Title: Here, Have Some Castiel Ficlets
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Sam, Anna, Uriel, Zachariah
Category: Gen, Angst
Warning: Brief language
Spoilers: Through S4
Summary: Three tiny Castiel-centric fics.
Word Count: 1667
Disclaimer: This is my Father's world, but it's Kripke's playground.
Author's Note: For deancastiel, spnwriterlounge, and spngenlove. Oh, my angsty little angel.
Castiel and the other Angels (Uriel, Anna & Zachariah) reflect on Lucifers first fall. Gen
When the Light-Bearer left Heaven, a third of the angels went with him. Castiel waited to see which of the three of them would go—Uriel, Anna, or himself.
The statistics did not bear out in their case, though Uriel grumbled and sulked behind a distant black hole for a short time and Anna looked absent and thoughtful for several centuries, glancing often to Earth as if she could see what Lucifer was up to from here. Castiel was relieved.
"You're too somber," Zachariah told him, shining a bright light in on where Castiel sat in the dark, watching the other angels worship. It was Zachariah's idea of a joke, though the sharpness of it was almost painful to Castiel's sight and he squinted at his superior. "Lucifer took the tainted with him and only the pure remain—we must rejoice!"
Castiel tried to obey, though he saw no causes for rejoicing in this enormous loss. So many of his brothers and sisters had twisted themselves to darkness, and they had taken humanity down with them, the Creator's new project, so interesting and lovely. He felt ashamed that he had ever looked up to Lucifer at all, knowing now what seeds of treachery he had carried.
"Stop moping around," Uriel said later, cuffing him with his wings, trying to tease Castiel into a chase or wrestling match, trying to coax him out of his corner. "Yes, I was unhappy when our brother left, but I got over it. Come now, it's done with. Brooding will change nothing. Come with me to that nebula over there and watch the stars being born."
Castiel was tempted, but now more than ever he felt that he must concentrate on serving God and nothing else. Many had proved themselves faithless—surely it pained the Master's heart. Castiel threw himself into his tasks with abandonment, determined to make his devotion clear and doubtless.
Anna did not try to make him act like anything but himself. She understood.
Of all his brothers and sisters, Castiel was most grateful for her. And when she was posted on Earth, he knew that she was the best choice in all of Heaven.
"Be well, sister," he said, clasping their forms together in a blending of light and friendship. "You deserve this honor."
"Perhaps you will join me someday, Castiel," she said warmly, laying a benediction on his forehead in a touch of sweet generosity. "I look forward to seeing you again."
"To future meetings."
And she was gone.
He tried not to miss her too much, but it was hard. Somehow it felt almost as final as when Lucifer left, so many ages ago. Surely, though, this vague ache of foreboding meant nothing, only the loose shadow of his too-somber, too-anxious mind.
Again, Zachariah and Uriel tried to prod him out, and he let them do it. God knew what He was doing. He had to.
Cas finds Dean laying unconscious on the floor after Sam almost choked him in 'When The Levee Breaks'.
At first he just stood there, looking.
The room was a mess. Furniture destroyed and thrown around, broken in splinters, the door hanging open. Symbolic, Castiel felt. And Dean, unconscious on the ground, face bruised and bloodied by his brother's hand.
By his brother's hand.
You must return with us to heaven, turn your eyes and will back to the path you have strayed from, they told him, and this is for your own good, they told him, and you must understand the reasoning behind this, they told him, and you must understand and comply, they told him, and you must bow to the will of your superiors, they told him, and we must excise the sin of pride from your soul, they told him, and this is for your own good, your own good, your own good.
Castiel knew what a brother's hand could feel like.
Dean stirred, his outstretched hand opening and closing. "Saaam?" his voice was cracked and broken, perhaps inaudible to human ears, but Castiel was no human. That had been made excessively clear to him.
Castiel took a step back, out of Dean's line of sight. He shouldn't be here. He had duties elsewhere. Important duties, so he had been told. No, so he believed. Knew. He knew they were important. His desires were unimportant, only the will of heaven.
But he wanted to be here, not there. He wanted...
Since when did angels have wants and desires?
"Sam?" Dean called again, desperation heightening his voice now. "Sam, are you there? Don't tell me you actually left, you son of a bitch!"
Castiel lowered his head. His soul had not been purified. He still wanted to do things that were not in his superiors' will, still wanted to help Dean as much as he could, still wanted...
He still wanted.
They were going to drag him back and do it all over again.
"Sam?" Dean called. "Bobby? Is anyone there?"
And then the worst. "Castiel? Where are you? Help me, c'mon! Please!"
Castiel couldn't bear it. In a single flap of wings, he was gone.
A Drift of Feathers (750 words, for the Warm & Fuzzy challenge at deancastiel)
"Dean, is your angel molting?"
Dean snapped his head up, holding the book firmly in his lap. He'd almost been startled into dropping it. "The hell?"
The irritation on Sam's face was pretty hilarious. "It's either that or Bobby suddenly owns a huge albino parrot." He held up a curly, fluffy feather, such a pure white that it almost hurt to look at. A really, really big feather, almost as long as Sam's gimundo arm.
Dean tilted his head, leaning forward before he was aware of doing it. He set the book aside and made a come-hither motion, and Sam huffed a breath into his bangs and handed over the feather. Dean held the quill in one hand and ran the other up the silky length. So soft...
"Seriously, dude, you gotta do something about Castiel. He's been kind of angelically moping ever since we ended up on the run together, and now we're all stuck in Bobby's house and I know it's frustrating and claustrophobic and uncomfortable and... And now he's molting. It's not healthy."
"I don't get it," Dean protested. "You can't even see the wings. Are you sure this isn't from a...uh...a really big chicken?"
Sam squinted at him. "There's a pile of them. And no, there are no chickens as big as barns anywhere around here."
Dean sighed and stood up, absently playing with the feather. "I'll talk to him. But you need to quit calling him 'my' angel. It just sounds really dumb."
He found Castiel at the edge of the salvage yard perched on the roof of a pickup, watching the sunset with elbows on knees and chin on hands. Feathers sprinkled the ground around him and lay in a light, snowy drift in the bed of the truck, and Dean's heart twisted in his chest. How long had the guy been just sitting there, staring into space?
"Hey!" He hopped up to sit on the hood of the truck, looking up into the angel's morose face. "What's up, doc?"
Castiel stared straight ahead, still as a statue, unblinking.
"Hey," Dean said again. He grabbed Castiel's foot and gave it a shake. "Pay attention to me."
Very, very slowly, Castiel glanced down at him. "I always pay attention to you."
Dean looked away, suddenly aching. "I know. Never mind. What's going on with you?"
"Don't blow me off," Dean said, irritated now. "C'mon. You're...you're molting. I woulda thought that was impossible."
"It's merely a manifestation of..." He blew out a short breath and turned his head away. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."
"Of course it does. Tell me, or I'll keep pestering you until you do. You know I will."
Castiel said nothing. Dean started poking his knee. "Pester, pester, pester."
But the droopy angel didn't rise to it. His voice and eyes were dull. "Why do you care?"
Dean couldn't speak for a moment. "What?"
"You haven't even looked at me in five days. Why now?"
"I..." Dean paused. "Five days? Seriously?"
"And some odd hours." He was doing his head-tilt thing, studying Dean with such gravity that Dean felt that he must crumble under the pressure.
"I haven't..." Dean cleared his throat. "Cas, I haven't exactly... I'm not really great company right now. I, uh, now that I think about it, I haven't really been spending any time with Sam or Bobby either. I've been..." He'd been reading. Oh, God, when did Dean Winchester turn into a bookworm?
"You've been avoiding me," Castiel said in that wise, infuriating tone, knowing too much and too little at once.
"I've been avoiding everything," Dean admitted, finally. And when did Dean Winchester turn into a wimp, too? Last year...forty years ago...he never would have done this, never would have buried his head in the ground, hidden in a corner to lick his wounds. Facing things head on, that was always Dean's way. Had been. Always had been his way.
Dean missed himself, abruptly, with a huge aching gape in his chest. And so he knew what Castiel had been feeling, too. And probably Sam and Bobby as well.
Castiel tilted his head even further, utterly confused.
Dean cleared his throat and said it again, louder. "I'm sorry. I won't avoid you anymore. Just...try to stop molting, okay? It's really unnerving."
The angel glanced around himself, saw the sheer number of feathers lying there. He smiled, sweet and sudden. "I'll try."
It was all they could ask for.