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nadleehFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Word count: 1892
Summary: What kind of monster knocks on the door?
Notes: It's 5:52am. These unbeta'd late-night fics are becoming a bad habit.
There's an almighty crash outside, and all three of them leap to their feet. Bobby's reaching for the shotgun on the table before the echoes have even faded, and Dean's on his feet and grabbing his own from next to the door before any of them even have a chance to say what the hell was that?
"What the hell was that?" Sam says a second later into the now-ominous silence, Ruby's knife gripped tightly in his hand.
"Whatever it was, it sure didn't sound friendly." Bobby's voice is low and wary as he edges along the wall towards the dirt-encrusted window, holding the shotgun tightly. There's nothing there that Dean can see from his vantage point near the door, but he cocks the gun anyway while Sam's heading into the kitchen to check that window view.
"Gonna go out on a limb here and say an over-enthusiastic lumberjack's too much to hope for," Dean mutters to himself, and feels pretty vindicated when he hears Sam's sharp intake of breath all the way from the other room. Bobby doesn't say anything, which probably has something to do with the way all the blood just drained from his face as he stares outside.
"What--"
Knock knock.
Dean's voice dies in his throat. What kind of monster knocks? He has the most ridiculous urge to quip Who's there? and have some kind of comedy routine start.
Knock. Knock.
The knocks are getting harder, like whatever's out there is pretty damn insistent about making itself heard. Then why hasn't it busted in here guns blazing yet? Dean thinks, and reaches for the doorknob with his free hand. Sam comes rushing back in from the kitchen and bursts out with an agitated whisper at the same time as Bobby, their mutual Dean-- merging into one cut-off statement as Dean throws open the door and raises the shotgun in one fluid movement.
"No cookies today, girl scout--"
He's stopped dead by the face staring back at him. In fact, he thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe. He doesn't lower the gun, though, nothing of the sudden shutdown of his brain reaching his rock-steady hands, and his wide eyes never leave the face in front of him.
There's an incredibly tense silence, which seems to drag on forever.
It's broken by Sam, quiet, and with a note of hope that Dean kind of hates him for.
"Cas…?"
Because it is Cas, or at least it looks like him, looking like a puppy that got whacked too hard with the rolled-up newspaper and isn't sure if it's welcome in the house any more. His trenchcoat's gone - obviously, seeing as it's currently rolled up in Dean's bag - and the black suit jacket is just so many torn and kind of singed rags hanging off him. His white shirt is torn too, filthy and mudstained, with a bright red splotch of blood that's dripping from Cas's temple onto his shoulder. His left arm hangs strangely, in a way experience with a thousand hunting injuries can confidently say 'broken'. There's leaves in his hair, sticking to the bloody patch, and a dirty scrape on his cheek. He looks, in short, like he just crash-landed in the forest. Dean catalogues all of this somewhere in the back of his mind, a hunter's sizing-up-the-opponent scan, but the majority of all conscious thought is completely whited out by the sheer shock of staring Cas in those distinctive, unblinking eyes again.
That gaze lingers on him for a moment more, before Cas looks away.
"Hello, Sam." Something in Dean's stomach lurches sickeningly at the sound of that voice and that familiar phrase.
"How in the hell…" breathes Bobby from next to Dean, and Dean feels his jaw clench just a little tighter.
"is it really….I mean, how'd you…Cas, how're you here?" Sam's voice still has a tremor of hope under the layer of shocked disbelief, and Dean recognises the burgeoning bubble of relief lurking near the surface. It's the final straw. Cas opens his mouth to talk, but he gets no further than "I--" before Dean cuts him off.
"Sam, get the Borax." His tone is no harsher than he intended, because he intended it to be pretty brusque, but it's more raw than he meant it to be, even through gritted teeth. His eyes never leave the man in the doorway, so he has a front-row view for when the gaze swings back to him, for the subtle furrow of confusion on the brow, the quick glance down at the gun and gentle resignation and understanding dawning. Dean's knuckles are almost painfully white with grip on the shotgun and his eyes are hard in return.
"Dean, I-"
"I said get the Borax, Sam!"
Because this isn't Cas. This can't be Cas. Cas is dead and gone somewhere at the bottom of the reservoir, leaving nothing behind but a trenchcoat and a freaking impossible Leviathan-shaped mess to clean up. Cas came back from impossible circumstances twice already, but if it was God who brought Cas back the last couple of times, somehow Dean doesn't think God is stoked enough with Cas's big free will ideals this time to bring him back all shiny and new again. And honestly, Dean doesn't trust anything in his life to go right at the moment. He doesn't dare even think about hoping this is really Cas, because he doesn't think he can take that disappointment again.
He had Cas returned and then snatched away by Leviathan once, felt that crash and burn of hope, he's not letting them get to him like that again - this is a Leviathan in Cas' shape fucking with them, he knows it, and he's damn well not letting it get inside his head. Cas is, hm, he's gone. He's dead! We run the show now! echoes in his mind, round and round like a stuck record, reminding him not to even bother hoping. The redness of the blood on Cas' face is as much of a lie as the face itself, this not-Cas bleeds black because he's not looking at his friend. He's looking at the bastard that killed him.
Cas-not-Cas is staring at him sadly, and Dean glares stonefaced back. The barrel of the shotgun hovers steadily at chest level. A shot wouldn't bother a Leviathan, sure, but it's a barrier and a distance between them right now that Dean's clinging to.
"Arm," he growls, when he hears Sam coming up behind him with the slosh of their Leviathan repellent.
"Arm…?" frowns Cas-not-Cas, tilting his head in the goddamn familiar way that makes Dean want to club this fucker upside that stolen head with the shotgun.
He settles for spitting out, "Just hold out your damn arm." Cas-not-Cas blinks slowly, looks at Sam's Borax bottle, and nods. His sleeve's in tatters anyway when he holds out his good arm, and enough skin shows through that they don't even need to bother trying to roll up the remnants before Sam sluices the cleanser over it. All three of them hold their breath.
"Ow."
The skin's gone kinda red, but that's about it. Cas -- Cas-not-Cas -- is looking down at it with a look of mild consternation. "That stings."
"S'like bleach. It'll do that to ya, on bare skin," comes Bobby's voice, only a little faint, before he steps forward and upends his flask of holy water onto the offending arm. There's another pregnant pause. The skin doesn't bubble and Cas doesn't cry out in pain. In fact, he nods again.
"That feels slightly better."
The barrel of the shotgun has started faintly shaking.
"Silver knife." Damnit, there's a serious quaver in Dean's voice now. "Check him. Silver knife."
It's Sam that steps forward this time, and Dean hears a murmured apology and Bobby's 'letter opener' nicks across Cas' abused arm.
Nothing. And the blood that wells up is red and perfectly normal.
Dean swallows as Sam turns back to look at him. Bobby's giving him the eye too, and Cas -- not Cas! - has been staring at him again since before Sam came at him with the knife. The barrel of the stupid shotgun won't shaking like a goddamn jell-o mould, and Dean's rapidly losing any sense of what to do.
"We must've missed something. Gotta be something we haven't checked for. What are you, huh? What the hell are you?" The shotgun jerks forward, nudging Cas hard in the chest. His gaze doesn't shift.
"Human, Dean. I'm human." Sam looks over sharply, but Cas doesn't stop. "My Grace has been stripped from me as punishment for my sins, but I am still…I'm Castiel. And I-" he turns to look at Sam, at Bobby, with that lost-kicked-puppy face, "-I have come to…redeem myself, if you'll let me try."
Sam nods, smiles, and reaches out to squeeze Cas' shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. It's…good to have you back, Cas." His eyes are freaking wet.
"You ain't part of this family until you've done something world-endingly stupid, near as I can tell," says Bobby gruffly, giving Cas a brusque nod. "Welcome back."
Cas looks between them like he can't quite believe what they're saying but is immensely grateful, but inevitably his eyes drift back to Dean's, who feels every wall against hope crumbling.
"…Cas?" His voice is an embarassingly wavering whisper.
It's not a Leviathan. It's not a demon. It's not a shapeshifter. It's Cas, really Cas, here and back again somehow.
Good things do happen, Dean.
Every cynical, realistic part of him is still rebelling against the proof right in front of him - nobody comes back against impossible odds this many times for Dean Winchester, nobody sticks around this doggedly in his life unless they have to - but they're losing the battle this time. It must show on his face, the stony expression crumpling into the maelstrom of feeling currently raging in Dean's head, because Sam reaches over and tugs the shotgun gently out of Dean's hands where he'd been clinging tightfistedly like it was a security blanket.
"Hello, Dean." Everything about Cas' actions from the moment he showed up on the doorstep has been vaguely unsure, still guilty, all reminiscent of the last time Dean saw him alive. For the first time, the tiniest of upward turns touches Cas' mouth, just a little hope under the immense sadness and weight in his eyes.
It's fucking Cas, all over, and before his brain can interrupt Dean's yanking the stupid bastard ex-angel into a tight hug. A second later, Cas is melting into it, his good arm coming up to rest on Dean's back and his head leaning into Dean's shoulder. Dean closes his eyes, leans his head down too, and squeezes him a little harder.
"Quit fucking dying on me, you stupid son of a bitch," he growls furiously into Cas' neck, voice cracking. "That's how you make it up to me. Just - you get yourself killed again and I'll kick your ass myself, Cas, you hear me?"
"I hear you, Dean," comes the rumble, slightly muffled, and Dean feels Cas' hand at his back as it curls gently into the fabric of Dean's shirt.
The best thing about Cas is, Dean knows he can say that whole spiel and know that Cas hears exactly what he truly means by it. I'm sorry. I forgive you. You're family. I care. Stay with me, please.
