Chapter Text
It’s strange, Castiel thinks, how your body can become a memorial to your own suffering.
The shackles around his wrists smart in a way that tells him they’ll likely scar. Dried blood, crusty and flaking, is caked down his forearms, and it itches in the cold air. It’s stupid, he knows, to keep tugging on them. They’re tight, too tight, feel like an iron hand wrapped around his wrists, biting down to the quick, and there’s no way he can squeeze his way out of them. He’s spent the last however many days or weeks trying.
There's an ache in his ribs that flares with every deep breath in and Cas knows they must be bruised, if not broken. The man had taken his clothes and when he looks down at himself, he sees violets blooming across his chest, scattered on his thighs. The imprints of blue fingerprints on his waist.
Before, these aches and pains wouldn’t have even phased him; back when he was an angel, his grace would automatically heal them. But he’s not an angel anymore. He’s never felt less like an angel in his entire life, and he’s very, very old.
It’s only recently, really, that Cas began to feel at home in this body—this body that once belonged to Jimmy Novak, that once carefully contained all the power of a supernova, grace that shined on a dimension human eyes couldn’t perceive—this body that is now just his. It’s his and for the first time since Castiel became human, he’s feeling all the agony that comes with being contained to skin and bones housed on just a single plane.
He’s never missed his wings more than he does in this moment.
When Cas tries to think about how much time has passed, his mind just—blanks. There are pieces of memories, fragmented at the edges, that speak of time indeed passing, even if he feels suspended in time right now. Like he’s caught in some kind of limbo. Purgatory had felt much the same way—a suspension of time.
The memories are all marked by different distinguishing factors: the phase of the moon barely visible through the small window in the room; how thick the mass of congealed blood around his wrists are; the smattering of hickeys and bite marks on his thighs. Little shifts in this single room that has become his current reality; he exists here, and only here, as time passes and the world moves on around him. He wonders if he’ll die here, too. If this stinking, blood-stained room will be his final resting place.
He wonders if it’s what he deserves.
Castiel doesn’t know how long he’s been here—he’s long since stopped trying to count the days—but it’s long enough that he’s both tried and given up on praying.
It’s different, praying as a human. And it wasn’t even a conscious decision at first. No, at first, it was just fragments of thoughts: Please, God, let this just be over. Please just let him be done. Not necessarily directed toward God, just a general plea for his suffering to come to an end; not sent out into the universe, just echoing inside his own head. He didn’t think anyone was listening. But then it began to stick.
The next ones were more intentional, with stops and starts of If you’re out there’s and I know I’m not an angel anymore, but’s. Asking for a sign, asking to be saved, and honestly, how the hell did people do this every day? It was exhausting, waiting for an answer. Perhaps the issue is that salvation is not just something that is granted, it is something to be earned, and Castiel has never been a saint.
There are some places, it seems, that even God cannot reach, and this Godforsaken room is one of them. There is nothing holy about his suffering. He can’t understand why people think that pain is humbling, that it brings you closer to God. Castiel has never felt further from religion in his life.
When the man—who has yet to give him a name—comes back into the room for more and forces him to his knees, Castiel knows he can never kneel to pray again.
When Castiel is finally saved, it comes in the form of Sam and Dean Winchester. Of course it does. Who else would care enough to look for him?
Cas was in a daze, eyes half-lidded, glazed over, staring at nothing, as he lay limp on the filthy mattress that was the only furniture in the room. He can’t lay down comfortably, with how his wrists are chained to the wall; he’s a mess of limbs, curling in on himself, trying to preserve body heat. Without any clothes, the chill of the winter air seems to seep into his very bones. His skin is a tapestry of blood and other body fluids, his own release coating his stomach, and he wants to scrub himself clean until all the dirt and grime and gunk is off him, just wash it all down the drain and feel okay again. He was taken in early December. He wonders if Christmas has passed, yet. A few times, he almost swore he could hear church bells in the distance.
It’s in this half-awake state that Castiel first hears it: the unmistakable sound of gunshots.
The rush of hope can’t be helped; he’s been in this stupid fucking room for what feels like forever and he wants out. He just wants to go home.
Cautiously, mindful of his injured ribs, Cas sits up on the mattress, wrapping his arms around his knees and covering himself. There’s a distinct shuffle upstairs, past the padlocked door. Cas has only half a minute to realize that if Sam and Dean come down here to save him, they’ll most certainly see him cowering on the mattress, naked, and they’re not stupid, they can put two-and-two together—and suddenly, frantically, Cas is terrified, because he doesn’t want them to know, he can’t just—
The door rattles violently, nearly shaking off its hinges, and Cas realizes he’s holding his breath. Without thinking about it, Cas shuts his eyes and prays: Please, God, let that be them. Please let that be them here to save me.
The bang of the door flying down the small flight of stairs has Cas nearly jumping out of his own fucking skin, and when he looks to the doorway, light from the hallway illuminates two tall, shadowy figures with guns in their hands, and all at once Cas knows he is saved.
And Cas is sure God has nothing to do with it, he feels it down to his very bones, and yet his next thought is: Thank you, God. Thank you.
Castiel is saved.
What happens next is what always happens, although Castiel is usually on the other side of it. But whether he’s being saved or the one doing the saving, there’s a distinct sense of relief. It’s over, now. It’s over.
Dean is the first to reach him, the lines on his face shadowed by the moonlight coming in through the little window, and some instinctive part of Cas curls up on himself tighter, trying to shield the evidence of what’s been done to him, doesn’t want Dean to see how his body is nothing more than a crime scene now.
“Cas, hey,” Dean says, and it’s his name, just his name, but for a while there, Cas had thought he’d never hear Dean’s voice again, and the sound of it, so soft, so gentle, is enough to send Cas into near-hysterics, and before he can stop it, he’s crying.
Cas can see the fear in Dean’s eyes, the tension in the hard set of his jaw and the line of his shoulders, and even as his own body is crying out for comfort, he still feels the urge to reach out and soothe Dean’s fears away. He doesn’t want to be a burden. He doesn’t want to have fallen so far.
Unbidden, a memory comes to Castiel then, of a little cabin in the woods and nervous hands tugging at his trench coat and Hester, rage emanating off her vessel, her shrill voice: You have fallen in every way imaginable.
When Dean reaches out to touch him—maybe just a comforting pat on the shoulder, he isn’t sure—Cas instinctively flinches back, and a wave of self-loathing washes over him as he watches Dean recoil in surprise. His eyes flick over Cas, now, his brow furrowing, and Cas can see as Dean starts to put the pieces together. But there’s no time to react, there’s nothing he can say, because by then, Sam has made his way down as well, and is kneeling next to Dean.
Sam, it seems, takes only moments to recover from the shock of finding Castiel naked, chained on a filthy mattress, because immediately he’s stripping off his flannel and jacket and handing them to Cas cautiously. Cas feels a heavy sense of relief settle in his chest. He doesn’t know how, but Sam has taken control of the situation. Cas reaches forward hesitantly, gently takes the offered clothes. But—
"The chains,” Cas says softly, and his voice is raw from the strain of crying and screaming so much in the past few days—weeks? Months? There’s no way to know. “I can’t—”
“Hang on,” Sam breathes, and he pulls a lock-picking kit out of nowhere, and Cas wonders distantly if he used it to break into this house.
“Can I see your hands?” Sam asks quietly. Cas’s hands are clenched into fists when he holds them out, but Sam doesn’t comment, only gently cups his hands and begins working at the locks. And there’s something building in Cas’s gut, some instinctive part of him that knows there’s only one explanation for why Sam knows exactly what to do in this situation, exactly how to present himself. But he can’t think about that, not right now. If Sam is offering to shoulder this with him, then he’s going to take it, and not examine the why.
“Dean, go out to the car and bring me my duffle bag. I have extra clothes in it.”
Cas manages to raise his eyes and meet Dean’s gaze, sees the gears turning in his head. His face is set but his voice is quivering when he says, “Okay, Sammy.”
Then, in an aborted movement, he goes to reach out to Cas again but stops himself. Cas finds himself relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” He says softly. Cas can only bring himself to nod.
Then it’s just him and Sam as Dean’s figure retreats back into the house. There’s the sound of hurried footsteps, the slam of a door, then silence.
Sam makes no attempt to break the silence or initiate conversation, just works gently at getting the chains off, and for once, Cas is grateful for it. What could he even say? This isn’t what it looks like or it’s not what you think? Well, those would be lies, and Cas has never been that great of a liar.
“There we go,” Sam breathes as the shackle around his right wrist finally, finally comes loose. He tugs it off gently, but Cas has spent the entire duration of his capture tugging incessantly on the damned things, so he isn’t surprised when strips of skin peel away with it. He winces; tries to hide it. Cas can’t remember a time before this he had ever felt so ashamed of his own suffering.
“Just one more, Cas,” Sam says quietly. Cas only nods and Sam doesn’t get him to try to speak. They sit together in tense silence until the shackle on his left wrist opens too, and a weight Cas didn’t realize was in his chest falls away with it. He’s free.
When the tears come again this time, Cas doesn’t have the strength to try to stop them. He just lets himself cry. Wordlessly, Sam helps him into the flannel, reaching forward to button it when Cas’s shaking fingers won’t cooperate, making sure never to make contact with his skin. Cas wants to say how grateful he is, that Sam knows exactly what to do, how sorry he is, that Sam knows exactly what to do, because he knows why. But in that moment, any words he could say would feel hollow, so Cas simply lets Sam help him into the clothes, wave after wave of relief washing over him as Sam pointedly does not comment about the mess of fluids and blood spattered over his skin.
“What day is it?” Cas asks, and it’s the first full sentence he’s spoken since being rescued.
“It’s the twenty-fourth, Cas,” Sam says, then offers him a tight smile, straining at the edges. “Happy Christmas Eve.”
Cas thinks to himself that he couldn’t have asked for a better present than his own salvation.
Castiel isn’t sure, exactly, what he’s expecting as he sits with Sam in the dark, waiting for Dean’s return, but he knows he’s expecting something.
When Sam speaks, his gaze is trained on his own hands, fidgeting his fingers, and it’s more nervous than Cas has seen Sam in the nearly ten years he’s known him.
"Do you want to talk about it?” He asks. Cas thinks of the changing phases of the moon and the cloying stench of blood and fingertips biting into his skin and—
“No,” Cas whispers.
“Okay,” Sam says simply, and that’s that.
When Dean returns, there’s a black duffle bag in his hands. Cas knows that the brothers typically keep emergency bags in the Impala at all times, presumably for situations like this, when they’re in need of clothes. Cas is glad. If he had to walk out of here naked and vulnerable, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it.
Neither Sam nor Dean speak as Sam ruffles through the bag and starts pulling out clothes—first, a pair of sweatpants, a pair of boxers, then socks and worn-in combat boots.
“Go ahead and see if these fit,” Sam says softly. “If not, we can try something else.”
Cas reaches forward to take the clothes and then—hesitates. His lower half is still completely bare, and while he has his knees pressed to his chest and is covering himself the best he can, he knows he reeks of blood. If he stands to put on these pants—and, Jesus, will he even be able to stand if he tries? If it’s really Christmas Eve, then he’s gone nearly three weeks without standing—then both Sam and Dean will know for certain exactly what’s happened to him. He doesn’t want them to see him, like this.
Luckily, Sam seems to catch on quickly to why Cas is hesitating—and he knows why Sam knows, he knows, oh God, he knows—and quickly ushers Dean back, saying, “It’s okay, Cas, we’ll turn around. Just take your time. Let us know if you need help, okay?”
“Okay,” Cas says meekly, hates how frail his voice sounds coming out of his throat. Funny how one man can turn him into this whimpering, wounded animal. He was a solider, once. He led armies and commanded the legions of heaven. He raised Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, from perdition, and now here he was, afraid of these two men who are the closest thing to family he has left seeing his shame and his pain.
But there’s no time to break down about that now, he just wants to get the hell out of this fucking place—so he slowly pushes himself to his feet, flexes his toes. Takes a moment to get his bearings, then gingerly steps into the boxers. His whole body aches with protest at every moment, a sharp pain that only makes his shame worse, but within minutes, he’s managed to climb into the jeans, socks, and boots. He feels better, now that his body is covered. The fabric feels scratchy against his skin, so strange to be dressed again after spending weeks naked in the cold, but it’s a good kind of strange. It’s a relief, a reprieve. With every garment he pulls on, he covers his body, the scene of the crime—and he is saved. He is saved.
Finally, when he’s done, Cas awkwardly clears his throat, and says, “It’s okay. You can look now.”
Sam and Dean turn to face him and rise to their feet. It’s hard to read the looks on their faces and Cas wishes desperately he could know what’s going on inside their heads. He’s never felt unsure of himself like this before.
“Can we go home now?” Cas says suddenly, blinking back the tears burning his eyes. Sam manages to give him a small, sad smile, and Dean says, “Yeah, buddy, let’s go home.”
So they go home.
To get to the Impala, they first have to climb up the basement steps and navigate out through the house. Sam and Dean are each hovering by one of his shoulders, but they never try to touch him. Halfway through the living room, Cas finally sees the crumbled body of the man sprawled out across the floor, a bullet wound sluggishly leaking blood from his forehead. Cas freezes, his body locking up in a white-hot panic. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his jaw is clenched so hard, his teeth are grinding together.
“Cas,” Dean says, and Cas looks over to him, searching desperately for something to tether him to reality. “It’s okay. Come on.”
Then Dean is holding out a hand and Cas studies it, considering. When he finally reaches forward to take it in his own, he nearly weeps from the sheer relief of being shown a gentle touch after weeks of nothing but torture.
Dean leads him out of the house, his hand warm in Cas’s own, and before they’ve even reached the Impala, Cas thinks to himself, I’m home.
The drive back to the bunker is unremarkable. The brothers usher him gently into the back seat—Sam had offered him shotgun, but right now, Cas wanted anything that was familiar, and the back seat was familiar to him—and he’d bit his tongue until it bled at the sharp stabs of pain that shot through his lower half when he sat down. He desperately wants pain medication and maybe a warm shower.
The drive isn’t terribly long—maybe an hour—and there are questions that Cas knows he should be asking: How did you find me? Who was he? Did he tell you why he did this to me? He didn’t tell me. But at the moment, none of it really seems to matter, and he just wants to not think for a while. He wants to be safe enough to let his mind go empty.
So that’s what he does.
The journey into the bunker goes much the same as the journey out of the basement had: Sam and Dean by his side, silently offering him support while keeping their distance.
The bunker seems to be exactly how he’d left it the last time he was here, about three weeks ago. He sees books and papers sprawled over the war room table, and the kitchen is more cluttered than usual, but other than that, it’s the same. Life had gone on while Cas had lay, rotting on that goddamn mattress, waiting to be rescued. Waiting to come home again.
The sight of it—the proof of it—sends something bitter curling in his chest, and all at once, Cas wants to be alone. He doesn’t know where this surge of anger comes from, or why it’s even there. Sam and Dean saved him. He knows they probably spent every waking moment trying to find him. But perhaps the reason doesn’t matter; what matters is right now, he wants to be as far away from them as he can get, he wants to be alone, so he abruptly announces, “I’m going to go shower,” as soon as he’s by his bedroom. He opens the door, then, without looking back at either of them, slams it behind him.
There’s a shocked silence that follows, no doubt prompted by his sudden change in mood, before Cas can faintly make out hushed whispering on the other side of the door. When the tears come again, Cas clasps a hand over his mouth to muffle his cries. The shame sets in, heavy and thick. He doesn’t know what he’s even fucking doing anymore.
With nothing else to do, Cas locks himself in the bathroom, sliding down against the closed door and staring at the wall.
The praying starts again, then. And the worst part is—Cas doesn’t even know what he’s praying for.
He weaves his narrative in short bursts, with please’s and why can’t you’s that make no sense. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, he doesn’t know what he needs, just that he needs something. Partway through this mess of prayers, his body starts shaking and he can’t make it stop. He’s one raw, exposed nerve, and his hands tremble as he clasps them together, his words come out jumbled and incomprehensible, and he feels hopelessly, helplessly beyond God’s reach right now. His body is nothing more than a memorial to a trauma that no church could ever hold. God had given him his identity, once. He feels like a stranger in his own skin and bones.
Still, he prays, huddled on the bathroom floor, his tears wet tracks down his face. He prays, and he prays, and he prays.
Some indeterminable amount of time later, Cas drags himself up off the floor and over to the shower. His legs shake beneath his weight and his entire body just feels so exhausted. He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to shower all the grime off of himself without collapsing.
It’s while he’s mentally preparing himself to get into the fucking shower that he hears it: a knock at his bedroom door. Cas freezes. After a moment, a soft voice calls out, “Cas, you in there? It’s me. I, uh, just wanted to check and see if everything’s okay. Can I—can I come in?”
Before he even realizes he’s doing it, Cas is walking back over to the locked bathroom door. He could—he could go out and let Dean into his room. But what would happen then? Would they—talk about it? Since when did Dean of all people want to talk about feelings?
“Cas? You there?”
There’s a hint of concern evident in his voice now and Cas opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he slides back down against the door until he’s sitting on the bathroom floor. When he starts crying again, he doesn’t know why.
“Cas, I’m worried,” Dean’s voice floats through to him. “You’re scaring me, man. I’m gonna come in now, okay? Is that alright?”
Cas doesn’t know how to say that he wants Dean close to him and wants him far away from him at the same time, so he doesn’t say anything. After a moment, there’s a soft click as the bedroom door is opened, then a pause.
“Cas? Where are you?”
Cas leans his head back against the door, closes his eyes. Thinks of his desperate prayers. Knows that he hasn’t needed God since he became human and doesn’t want to start now. But perhaps it’s inevitable. Didn’t humans usually turn to God when they were hurting?
“Cas?”
He doesn’t mean to give his position away, not really—but the tears keep coming and Cas can’t stop them, and he sniffles, rubs distractedly at his damp face.
“Cas? That you?”
The footsteps come closer to the bathroom door, then stop.
“If—if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s fine,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to talk. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
Another pause and then a quiet shuffling sound—the slightest thump at the door, and Cas realizes that Dean is likely mirroring his position, sitting against the bathroom door. Cas releases a slow, shaky breath.
Maybe this can be enough. Cas hasn’t been human for long, less than a year—but he’s learned all too quickly the intricacies that come with human interaction, with seeking out connection. He was never any good at social cues as an angel. He feels even less adept now that he’s human.
Then, for a long time, they sit there in silence, on either side of the door. Cas does his best to quiet his crying without really knowing why. Surely Dean knows what he’s doing in the bathroom. Surely he knows that Cas is hiding.
“When I was a kid,” Dean says quietly, either minutes or hours later. “Our dad was gone a lot. I know I don’t really—y’know, talk about him a lot. But he was a busy guy. Back then, things were different. I wasn’t—I wasn’t like how I am now, you know? I didn’t have the experience I do now. I didn’t do my first solo hunt until I was seventeen. Before that, my whole job was taking care of Sammy.”
A pause and it’s as if Cas can feel the hesitancy radiating from Dean, can hear it in the awkward halts in his voice. Cas gets the feeling, suddenly, that Dean is about to tell him something very, very important, and he can’t quite place why.
“Because he was gone a lot, it was usually just me and Sammy. City to city, state to state. A different motel room every couple months. Different schools, too. Sammy hated it, you know? But when he was younger, I mean, like, really young—I’m talking nine, ten years old—he still didn’t understand why our dad was gone so much. To me, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he was gone and I had to take care of him.”
Another pause and Cas blows out another slow breath, takes one in. Steadies himself and wipes at his tears.
“When I was fourteen, dad left on a hunt. He said he wouldn’t be gone long and I didn’t really care. I mean, it was nothing I hadn’t done before, right? He left me with a hundred bucks cash and the spare key to the motel room we were staying in. I figured he’d only be gone a week or two.”
On the other side of the door, Dean lets out a shaky sigh.
“Three weeks later, we were running out of food and dad still hadn’t come back. And I—I didn’t know what to do. I was too young to get a job. I hadn’t learned how to hustle pool yet. And every night, Sammy just—he kept saying how hungry he was. I knew I needed to do something. So I—I went out to this bar just down the road. I was desperate, man, and I wasn’t above begging. Honestly, I’m not even sure what exactly I planned on doing. I just know I never thought that I—”
But Dean cuts himself off and for a long time, doesn’t start again. Cas waits, heart beginning to race in his chest. There’s something here, he knows. Dean’s voice is vulnerable, open in a way Cas has never heard it before. He gets the impression Dean is about to reveal a very old, very tender hurt to him.
“There was this guy, there,” Dean says suddenly. “Older, maybe in his 50s. I was sitting at the bar. Didn’t have a drink or nothing, ‘cause I didn’t have any money. I guess I must’ve looked as awful as I felt because he—he came up to me and started talking to me. He asked where my parents were and what I was doing out alone so late.”
There, in the center of Cas’s stomach, a steady swirling of dread begins to form. Something is wrong, he can hear it in Dean’s voice.
“At some point, I guess I told him I was looking for a way to make some money. And he got this—this look on his face. When I think about it now, I still can’t figure out what the hell he was thinking. But he just—he just smiled at me and told me he could help. And I wasn’t about to question it. I—I really needed the money.”
By now, Dean’s voice is so quiet, it’s almost inaudible, and Cas leans back against the door, breathing slowly and steadily so he doesn’t miss a word.
“He led me outside to this alley next to the bar. I remember it was cold. Must’ve been winter. And I was—I remember just standing there, staring at him, because I didn’t get what he wanted me to do. Even after he—”
Here, Dean cuts off. Another deep breath from the other side of the door.
“Even after he pushed me to my knees, I still didn’t get it. I was fourteen, for God’s sake. And I—he said he could help me.”
The tears that run silently down Cas’s face are no longer for himself. He can hear the pain in Dean’s voice, feels an echoing ache in his chest. Picks absentmindedly at his bruised knees. The man had told him he looked good on his knees, that first day. It made him never want to kneel again.
“I didn’t fight back,” Dean says quietly. “I guess I could’ve but I just—I froze. Afterwards, he pulled me to my feet and gave me twenty bucks. When he left, I just—walked down to the gas station next to the motel and bought Sammy some dinner. I never talked about it. Hell, I didn’t even think about it. But the next night, I went back to the bar. Two weeks later, dad came back. I never told him. But for the next couple years, whenever we were short on cash and dad was on a hunt, I knew exactly how I could make some money.”
Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Cas is twisting in his spot and, with quick movements, unlocking the bathroom door then pulling it open.
Evidently, Dean had been leaning against the door, because he falls backwards and turns to Cas in surprise. His face is dry but his eyes shine with tears. Suddenly, he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are flushed red.
In that moment, looking at his best friend sprawled out on the floor, sharing this secret in an attempt to give him comfort, there are so many things Castiel wants to say. He wants to tell Dean that he’s sorry, that he wishes he could go back and undo all of the pain he endured as a child, all the pain he endured in hell. He wants to give Dean empty reassurances and platitudes that he himself craves and loathes in equal measures. Cas knows this is a hurt that he can’t take from Dean, but he wants to help him shoulder the weight of it because he understands, now. He understands.
Cas does none of that. Instead, he reaches forward and pulls Dean to him, burying his face in Dean’s neck. It’s closer than he’s been to anyone since he was rescued but there's no fear there. This is Dean, and Dean is safe. And right now, Cas just wants to hold him.
Cas knows he’s basically clinging to Dean at this point, and there’s a moment where suddenly he’s afraid he’s done exactly the wrong thing, that Dean doesn’t want this from him—before warm arms are circling gingerly around his back and coming to rest under his shoulders. Cas closes his eyes, lets himself revel in this rare moment of outward affection. Dean isn’t big on hugs with him, but it feels nice.
“Does Sam know?” Cas asks because there’s nothing he can say to make this better.
“No,” Dean says. “Never told him. You know how he gets, man. He’d just—blame himself, probably.” Dean laughs then, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “I know it’s not the same,” he says quietly. “But I just—I don’t want you to think that—”
“Dean, it’s okay,” Cas interrupts. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“I know you do. I wish you didn’t.”
Cas closes his eyes, holds Dean tighter, and breathes, breathes, breathes.