Sorry, folks, but this chapter is a tough one, as Cas deals with aspects of his past. There are trigger warnings for the Jewish Holocaust. All I can say is that I promise there is comfort to come.


Chapter 30

It was raining again - a hard, cold, early February rain with a bitter sting, falling from a constantly grey sky, all day and all night. It would probably have been depressing, only there was the fire and there was the slanket and, of course, there was Cas. So Dean wasn't depressed - just a bit bored.

He wriggled his toes, which rested on the coffee table, getting pleasantly toasted by the steadily crackling fire. Then he yawned and stretched within his half of the slanket, pulling a fan of long folds in the empty side which Cas should be filling, but wasn't.

Why wasn't he? Because he was in the kitchen, again, which seemed to be his default setting at the moment, if he couldn't get outside to dig his new vegetable plot.

"Cas!" Dean paused, listening. "Cas, get your ass in here!"

The cactus-guys on the mantelpiece went crazy, but there was no answer from Cas.

Dean huffed. "Want my angel," he grumbled, letting out the sulky kid he'd never got to be.

The laptop on his knees wobbled. Dean steadied it and carried on reading about different types of loft insulation, because it got a bit chilly in the bedrooms and their heating bill was going to be huge.

Something rattled in the kitchen - and an oven door creaked. Still no Cas, though.

Dean chewed his lip, uneasy, something twitching at the edge of his instinct. Was Cas hiding from him? Hiding something from him? Or was Dean just getting paranoid because he didn't have enough to do.

"Never had that problem before," he mumbled. "Go out 'n' find some fugly to gank…"

The rain slashed in heavy gusts against the window. He could get out his guitar and have another go at Travelling Riverside Blues. His fingers were still sore from the morning's efforts, though. He needed to build up some guitar-calluses. And you'd think that the tough bits of skin on his fingers from handling weapons and from months of DIY would overlap at least partly with the pressure points from guitar strings.

He scrolled idly down the page. Should he top up the existing blanket loft insulation with some loose-fill stuff? Wouldn't that just get everywhere, though? He read a bit more and couldn't decide and then, finally, he heard Cas's sock-footed tread, and felt it too, through the vibrations of the old floorboards.

"Hey, Cas. C'mere." His eyes still on the laptop, Dean picked up the heavy folds of slanket to invite his angel in. But a pissy huff and a series of heavy stomps told Dean he was alone once more.

He looked up then, letting the slanket fall. The stomps returned, Cas entered again and stopped just behind the settee so that Dean had to twist around to see him.

"Son of a shit," said Cas, which should have been funny, but wasn't.

"What's up? You look like you lost a pizza and found a lettuce leaf." Dean smiled and shook the slanket, but his angel's face was taut, with a pale line of tension around his lips. "Come and sit down. Cas?"

"No." The ex-angel's gaze darted around the room - at the fire, at the rain-beaten windows, at the magazines on the coffee table and finally at Dean. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He licked his trembling lips. Were those tears gathering? What the hell? Dean's twitchy instincts hadn't been lying after all.

He threw off the slanket, hurried around the couch and gripped Cas's biceps, locking his steady gaze with his angel's wide, panicked eyes. "Just breathe, Cas. Nice and slow. Whatever's wrong, we'll fix it together. In and out - okay?"

Cas nodded jerkily and his shuddering breaths began to synch with Dean's.

"Come and sit. Come on, angel." Dean slid an arm around him and led him to the couch, wrapping all of the slanket around him and rubbing Cas's arms as if he'd been out in the cold.

"Now tell me - what's the matter?"

"I… I think there's something wrong, Dean. Something wrong with my memory."

"Okay." Jesus fucking Christ on a carburettor. This could be serious. Chrysler-building-sized memory stuffed into a human head? Plenty of room for trouble there. "What makes you think that?"

Cas hiccuped and swallowed. "It keeps happening, Dean. Everything's fine and I'm just," - he waved a hand - "busy doing normal stuff. And then suddenly I can't remember what I was going to do next, or what I was going to get out of the fridge or why I came in here! Things just fall out of my head! All the time!"

"Oh. Well, uh..." Dean scrubbed one hand through his hair. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Cas… honey. But that kinda sounds normal to me."

"Normal? How can that possibly be normal?"

Dean shrugged. "We're human, you know? We get distracted easily - lose focus. Like - you need the three-eighths wrench, but by the time you've got out from under the car you've started singing along to whatever's on the radio, then you're like - what size? And you have to go back under and check. Happens all the time."

"I don't know, Dean."

"Sure you do. Remember the other day, I came in when you were unpacking your hives -"

"You went straight out again."

"Yeah, because I couldn't remember why the hell I'd come in."

"Why had you?"

"I don't know, angel. I never did remember."

Cas pulled the slanket tighter around him, staring down at its folds, his eyes wavering to and fro, echoing his back-and-forth thoughts. He looked up. "And that's normal?"

"Ask anyone. Like I say - it happens all the time."

"It doesn't seem very… efficient."

"It's not. But that's humans for you." Dean pulled Cas close and gave him a squeeze. "Now, how about I go make some coffee and then maybe we can watch a movie?"

He was pale, his breathing uneven, his fingers restless in his lap. But the edge of panic had gone.

"That does sound nice. I could make the coffee, though."

"No, you sit there by the fire. I'll get everything ready in the Treehouse and then call you in? Okay?"

"Okay, Dean."

The coffee machine hissed itself into sputtering life. Dean leant against the table and scratched his chin. What he'd said was true. People forgot shit all the time - got distracted, daydreamed, had too much going on in their heads for it all to stay put. And if that was all that was going on with Cas, well, he'd have to get used to it along with all the other stuff that came with being human.

But, there were those gaps in the ex-angel's memory, weren't there? Gaps in his long, long history when he'd started to think for himself, when he'd wanted to go against orders - to rebel. And each time, he'd been promptly hauled back to heaven for a reprogramming session. It made Dean's insides curl right up to think about those bastards shoving probes into Cas's head - to make him tow the line, to make him a good obedient little angel, doing as he was told without question.

Had Cas ever really recovered from that torture? Dean couldn't believe such treatment wouldn't have lasting effects, even for an angel. And if Cas had had scars on his angel brain, what had happened when he became human? Because sometimes, when he was telling Dean a story from his past, he'd just stop suddenly. He'd lose the thread of what he was saying. And he'd get that lost, unhappy look that simultaneously made Dean want to cry and to beat the shit out of someone or something.

Anyway, there was nothing Dean could do. And the coffee was ready. They'd have some cookies too.

There'd been a lot of bad-weather days and cosy nights over the winter, so Dean and Cas had already had a Western movie marathon. And they'd had more than enough superheroes for now - Marvel as well as DC. A deep dive into sci-fi had started with a Star Wars rewatch and then bounced between the extremes of Wall-E and Alien. Cas had been scared shitless of Alien and had freaked out big time when he'd woken up in the middle of the night with heartburn from Dean's over-spiced chilli. Dean had plied him with antacids but for a while the poor angel had been convinced there was something about to claw its way out of his chest.

Back to Earth now, though - war movies, beginning with the Second World War. Then maybe they'd spend a while in Vietnam. Then dot around in history - Braveheart, maybe even Gone with the Wind. Dean suspected Cas would like the costumes in that one, especially the massive, froofy dresses.

"How about we start with Saving Private Ryan? Or not. Actually, yeah, maybe not." The opening sequence - the landing on Omaha Beach - would be amazing with the big screen and surround sound, but maybe wouldn't be the best choice for a jittery angel.

"There are movies about the men who were captured, aren't there? The prisoners of war?"

"Yeah. Plenty."

They watched The Great Escape. Dean thought Cas might be upset that not that many of the prisoners got away, but in the end his angel just sighed and held Dean's hand.

"It's about the trying, isn't it?" he said. "Against the odds. Against your own fears, like the man who was claustrophobic."

"And against the Nazis," said Dean. "Don't forget those guys."

"They were men too, Dean. With choices and fears of their own."

Dean grunted. It was easier to see in black-and-white, good-and-evil - especially when watching a movie and not having to make choices that'd affect the real world.

"Anyway, I liked the 'Cooler King'."

"Steve McQueen?"

"Yes. Maybe I should get a motorbike?"

"Uh. Okay." He pictured Cas, tearing up the countryside, hopefully not getting caught up in a barb wire fence. Time for a distraction - take his mind away from the idea. "I'll go make some popcorn. You pick the next movie."

The popcorn popped, some sweet, some salt. The sticky caramel stuff could be nice, but it was messy. Dean stuck with the classics.

Cas seemed to have forgotten his panic, anyway. He'd snuggled up to Dean beneath the slanket and relaxed as escape tunnels were dug, and the rain and wind rattled the window frames. They'd watch another movie and then Dean would make dinner. He fancied hotdogs and fries. Maybe some loaded nachos on the side.

Dean carried the popcorn into the Treehouse. "Have you chosen yet?"

"Yes. This sounds fascinating, Dean. It's about a group of prisoners who plan an escape during a soccer match."

"What, Victory?" Dean laughed. "Okay, yeah - some light relief. Sly Stallone in goal. Why the hell not?"

They watched and ate popcorn and the soccer was pretty cool even if some of the plot was pretty cheesy. And in the end the crowd ran onto the pitch and disguised the prisoners and they all ran out the gate.

"So, did they escape? After that?"

"Who knows, Cas? Let's say they did."

"Hmm."

"What? You want more realism? We can do that."

"I'm hungry."

"You and me both. I'm gonna rustle up some dogs and fries. Hey, if you want more grit we could check out Schinder's List. It's pretty heavy stuff, though."

"War is heavy, Dean. It's not all about football matches and glory."

"I know that, Cas. Okay, we go for heavy next."

"Stupid fucking idiot." Dean cursed himself savagely, snarling under his breath. Schindler's List? Almost any other movie would've been a better choice.

He flapped his hand against the door to the little understairs bathroom.

"Cas, let me in."

Ugly coughing and spitting sounds answered him.

"Please, Cas. C'mon. You don't have to watch any more. We'll put something else on. Or go to bed."

The door swung open.

"No." Cas was all pale skin and hollow eyes and haunted. He pushed Dean to one side - and if his stride was uneven it was certainly determined. "I need to watch it all. All of it."

Dean closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into the sockets. Schindler's List. Why did he have to suggest it? He followed Cas back into the Treehouse.

"Look, I'm sorry. I should've thought, Cas. But that's not me is it? Actually thinking about what's gonna fuck you up."

Cas, his hand poised on the remote, spun around. "Dean, I don't need you to start guilt-tripping about this. It's not about you, it's about me. And I need to see this. I need to remember what it was like to be there. What it was like to watch and do nothing - nothing to help. Nothing for people - children - like her." His pointing finger vibrated at the screen, where the picture had paused just after the clearing of the ghetto in Krakow, the little Jewish girl's red coat discarded on a cart of bodies. "To do nothing for any of them. For all those millions." He covered his mouth with one hand, blinking away tears.

Dean swallowed, his throat aching. His life had been full of horrors. He knew what Hell was like. And it was right there before him, on the sixty-five inch screen.

"Cas."

"No, Dean." The ex-angel turned, sat, pressed play.

Dean sat next to him. Cas wouldn't get in the slanket. He wouldn't accept Dean's arm around him. He sat, rigid and attentive, flinching occasionally at the casual, brutal murder, at the inhumanity that was shocking even to Dean, who'd lived his whole life amid rivers of blood and the savage ugliness of monsters.

At the end, when the actors, together with the real Holocaust-survivers, filed slowly past Oskar Schindler's grave, Cas collapsed forward, his head in his hands. And he sobbed, loud and broken and full of tearing grief.

Dean slid to the floor with his angel and wrapped his arms, his body, his heart around him. And Cas didn't push him away. He clung to Dean, shuddering and weeping, and Dean found his own face wet and his own breath hitching and jerking, because the man he loved was in so much pain and he could do nothing to take it away.

He could only let Cas cry. He could only be there and hold him. And that was all.

So Dean held his angel. And held him and held him.

The TV had turned itself off. The wind had dropped. Dean's arms were still around Cas, one shoulder numb from where the edge of the recliner dug in, his lower back twisted tight and angry, his butt aching from sitting on the floor.

Cas was a heavy, crumpled weight in his arms, still and silent.

Dean rasped, cleared his throat and tried again. "Time to get up, Cas. C'mon, honey."

Cas twitched, let out a long shuddering breath and sniffed.

"Up we go." Dean slid an arm beneath Cas's shoulders and, grunting against his own stiffness, heaved the groggy ex-angel to his feet.

Cas's head hung. If he looked up there'd be no light in his blue eyes.

"Cold in here," said Dean. He steered Cas into the kitchen and sat him down at the table. "Hot chocolate. That's what we need. And toast. Plenty of butter." He smiled and bustled and pretended everything was just fine. "Cream on the hot chocolate? And I bet we've got some marshmallows left."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

Cas stared at the table, at his own hands, which rested, lifeless on the solid wooden surface. "Dean, I… I remember."

"What? What do you remember?"

His throat bobbed, he grimaced and shook his head. "Not everything. But more than I did. A lot more. Like there are cracks and it's seeping through."

The milk for the hot chocolate was sizzling around the edges of the pan. It'd boil over in a minute.

Lock it away. Stamp it down. Turn away from the darkness and deny it all.

No. Dean had lived like that and it didn't work. It certainly wouldn't work for Cas, with the mind of an angel in a human brain. He needed to let it out and Dean would be there to share the burden and help him to carry it.

"What… uh, what kind of things?"

Cas looked up. And Dean's heart shattered again at the sight of such sadness in his angel's eyes - such desolate grief.

"War. Disease. Famine, flood, fire… so much sorrow, so much torment. So many, many deaths."

"You did what you could."

"I didn't. I didn't, Dean. I wasn't allowed. I was never allowed to help, because God had set the world running and, other than a very, very few occasions, we just watched. We just watched it all happen."

"You tried."

"Yes." Cas slumped once more, his head sagging. "I tried. And I failed. And I was punished. And pulled apart and put back together the way they wanted me to be. Until next time." His voice was cracked and ragged and so, so weary.

"You never gave up."

"No."

"Well, that's worth a lot. Isn't it?"

"Is it?"

Dean wanted to say yes. Yes, it was worth everything - that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, had tried again and again to help humanity, to prevent suffering, because he cared. And he cared so much that every time they beat him back into the shape of an obedient soldier, he broke out and tried again.

But would it help? Would words make a difference? Or would it help more if Dean simply took Cas in his arms again? If he held him, each time, every time he was lost, would there come a time when it would be enough, when Dean could take away at least some of his angel's pain?

The milk boiled over, hissing on the stovetop, and the bitter smell of burning filled the kitchen.


I'm sorry that's a bit bleak. But Dean is there for Cas and comfort will come in the next chapter.