never been so grateful for the deference. This is his plan, his choice. He will not be crushed by the events of the past year.
Castiel stands and makes his way over to Dylan. The numbness in his limbs is slowly being replaced with strength and resolve. Castiel sits on the bed, and Dylan looks up from where he sits on the floor, open hope in his eyes.
"You're staying with me, right, Castiel?"
"Yes." He tries to summon up the confidence of the authority figure he'd apparently been. "But I need you to promise me something, Dylan. Promise you will never use your powers to influence someone's mind again."
Dylan bobs his head earnestly. "I promise!"
"I mean it," Castiel presses. "Not to anyone. Just because you have the power to do something doesn't mean you should."
Dylan gets to his feet so he's eye level with Castiel. "Like how hands can break bone or put it back together," he says, splaying his tiny fingers in front of Castiel.
"Yes." Castiel's breath catches in his throat for a brief moment, and then he carefully reaches out to clasp Dylan's hands. "You have so much power inside you, Dylan," he says soberly. "And that comes with great responsibility."
The boy nods. "I can be good, like you. I want to be like you." He abruptly throws his arms around Castiel's neck, and though Castiel's heart seizes, he doesn't push the child away. He just sits there, feeling steadier than before, but still unsettled by the proximity. He wonders if the feeling will ever go away.
He also hopes that he's chosen the right path. For once.
Things fall into a tentative routine. True to their word, Sam and Dean alternate staying the night in the cabin with Castiel and Dylan while the other retires to a motel after dinner. During the day, both Winchesters are there, fitting seamlessly into the daily doings that Castiel and Dylan had already established over the past several months.
Sam takes up tutoring Dylan in his studies, adding math to the agenda. Dean brings a different thing for lunch every day for the boy to try, and Dylan delights in it all. He asks if they can grow their own fruits and vegetables, which Dean just shakes his head at but Sam says is a good idea. Dean also brings a baseball and gloves and teaches Dylan how to play catch.
And Castiel…he wavers on a precarious precipice, sometimes able to resume his role in Dylan's education, continuing their art projects which Dylan has always loved, but sometimes needing to retreat outside and collapse under a tree when it feels like the air in the cabin is too close and will implode his vessel's lungs.
In those moments, either Sam or Dean always manage to nonchalantly follow him, to take a seat on the ground beside him and press a shoulder or hand against his, just to assure him they're there.
"You're okay," Dean tells him, again and again, and Castiel syncs his breathing to the cadence of that promise until he believes it and can get up off the ground.
Less than a week passes in this holding pattern before it all falls apart.
Angels show up at the cabin, having traced the tales of miracles just as the Winchesters had. They come with angel blades brandished and hardened glints in their eyes.
"Castiel," one of the three sputter. "What are you doing? Why have you not handled the abomination?"
"Dylan, go inside," Castiel says sharply, and small footsteps patter up the porch steps. Sam and Dean emerge, their own weapons drawn.
The angels gape at him incredulously.
One of the others sneers. "Of course," he spits venomously. "What else would you expect from this traitor?"
"There's a lot you don't know," Castiel tries to tell them. "The child is not the threat we all feared."
Castiel's heart clenches. Or, he has the potential to be, but that is not justification for condemning him. Dylan is learning to be good.
"Lucifer," the same angel hisses like it's a curse, which it is. Castiel has, after all, heard the angels whisper his name as the new Lucifer when Kelvin first took him back to speak with Joshua. And now they're both dead.
The angel moves forward. Castiel has yet to draw his blade, but the instant the Winchesters respond and they are thrown through the air, Castiel can no longer remain passive. He drops his blade into his hand. But whether his reflexes have dulled from living a year of peace or he is still too shattered inside, he barely blocks the first strike. Steel screeches and the third angel swoops in as well, knocking Castiel to the ground. Silver glints in sunlight above his head.
"No!"
There's an explosion of light and whomp of concussive power that blows the angels through the air to land several feet away. And then Dylan is throwing himself on top of Castiel and clinging to him. Castiel can feel the child's power crackling along his skin, but he stares in stupefaction at the sheer terror in the boy's eyes.
Dylan turns to face the other angels, eyes glowing gold and dark hair billowing in the resulting static. Castiel reaches up to embrace him in return.
"Dylan, don't."
"They want to hurt you. I won't let them hurt you."
Everything is whirling too fast for Castiel to comprehend, but he tries to focus. "They don't know better," he insists, and he swallows hard. "I'll keep you safe. But you have to let them go."
He marvels at the contrariness of the statement, because in this moment, he's not the one doing the protecting.
Dylan's mouth pinches fiercely. The angels are starting to get up, and Dylan's eyes flash gold even brighter. Castiel tenses, but instead of the angels exploding into dust, they simply freeze, paralyzed. Castiel can see their eyes widen and dart around in panic. Dylan has kept his promise, and didn't touch their minds.
Castiel slowly gets to his feet and lifts Dylan into his arms. "It's alright," he says. "We're fine." He looks to Sam and Dean as they get up as well. Wordlessly, they all head for the Impala.
Castiel feels a twinge of regret at abandoning the cabin, of leaving behind Dylan's art work, and the little ceramic angel sitting on the small end table. Maybe they'll come back for them.
They all climb into the car, Castiel in the backseat with Dylan, the Winchesters up front. The angels remain powerless statues.
The Impala rumbles to life, and Dean does a quick one-eighty to speed them out of there, probably back to the bunker. Castiel looks down at Dylan still clinging to him. Tears are streaming down the boy's cheeks, and he buries his face in Castiel's coat. Castiel wraps an arm around him and holds him close.
And for the first time, his fears and doubts and burbles of unease are silent.
For the first time, he starts to believe that this, right here, is real.