Chapter Three
That week, the hunters mourned.
They mourned anyways, really. They mourned when they were unable to save someone. When the music only played for men in black jeeps, armed with every weapon imaginable. They mourned the early years, when their worse problems were stray wendigos and doubtful law enforcement.
That week, they mourned Sal Moriarty's car.
The Winchesters' home.
Castiel watched the hunters wander throughout the camp. None of them said a word. Sometimes they'd look up, nod in greeting. But that was only for Sam and Dean. The two brothers were constantly together. In their plaid shirts and leather jackets, Dean with his amulet, they looked just as they always had since that day nine years ago when they went off to find their father together. That day, they'd been in a sleek black car. They were leaving behind a blond girl who was destined to die later that week. Rock music had been playing in the background.
Back then, they didn't know about angels. The apocalypse. Everything. And the last sign of that innocence was gone. There was nothing for those boys but each other.
The other hunters were ashamed. Guilty. They greeted the boys in hopes of forgiveness. In hopes that they wouldn't be blamed for sending an angel off in a car. "We had to think fast," they'd say, trailing behind the brothers as they headed towards their cabin. "Cas was just there. He couldn't help with anything else. He doesn't know how to treat wounds or anything. We figured he could at least drive somewhere without ruining everything."
Cas could hear them. He saw the way they rolled their eyes at the mention of his name. A falling angel, incapable of doing anything, really. Oh, he tried. They all knew that. He didn't spend his days cowering away in the cabin, not if he could help it. He liked walking with the Winchester brothers. He liked sharing a couple of beers with Bobby and Ellen. He liked watching Rufus tell Jo and Ash old war stories, and he liked to hear the stories, too.
He didn't have much purpose, though, and he was never able to deny that. The hunters kept quiet around him, didn't say a word. Sometimes they'd smile softly, give him a brief wave or salute, but it never lasted. He didn't know half of them. He'd hear someone call out Leslie and he wouldn't be able to tell whether it was a man or a woman.
Sam and Dean, that's what he had. They still spoke to him, the two of them. Dean especially. "We get it, man," Sam would tell him, as Cas sat on the porch of his cabin and complained. He felt the need to do that lately. Angels weren't meant to complain. They were meant to accept. He supposed that ended when their Father left, though. They were like a bunch of rebellious teenagers. As soon as their Father was out of the way, they did whatever they wanted. Cas wasn't sure if he should be proud of their free thinking, or concerned. Lately, he just felt ashamed.
"It's not your fault you can't do much. I mean, your siblings practically abandoned you as soon as you started helping us. Don't send you a Christmas card or anything. We're your real family, you got that? God, wherever the hell He is, decided you deserved to be stuck with us sorry bastards here on earth. Whether that's punishment or a reward, that's your choice. But you're stuck with us and can't do a damn thing. So whatever you can or cannot do, that's on us. We'll take care of you, man. You've got to let us take care of you."
Dean talked to him like that. He was the only one. Cas appreciated the words, though, even if he only heard them from one guy, and that guy happened to be drunk when he said them. Cas didn't mind. He never got drunk. He hoped that someday, if he did happen to become intoxicated, he'd find words that could lift people up. Just the way Dean did that, and the way Sam gave a supportive smile. That was nice. Drunk people were nice.
The two brothers were still nice, even when they were avoiding their angel comrade. They were avoiding just about everyone, really. They didn't say anything when people asked for forgiveness. They ignored anyone who tried to blame someone else, even when that someone else was Castiel.
Mostly, they just talked about memories. They'd go off into the woods together, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their boots would leave matching footprints in the dirt. They'd leave all quiet and solemn, and when they came back, they were still quiet, but they had smiles on their faces.
"Did you kill anything?" the hunters would ask, following them curiously.
"Nah. We've already killed everything we needed to," one of the brothers would respond, and he'd nudge the other in the elbow. And just like that, they'd be smiling the whole day.
Cas knew what they talked about. He didn't spy on them, follow them. He just saw the way Dean would be fingering the amulet around his neck, and the way Sam's hair was all messed up, like someone ran their hand through it.
Castiel had never done anything of the sort with his own brothers. The last time they mourned was when their Father had left them. The mourning period had been brief. Cas had some memories of time spent with his siblings, with Anna and Balthazar and Uriel, but they never talked about it. It was as if they were ashamed. As if they didn't want to remember those days.
They needed a car, he decided. The angels had spent too much time alone. They travelled by flight, with wings. And as soon as they reached their destination, which was only a matter of seconds, they got straight down to business. Cas wasn't sure why, but it seemed that the angels didn't see much purpose beyond duty.
There was no room for love or family in duty, he realized. Only obligation. And that wasn't family. Not in the slightest.
Even Sam and Dean, whose father hadn't been much better than God, still found some love. When they were in that car, driving anywhere, everywhere, there was nothing but the three of them. They could fight, argue, but that was how they came to understand each other. There was more to them than hunting, more than weapons and monsters and hideous motel rooms. There was 'Hey, Jude' playing on their mother's old radio, which Sam used to hold on his lap in the backseat. There were pictures crammed into the rearview mirrors, faded and wrinkled from years of hands gripping them tight.
Once, Cas had gripped something tight. Someone. He pulled that someone out of Hell, not because he cared about that human or his brother or whatever happened to either of them. He did so out of obligation.
Now, though, he knew he wouldn't hesitate to save them if any harm came their way. He wouldn't hesitate to help them, even if it meant defying his celestial family. He could only help that the Winchesters felt the same way.
They were brothers, those two. They had a burned car and the angel who ruined it for them, but they were still stargazing when they thought no one was looking, and that was enough for them.
Cas figured he should get a car for himself. Maybe he could have pictures, then. Pictures and fights over who got to pick the music. For a while, he wondered what his siblings' favorite songs would be. He still didn't know his own.