Work Text:
Fixed
By Demented Pixie
Season 11 episode 6 – Our Little World - Coda
This was a first for Castiel. In the past precedence had been set for other, he supposed, family type niceties such as being offered a coffee, when he didn’t drink, or pizza, when he didn’t eat, but ever since Rowena had cast her ‘attack dog’ spell upon him his relationship with the Winchesters seemed to have changed slightly. Sacrificing other arguably more important things, like hunting The Darkness, they had both gone out on a limb to track Rowena down in order for her to lift the spell, Dean had covered him with a blanket from his own bed and asked, almost repeatedly, if he was okay and how he was doing, and Sam... Well if Castiel was honest he couldn’t quite figure Sam out these days. He had been working so closely with the younger Winchester while they tried to get the Mark of Cain removed from Dean, and he had begun to feel quite close to the man. But Sam didn’t seem to show as much concern as Dean did over Castiel’s current state, in fact his ‘you scared the crap out of us’ made Castiel feel like he had done something wrong when the spell was at its worst, instead of it being acknowledged that he was very much the victim.
But it was Sam who invited Castiel to go to Sam’s room, turn on the TV and watch Netflix and so, Castiel had obeyed. Learning from his past mistakes regarding personal space, Castiel had never actually been inside Sam’s room before. Sam needed his privacy and Castiel was happy to give him that. But now, he had to admit, there was something incredibly soothing about sitting in Sam’s cosy, warm room while he lost himself in the inane, petty, human stories that flickered across the screen. He didn’t have to concentrate, he didn’t have to solve their problems for them, he didn’t even have to think. And apart from the odd phone call from Sam or Dean to ask him to look things up in the lore books that littered the bedroom floor, he didn’t have to focus on very much at all.
All he really knew with any certainty was that his mind, body, soul and grace had all been equally shredded and torn apart by the combination of Rowena’s spell and being tortured by his so-called brothers, and that he needed time to, as Sam said, put himself back together. How much time, he really wasn’t sure, but this comfortable binge watching was certainly proving to be an answer that he would never have thought of by himself.
And then came a phone call from Dean and, again, Castiel was confused. Dean sounded, on one level, just as concerned about Castiel as he had done since he first learned about the spell and the torture, but now he was most definitely piling on the pressure, asking, almost insisting, that Cass get himself up and out and back on the job. No more sweet, safe, haven of healing, just ‘we’re in the dark here, pal, we need you back in the game, okay?” No arguments and very little understanding. Maybe it was his own fault for reverting to that very human fallback of saying ‘fine’ when Dean asked him how he was. Maybe Dean had believed him.
Resigned, and more than a little depressed, Castiel put the phone back on the bed and closed his eyes. There was nothing for it - he was going to have to go out.
Getting ready for his first trip out of the bunker since crash landing behind the pile of books in the library, seemed to take forever. He couldn’t recall having such a problem doing up his shirt buttons before but his hands were shaking so much it was almost laughable. He struggled just as much with his tie and shoelaces until at last, shrugging into his faithful trench coat, he reluctantly began to climb the stairs that led to the front door of the bunker.
It was as he neared the top that it began again, the thing. The thing that he hadn’t told Sam or Dean about, the thing he didn’t really understand. Dean’s voice, loud and clear, shouting, angry, as Castiel punched him, fists pummelling into him. Hannah being killed with the angel blade and Castiel being helpless to stop it. Killing Crowley again, and again... against his own will but driven on by the spell. Dean fighting back, his righteous man who he had rescued from hell seemingly possessed with the need to hurt the angel as much as he could and Cass couldn’t stop him, couldn’t save himself, couldn’t stop... couldn’t stop...
It suddenly became difficult to breathe. Castiel hadn’t even considered whether angels really needed to breathe air but, regardless of whether they did or didn’t, he couldn’t. He clutched at the railings for support and tried to calm himself down, unsuccessfully. Gripping onto the railings not being anywhere near enough he sat down, hard, on the top step and leaned his head against the cold metal while he waited for the feelings of panic to fade.
It was a long wait.
******
It took the one person Castiel hated more than any other, Metatron himself, as he goaded in his usual irksome, whining tone, for Castiel to finally understand what was wrong.
“You are broken, Castiel. I don’t know what it was that happened but whatever it was you are scarred, deeply, paralysed by trauma, by fear.”
Yes. That was it, the explanation so clearly laid out before him like a poisonous banquet. A banquet at which there were three diners. Castiel, deeply traumatised by the effects of Rowena’s spell coupled with the treachery of his own brothers as they cruelly tortured him. Sam, tormented by visions of Lucifer’s cage in hell, distraught by the realisation that his own fate may be to eventually return there. And Dean, Amara’s chosen one, confused, lost and torn between his loyalty to his family and this strange connection with the sister of God.
No wonder they were all such a mess. There was not one among them strong enough to take on the burden of the others. Not one of them capable of listening or helping. There was no-one to hold any of them through their nightmares, to help them to deal with their inner suffering. No Mom, no Dad, no Bobby. No way, it seemed, of repairing any of the damage.
It came to a head with a fight. Not a fist fight - no blood was spilled - but a vindictive, almost spiteful, point scoring session. Sam let the demon go, Castiel let Metatron go, Dean let Amara go... they were all to blame and all equally blameless.
Refuge was taken. Sam to the library, Dean to the bottle, and Castiel to the only refuge he had. Sam’s room.
After turning the TV on he slumped down to sit on the side of Sam’s bed, feeling a little like the sheets beneath him – crumpled, flat and in need of a good airing. Putting his elbows on his knees he leaned his head into his hands and allowed himself to drift.
“Cass? Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Sam’s arrival made the angel jump and he found himself staring up at the taller man, blinking in confusion.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he stammered, fully aware that he needed to stop saying that unless he meant it. “Sorry, Sam.”
“What for?”
“You need your room back.”
Sam put a firm hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to stay put. “It’s okay,” he said, as he sat down on the bed next to Castiel. “Stay.”
The silence that stretched between them was not of the comfortable nature. Instead it simply drew attention to the fact that the two of them were sat on a bed together, not really knowing what to say. Several times Castiel opened his mouth to say something but simply didn’t know how to start.
Eventually, Sam cracked. “Do you have something you want to ask me, Cass?”
Cass gazed at him, paused for a moment, then nodded.
“What is it?”
Cass shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why?” Sam looked quite perplexed.
“Because you have your own… issues… to deal with, Sam. You don’t need mine as well.”
“Cass. No. You’re wrong. Yes, there are things going on in my head right now, things I don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a good friend, a brother. I mean it. Talk to me.”
Cass turned towards the flickering TV images. “Metatron said I am broken. He could see it when he looked at me.”
Sam hesitated for a moment, taking that in. “Okay. And is that how you feel? Broken?”
“I… I feel…” Castiel ground to a halt, struggling with how to put it in words.
“Go on,” encouraged Sam, softly.
Castiel took a deep breath and two words came out in a rush. “Useless. Used.”
“Okay. And?”
“And yes, broken. Metatron was right about that.”
“You’ve been through a lot, Cass.”
“So have you. So has Dean. You haven’t fallen apart.” Castiel spat the words, obviously angry with himself.
“You think? Cass, we fall apart all the time. All the shit we go through, everything, from the moment Mom died, has affected us both so much. And there always seems to be something new for us to cope with.”
“So how do you? Cope with it, I mean.”
“We talk it out. We understand each other’s moods. We try to be there for each other. It’s what family does.”
Castiel looked away again. “I have lost all my family.”
Sam put a hand, gently, on the side of Castiel’s face, encouraging him to look back at him once more. “You really think that? Don’t think that, Cass. You’re our family, you always will be. I know we argue, blame each other, fight, even. But that’s part of being a family just as much as supporting each other is. Don’t ever think you can’t talk to me or Dean. Don’t ever think we’re using you. And don’t ever think you’re useless.”
Castiel’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as he looked up at the hunter. “Do you think I’m broken, Sam?”
“Honest? No. I think you’ve been through a tough time. That spell was a bitch. You’ve been tortured by angels. And as for you and Dean… well, let’s just say the ‘Profound Bond’ you have with him has been tested to its limits. But you’re still here, you’re still with us, and you’re still fighting. You’re not broken, Cass. You’re alive, respected and loved.”
At these last words all the things Castiel had been holding back suddenly found form, as tears began to pour silently down his face. As smoothly as possible, Sam manoeuvred himself and the distraught angel to lie back fully on the bed, grabbing for the remote on the way so that he could turn the TV off. He soon had them both arranged comfortably, leaning against the pillows with Castiel supported in his arms. He soothed and ssshh’d his friend until the sobs subsided and the ragged breathing evened out, and held him until, at last, the angel relaxed into a restorative doze.
Of course Dean chose that moment to come looking for them, glass of whisky in his hand.
“Really?” he said, raising one eyebrow as he took in the scene.
“You were right,” said Sam, his voice low. “He wasn’t ready. We pushed him too soon.”
“He’s a freaking soldier,” said Dean, “not a baby.”
“A soldier with PTSD,” corrected Sam. “And he needs this right now. He needs us, right now.”
“Right.”
For some reason Dean looked upset, angry even.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sam.
“I didn’t realise he was so bad,” admitted Dean. “I didn’t give him a chance to tell me.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Sam. “He thought he was… broken. But now he’s going to let us help fix things.”
Dean took a step further into the room, looking down on a scene he never thought he’d ever see. His taller than was natural younger brother lying stretched out on a bed while hugging a zonked out fallen angel whose face was stained by tear tracks.
With a sigh, he raised his glass.
“Here’s to fixing Cass.”