Chapter Text
Castiel stirred at dawn, invigorated by the pungent scent of the forest against his cheek, the cradle of the earth beneath him. He’d spent the night outside, hands buried in the verdant stream of ferns that wound between the redwoods. He’d only meant to rest, pleasantly exhausted by his daily run. He’d sat at the base of a great tree and closed his eyes. That must’ve been twelve hours ago, because the yellow glow of morning suffused the woods, and his exhaustion had passed. He got up to stretch.
His father was due home any day now. He went away more often, now that Castiel was grown, but returned with food and books and supplies a few times a year. Castiel never knew precisely when he would return, but he tightened his shoelaces and ran back to the house. Maybe it would be today.
They’d come to these woods when Castiel was very small. For twenty-one years, he and his father had lived in the glass house he glimpsed in the distance, constructed miles from any road. It stretched skyward, corridors and rooms branching off in the manner of the colossal trees that guarded them from the outside world.
No one came here. No one knew Castiel, but he was happy. He had no memory of anything before.
He panted when he approached the house, his breaths part of the chorus. All around him, the forest burst to life. With the sunrise came the trill of birds, scamper of invisible feet bounding deeper into the trees. He spared a minute to look in on his bees, satisfied the entrance to the hive was not obstructed—he’d lost a good number to chalkbrood last season. Drones crawled across his knuckles and buzzed lazily around his head. He wished them good morning and brushed them away with careful hands, and climbed the forty-four steps to the house.
Save for the whir of appliances and rolling howl of the wind against the glass, the house was still. No one answered when he called out.
“Dad?”
Perhaps tomorrow. Castiel’s footsteps echoed hollowly on his retreat to the shower, to wash the forest from his skin. Sometimes he wished the bees could follow him upstairs to interrupt the silence.
“Sure no one’s gonna bother the boys, Bobby?”
The trunk thundered closed. From the rickety porch swing, Dean watched his dad and Bobby lug the bags from the trunk onto the wrap-around porch. His cheek ached under the bandages and it took all of his self control not to scratch the gashes. It was lucky Bobby had been in Oregon when dad called yesterday. He’d driven all night to meet them here. The secluded cabin was safer than a motel, he’d convinced dad, and cheaper. They’d leave the car in case the boys needed anything and go finish off the wendigo. Sam and Dean would be fine on their own for a week. Dean was nineteen, after all. He cradled his bad arm against his body.
“There’s no one for miles,” Bobby said, guiding Sam up the cabin’s steps. He unlocked the door. The key swung from a vinyl keychain with an advertisement on it, the kind Dean nicked from automotive shops. “Place belongs to an old friend of mine. He doesn’t come here much anymore. Boys’ll be fine as long as they stay put.”
“Dean?” John said. Dean raised his head.
“Yes, sir?”
“Come inside. I want Bobby to look at your arm.”
Dean’s boots left tracks on the dusty cabin floor. John emptied the grocery bags into an aging refrigerator, and Sam claimed the biggest of the three bedrooms, flopping back onto the bed. It coughed a cloud of dust. Dean took the one across the hall and sat on the side of the mattress away from the window, leaning over his knees.
Bobby came in without knocking, holding out a set of sheets. He set them on a plain wood dresser and lay the back of his hand across Dean’s forehead.
“How’re you feeling, son?”
“Like I went twelve rounds with Holyfield.”
“Next time your daddy tells you to stay back, you listen to him.”
“I thought I had a shot,” Dean said. He rubbed away a sigh and held still as Bobby unwrapped the gauze wound around Dean’s forearm.
“Sam patched you up?”
“Yeah, in the back while dad was driving.”
Bobby applied a salve to the claw marks that ran the length of Dean’s arm. “Good news is you’ll heal fine, but these scars won’t be pretty.”
“At least I still got my personality.”
“Why did you go anywhere near it?”
“Flare gun wouldn’t fire.”
Bobby teased the gauze from the side of Dean’s face and cursed under his breath.
“How bad?” Dean asked.
“You need a stitch or two. Sam?” Bobby called, looking to the hallway, his neck and face blotchy with anger. “I want you to stay with your brother and put these sheets on the bed. I have to get some things out of my truck.”
Dean felt numb listening to the crunch of Bobby’s truck meandering down the wooded drive back to the main road. They had supplies for a couple weeks, a landline phone, and Sam was under orders to check Dean’s wounds daily.
“Dean’s hurt. Why aren’t you staying?” he’d overheard Sam ask their dad.
“Bobby and I have work to do,” John had said. “I know you’ll take good care of him, Sammy.”
He’d poked his head into the bedroom to say goodbye. Dean hadn’t gotten out of bed.
Bobby said town was just a few miles away. He’d marked it on a map that he’d left on the kitchen counter. John left them with the Impala and a few good credit cards.
Dean stared at the remains of a cobweb dangling from the ceiling. Sam’s footsteps came up the hall.
“You want to watch something?” he asked. His voice was timid.
“Maybe later, okay?” Dean tried to smile for Sam’s sake, but smiling pulled his stitches. He patted the bed next to him.
“Does it hurt a lot?” Sam asked. He tucked his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them.
“Yeah.”
Sam chewed on his lip. “There’s a hospital on the map. It’s only eighty miles from here.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Nah,” Dean said, then pulled partly upright using his abdominal muscles. He sluggishly licked his lips. “D’you want me to make you something?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I can cook, Dean. I’m fifteen.”
“Well if you need anything, you wake me up, okay? Whatever Bobby gave me is starting to kick in. I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“Is it alright if I go outside and read?”
“Yeah, just stay close to the house,” Dean said, turning onto his side, so he put no pressure on his bad arm. His heart beat in the gashes on his face. “We’ve got no idea what’s in these woods.”
Clean and dressed, Castiel fixed himself oatmeal with honey and fruit, and sat at the long, narrow table set against the window. It looked down upon his beehives and the herb garden he tended during the summer, and a long-haired boy who stumbled over a fallen branch.
The boy pitched forward and broke his fall with his hands, then wiped them on his jeans and squinted up at the house.
Castiel shoved back from the glass. He was miles from neighboring houses, his father had said, and hours from the closest town. He hadn’t heard an engine, so the boy must’ve come on foot, but where did he come from? Although his first instinct was fear, gnawing curiosity eased him forward. The boy was gangly, arms and legs too long for his body—a teenager, if Castiel had to guess by the skinniness of his face. He’d likely just gone through a growth spurt. Just a child, then, but a child was unlikely to be unaccompanied.
Castiel had been eight years old when the man in a gray suit had appeared in their woods. He hadn’t come up to the house, but Castiel had watched him fearlessly through the window, enthralled with the circle of gold around his head. “Go to your room,” his father had said. “Now, Castiel. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.” Castiel had clutched the only picture he had of his mother until his father came back inside and bandaged his hand, which had dripped a trail of blood up the staircase.
He’d ordered Castiel to stay in his room and not to come out regardless of what he heard, which had sounded like a flock of birds, two voices—his father’s and a second that was very soft—and then silence. Chuck had gone into the woods with paint and a knife, and hadn’t returned until nightfall. He said Castiel’s tutor couldn’t come after that. No one came to the house after that, not until the boy.
A picture of Castiel’s mother stood on the mantle in a gold frame. Her hair was the red of the sky at sunset, her smile faint. He looked at the picture for courage and went outside.
The boy bent at the waist examining Castiel’s beehives, but he wasn’t harassing them. He kept his arms behind his back. There was a sweetness, an innocent curiosity to his face. Castiel knew instinctively this boy meant no harm, but he shouldn’t be here.
Castiel descended the stairs. His bare feet disturbed the ground, making the boy’s head snap up. He reached for something under his plaid shirt but faltered before he could produce it.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, backing up a step. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”
If anyone approached the house, no matter the reason they gave, Castiel wasn’t to trust them. That’s what his father had ordered since Castiel could understand. “It’s for your safety, Castiel. Promise me you’ll remember this,” he’d said, guiding Castiel’s finger through the soil over and over until he’d memorized the alien shape he was to draw if any of them came.
He didn’t draw the shape now but canted his head, curious, and came nearer. His father had never warned against children, and it was possible this one was simply lost. “What are you doing here?” Castiel said, taking another step. His voice was rough from disuse and came out throaty. When was the last time he’d spoken aloud?
“Taking a walk,” the boy said.
“Do you live nearby?”
The boy pulled out a pocket knife. Castiel had read about them and knew their shape, knew the boy could flick the blade open in mere seconds. The steadiness of his hand told Castiel he knew how to use it.
“Why?” the boy asked with understandable caution.
“I want to make sure you’re safe,” Castiel clarified. He stopped walking and held up his hands.
“My brother’s right behind me.” The boy held the knife against his thigh, but he didn’t open it, and no one else came up the trail. He stared at Castiel for the better part of a minute and asked, “Is this your house?”
“Yes.”
“It’s big.”
Castiel had no frame of reference; it didn’t seem large, compared to the castles in his books, but he didn’t argue. The boy wasn’t a threat; his aura blazed deep orange at his edges, like a flame.
“I’m Castiel,” he said.
The boy blinked and, looking to the knife as if for guidance, thrust out his other hand. Castiel had never shaken one before.
The boy was hesitant but not unfriendly, his handshake firm. “Hi,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’m Sam.”
Dean awoke to a quiet cabin and the stab of an empty stomach. He called for Sam but didn't get an answer. The painkillers had worn off, leaving his arm and face throbbing.
The sounds outside the cabin were unfamiliar: birdsong, the shimmer of wind through the leaves. He shivered and drew the sheet to his shoulders. The window was still light, but the sun didn't spill inside. It leaked between dusty slat blinds. The cabin hadn't been abused so much as neglected, left to age alone in the woods. Light caught on a skin of dust on the nightstand and on the thick dresser that stood against the far wall. The walls were bare, devoid of art, but lovely on their own: row after row of evenly sized logs, stacked to an airy ceiling. Dean called for Sam again, but he didn't answer.
Bobby and dad would have warded the house before they left, and Sam had enough practical experience with the supernatural to know better than to wander off. Still, he was just a kid, curious as hell, and Dean's protective instincts roared as the wendigo had roared the night of the attack.
He hobbled, sleep dizzy, to Sam's empty bedroom, and to the cabin's main room, striped with late afternoon sunlight. The television was off. Dean's leather jacket hung, lonely, on a peg beside the front door, only one pair of boots beneath it.
“Dammit.” Dean called for Sam again. Opening his mouth pulled the stitches in his cheek tight, but he swept aside the sickness that kneaded his stomach and wrenched the front door wide.
The Impala crouched beneath the carport and the porch swing creaked in the wind. Sam had left a cup of water on the railing, but he wasn’t on the porch. Dean yelled his name but got no answer. He struggled into his jacket and boots, doing a poor job lacing them with one arm. Even if Sam had taken the mobile phone, calling him from the cabin line wouldn’t do any good—they had no service this far from a major city. He’d be lucky to get a text message through, but Sam had left it to charge. Dean’s only choice was to go after Sam on foot. Dean took a shotgun and followed a set of footprints sunk into the dark soil, leading into the dense forest west of the drive.
Jurassic ferns brushed his shoulder as he went past. They bowed to the breeze. He slapped them out of his face and trudged through the mud. The forest was thick and lush and dappled with sunlight. A distant stream babbled in time to the trill and chatter of birds. Backlit by the sun, the trunks appeared almost black and stretched so high he couldn’t make out their tops. Deep grooves ran down each tree, as though the bark had been shredded. Where they caught the light, they were red as the sun-baked terra cotta pots his mom had kept stuffed with herbs on their back porch. He’d helped her poke holes for the seeds. The pots had burned, too.
Dean lost his trail in a stand of ferns and turned in a circle, cursing. He was going to kick Sam’s ass when he found him. He might even tell dad—Sam deserved a tongue lashing after this. He’d been about to resume shouting when the ferns parted and Sam stumbled into view with a book tucked under his arm.
“Dean!”
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I went for a walk! There’s a trail that runs for a couple miles.” Sam touched the bandage over Dean’s cheek with a worried expression. “You’re bleeding. I think you tore your stitches.”
“That's because I was yelling for you! What were you thinking? There’s mountain lions out here.”
“I think I could handle a mountain lion,” Sam said, and although he was furious, Dean put an arm around Sam’s shoulders and steered him toward the cabin.
Dean was still angry over dinner, but he kept quiet while Sam ate two plates of spaghetti, picking at the edge of the new square of gauze Sam had taped to his cheek.
“You’ll scar,” Sam said with reproach, swatting at Dean with a fork. Dean sat back so the tines missed him by a foot and gave a carefree shrug.
“Chicks dig scars.”
“You don’t even know any girls.”
“You don’t even—” He broke off and took a drink of water. “Find anything good up the trail?”
“Mostly trees. There’s a house about a mile and a half away.”
Dean’s eyes fell on the art book spread open on the counter.
“Sammy…” He scratched his neck and knocked his fists against the tabletop. “I know we don’t get by on the most legit terms, but I don’t want you growing up thinking that’s okay. If you want something, you tell me and I’ll figure out a way to get it. I don’t want you stealing.”
“I didn’t!” Sam’s eyes were wide and earnest.
“Sam…”
“I didn’t steal anything! There was a guy in his garden and I talked to him for a few minutes. He seemed pretty lonely. Anyway, he said I could borrow the book. He’s got a whole library.”
“You got this from a stranger?”
Sam sat up straighter. “His name’s Castiel.”
“I don’t care what his name is! Did he do anything to you?”
“Dean!”
“Answer me.”
“I’m not stupid,” Sam said. “He’s not that much older than me. Anyway, you should see his house, Dean! It’s huge.”
“I don’t want to see it, and I don’t want you going back there. Not by yourself.”
“Fine, you can come with me. I said I’d bring the book back tomorrow.”
The painkillers were taking effect and beginning to make Dean woozy. Another twenty minutes and he’d be drooling onto his plate.
“Look, why don’t we clean up, watch a movie.”
“Sure,” Sam said glumly. He cleared the plates and put them in the sink. Dean sat impotent at the table. His arm wouldn’t be right for weeks, but at least the pain was tolerable. He untied the sling and left it on his chair.
“Dean...”
“Can it.” The television remote wasn’t on the coffee table, so he searched in the media console drawers only to find the batteries were dead. They’d leaked acid in the plastic compartment. He scratched the battery terminals clean, flicking away the pale green crust with a fingernail. “We got any triple As?”
“In my suitcase. I’ll get them.” Sam bounded down the hallway. “How many do you need?”
“Two.”
Sam brought the batteries and took the remote without asking. He kept hold of it and sat a cushion away. “Requests?”
“Don’t matter,” Dean said.
“Doesn’t,” Sam corrected.
“No chick flicks.”
They settled on a Stallone movie already halfway finished. Dean watched less than ten minutes before he was staring at the back of his eyelids.
The painkillers were prescription meds, and since Dean didn’t have a prescription, they were illegal. Sam knew that, even though dad and Bobby wouldn’t tell him for certain. The drugs were too strong to be over the counter. The Tylenol that Dean gave him never made Sam tired, but Dean was drooling onto his shirt and it wasn’t even eight o’clock. Percocets could make people tired. Dad probably stole them from a family they’d helped.
Sam lowered the volume and switched to the Discovery Channel, since Dean wasn’t awake to tease him for watching a show about the ocean. He microwaved a bowl of popcorn and ate the entire thing without sharing. Dean always dropped some on the floor and between couch cushions, and since his hands were larger, he tended to leave only a third for Sam, who had to satisfy his snack craving by crunching on the unpopped kernels rolling around the bottom of the bowl.
He happily tossed those in the garbage and left the dishes for morning. Dean wasn’t easy to wake up, but he was lucid long enough for Sam to get him to his room and beneath the covers. Dean groaned when he put pressure on his arm. Sam pushed on his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, and the hard lines of pain on his face softened. Dean didn’t let people take care of him; Sam liked the scarce times he had a chance to.
He brushed his teeth and changed for bed, and slid between the sheets Bobby had brought for them. They were softer than the ones at motels where they often stayed, the kind of sheets Sam hoped they’d have if they ever got a house somewhere. He wiggled his toes and cracked the cover of the art book, laying it across his lap.
The pages were luxuriously thick and glossy, like books he'd seen in libraries. Bobby had a room of books like that. The few Sam owned were battered paperbacks he'd rescued from hotel lobbies or bought for pocket change at a yard sale. He was careful not to damage the spine. The cover had light surface damage, but the pages bore no fingerprints or smudges. If Castiel hadn’t said the book was one of his favorites, Sam might have guessed it had never been handled. He was cautious as he turned each page, touching them only long enough that they could fall the rest of the way independent of his hand.
He recognized Picasso and van Gogh’s paintings from school, but he studied most for the first time, entranced by their colors and movement, amazed that anger could be captured in a harsh brush stroke.
The book entertained him for over an hour, until his chin began to nod toward his chest, and he wasn't looking at the pages anymore. Fearful of damaging it, he set the book aside and switched off the light. He could look at the rest of the pictures in the morning and then walk the book back to Castiel, after breakfast when Dean was asleep again. He wouldn't even know Sam had been gone.
Castiel smiled when Sam trudged up the path, his cheeks hot from the long walk, a curtain of hair hanging in his eyes. Castiel tended a scrawny plant that had made a home beneath the stairs. There was a smudge of dirt on his forehead. Sam shoved the damp hair from his face and thrust the book out to him with both hands.
“Did you enjoy it?” Castiel asked, though he didn’t take the book, holding up his soiled hands.
“I loved it,” Sam blurted. “I loved the colors.”
Castiel’s smile widened. He gestured toward the stairs with his head. “I was just heading in for lunch. Would...would you like to come up?”
“I can’t stay long,” Sam said, hesitating. He had to stop watching those late-night horror movies with Dean; they made him paranoid. Nothing had happened yesterday when he went into Castiel’s house and nothing would happen today. “My brother doesn't know I left.”
With a tilt of his head, Castiel asked, “Why didn't you tell him you were coming here?”
“He would have said I couldn't come.”
“If your brother is your guardian, you should respect his wishes.”
“He's just being a worry wart,” Sam scoffed. “He'll feel better once his arm heals.”
“What happened to his arm?”
Sam kicked a rock. “A dog bit him.” Anyone who had seen Dean’s wounds would know that was a lie, but Castiel hadn’t seen them and wouldn’t. Self conscious about the sweat beginning to soak his collar and under his arms, Sam moved a few steps back.
“Have you eaten?” Castiel asked.
“I'm going to make something when I get home.”
“I was about to make a sandwich if you'd like one.”
If Castiel's food was as nice as the house, he probably ate like royalty, and Dean would be asleep for a while. Sam had a little time. He didn’t care what Dean would think. Castiel seemed friendly. Odd, certainly—who kept a beehive at their house? But he wasn’t frightening. He wasn’t a monster, that was for sure, just a quirky guy with funny hair that stuck up in places and tailored clothes.
“Okay,” Sam said and went with him up the hand-hewn stairs.
Every surface in Castiel's home shone with cleanliness Sam had only seen in hospitals. But it didn't smell like a hospital. Sam had never been inside a house that smelled this nice before, fresh like ozone, with warm notes of wood and real leather. Nothing like the cheap motel rooms their dad could afford, with dark woven carpets and bedspreads dotted with cigarette burns.
He hesitated in the door before walking on the polished wooden floor in his mud-caked boots. He bent to unlace them, deciding to leave them beside the door, and followed Castiel in socked feet.
They've been in a lot of houses with their dad, but he’d never seen a house made out of glass. From the top of the stairs, it was possible to see straight through to the other side, to the redwoods beyond.
“The kitchen is this way.” Castiel's voice echoed around a bookshelf, stacked floor-to-ceiling with hardcover volumes. Sam itched to run his fingers over the bump of each spine. He curled them into his palms, embarrassed by the dirt beneath his fingernails, the secondhand canvas jacket he wore that was a size too small.
“Do you mind if I wash my hands?”
Castiel directed him to the sink and opened the refrigerator, which Sam hadn’t noticed at first, built into a wall of cherry cabinetry.
“Do you have an aversion to peanut butter?” Castiel asked. “I made bread this morning, but I'd have to defrost meat. I can put honey on it.”
Sam’s good opinion of Castiel was further validated by the fact that he ate simply, despite living in such a grand house. “Peanut butter is fine.”
They ate at a table next to the window off of ceramic plates, not paper or takeout containers. Sometimes the motel rooms dad got had kitchenettes. Sometimes plates too. But Castiel’s plates were fine china, a matched set of blue plates ringed with delicate white flowers. The kind of plates Dean thought were funny to use for target practice when they’d taken care of a spirit in a fancy restaurant last September.
“How long have you lived here?” Sam asked, wiping his mouth on a cloth napkin instead of his sleeve. He daintily replaced it on his lap.
“All my life.”
“You live by yourself?”
“Mostly,” Castiel said. “My father is away a lot.”
“My dad's away a lot too.”
“What does he do?”
Sam took a fat bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a sip of cranberry juice. The peanut butter was thick, unsweetened and freshly ground—he’d never be able to eat Peter Pan again without a wistful memory of the flavor. He pondered the question. He could tell Castiel that his dad was a mechanic—that was technically true—but it usually led to questions about a shop. Sam hated when people assumed his dad was unemployed, so he said, “He and my uncle are on a hunting trip.”
“And your brother is taking care of you while they’re away?”
Sam gave a slow nod, bringing the glass to his lips, and slurped until an ice cube bumped against his tongue. Castiel watched him, tilting his head as though fascinated, and Sam remembered his table manners. He set the glass down and cleaned his mouth.
“Would you like more?” Castiel offered, as though there had been nothing rude in Sam’s behavior.
“My dad never buys this kind,” Sam mumbled.
“Drink all you like.” Castiel pushed the carafe across the table’s midpoint. He didn’t flinch when Sam filled his glass halfway, so he kept pouring until the juice reached the top.
“Where do you get this stuff?” he asked, hoping he could bribe Dean into buying a bottle as soon as he was okay to drive.
“My father brings me supplies.”
“Why don’t you go yourself?” Sam asked. Castiel was an adult, probably old enough to have finished college and have a job, so it was logical that he would buy his own groceries.
“Why would I do that?” Castiel asked, frowning in genuine confusion. “Everything I need is here.”
“Yeah, if we had a house like this, I wouldn’t want to leave either,” Sam conceded. He grinned and tore off a bite-sized piece of crust. “Hey, have you been out to the ocean?”
“No. I’ve never left this property.”
Sam swallowed. “Not ever?” Castiel shook his head, and Sam didn’t know what to say. “Don’t you get lonely?”
“I have books.”
“What about school? Didn’t you leave then?”
“I had a tutor for a while, and my father home schooled me,” Castiel said. Sam had heard of kids who were too sick to go to school, or lived in areas where the schools weren’t good, and had been educated at home instead. If Castiel was sick, it wouldn’t be polite to ask about it, so Sam twiddled his thumbs.
“Oh,” he said and hoped Castiel might offer more information, but he changed the subject.
“Tell me about your brother.”
“Dean? He's older than me,” Sam said, and because Castiel leaned his elbows on the table with seeming interest, he added, “He can fix any car and he loves music.”
“What kind?”
“Old stuff.” Sam snorted. “The stuff my dad likes. And he's really smart, but he doesn't think he is.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno, but he said he doesn’t want to go to college.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “At my last school, they said we should be thinking about it, even though it’s a few years away, but I don’t know if dad will let me go.”
“What does your mother think?”
“She died in a fire when we were little.”
“Oh.” Castiel took a moment to process that, licking his lips and bowing his head respectfully. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he said.
“I was just a baby,” Sam said, anxious to relieve the awkwardness that had crept into their conversation. “Dean remembers her, though. He was four.”
“That must have been difficult for him.”
“I guess. He doesn’t talk about her much.”
“I wish I had a brother,” Castiel said, gazing at a point over Sam’s shoulder. “It must be nice.”
“Except he thinks he has to take care of me,” Sam said. Castiel caught his eye again.
“You seem reasonably self-sufficient.”
“Tell him that,” Sam huffed. “He can't use his arm and still tried to make me dinner last night, like he thinks I'm going to burn the place down.”
“Given what you told me about your mother, that fear might not be misplaced.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Sam admitted. “Is it just you and your dad?”
“Yes.”
“And you've really never left this house?”
“I run,” Castiel said with a slight frown. “My property is expansive; I simply don’t leave it.”
“No offense, but that's pretty weird. Aren’t you curious about what’s out there?”
“My father commanded me not to leave.”
“But why?” Sam asked.
“He said it isn't safe.”
Castiel’s father was right about that. Sam slumped in his chair and rubbed a scar on his arm. He had too many for someone just fifteen. “There’s a lot of bad stuff out there. That’s how Dean got hurt.”
“You said it was a dog,” Castiel said.
“Bad dog.” Sam checked his watch, still too big for his skinny wrist, an old model with a clunky black face and a thick strap. Dean had given it to him when he’d nicked a new one for himself. “I should get back. Dean will be up soon.”
“Would you like to take another book with you?”
Sam’s head shot up. “Can I?”
“Of course, as long as you return it.”
“Thanks, Castiel.” He spent a few minutes studying the titles on each shelf. “One day I'm going to have a library like yours.”
“Mine is always open to you. Come any time.”
They’d leave the area as soon as dad and Bobby returned, and it wasn’t likely they’d come back to this part of the country. Sometimes dad checked up on people they’d helped if they were closeby, but Sam knew he wouldn’t come back to the cabin or to Castiel’s glass house in the forest. He hated that certainty. Maybe this was why Dean preferred no attachments.
“Do you have a telephone?” he asked, disappointed but hardly surprised when Castiel shook his head. Letters, then. He’d give Castiel Bobby's address in Sioux Falls. Sam could send him updates from the road and he’d pick up Castiel’s letters a couple times a year. That way, Castiel would get to see more of the world, and Sam could still count him as a friend.
Satisfied, he selected a photography book of national monuments: Arches and Zion National Parks, the Grand Canyon. Dean promised they'd go there one day and take an actual vacation: camp out on the North Rim, hike one of the shorter trails. No hunting involved.
Sam was stretched on the couch with the book on his lap when Dean woke up and lumbered ogre-like into the room. He yawned without covering his mouth.
“There’s coffee,” Sam said. Dean took one look at what Sam was reading and narrowed his eyes.
“Did you go to that house again?”
“Yes,” Sam said, pulling up into his shoulders.
“Dammit, Sam! I told you—”
“You’re not dad.”
“Dad's not here, and dad left me in charge of you, so if I say you don't go somewhere, you sit your ass on that couch and you don't move. Understand?”
Fiery anger pooled in Sam’s stomach and palms. It scalded his cheeks. A sense of justice made him want to fight back, but he stopped before the argument got past his mouth. Fear lurked beneath Dean’s scowl, hidden in the crease between his eyebrows and the slight parting of his lips. Sam snapped the book closed and, laying it aside, ducked around Dean into the kitchen.
“Are you hungry? I already ate but I can make you something. How’s your face?”
“Itches.” Dean pivoted in place but kept his eyes on Sam. His frown wasn’t as deep, but he scoffed when Sam pulled out the box of oatmeal packets. “I’m not eating that crap.”
“It won’t hurt to chew,” Sam said.
“Tastes like glue.”
“You can add things, like you do with my mac and cheese.”
“Whatever.” Dean flopped on the couch, catching his bad arm against his stomach. It punched a groan out of him.
“Do you need more medicine?” Sam asked. He put the oatmeal into the microwave to cook and wiped down the counter.
“I'm fine.”
“If you hurt, you should take it.” When Dean didn’t answer, he added, “Dad would agree with me.”
Sam didn't wait for Dean to argue back. He put two pills in Dean's hand and waited until he’d swallowed them.
“Happy?” Dean asked.
Sam set Dean’s oatmeal and a spoon on the coffee table and went back to his book, tracing the red rock of the Grand Canyon. And while Dean muttered and drew heaping spoonfuls of oatmeal out of the bowl, watching them drip like grotesque stalactites from his spoon, he did eat.
“How did you get into beekeeping?”
Sam's voice cut through Castiel's concentration. His father didn't watch him work. Chuck was a small, twitchy man, too nervous to be around the bees. He usually stayed inside when Castiel tended to them.
Castiel’s constitution must have been inherited from his mother’s side. He’d never had a fear of the outdoors or anything in the forest. As a child, he’d wept over the death of insects. He’d once stroked a bumblebee in his palm as it seized and died. He’d buried them, in the manner he’d read that people buried cherished pets, fashioning small grave markers out of rocks and sticks. Would Sam find that strange?
Sam slouched on the lowest step, boots planted in the soil, elbows propped on his knees. He held his chin in his palms and didn’t swat the bees that buzzed curiously near him.
“I read a book about it,” Castiel said.
“Do they ever sting you?”
“Only if I upset them. The trick is to be calm.”
Sam hummed and lay back on the stairs, bringing his hands to rest on his stomach. He shut his eyes and smiled into the sunlight. “I like it here,” he said.
He stayed until mid-morning, dozing in the dappled sunlight that fell across the stairs, and posed an avalanche of questions: had Castiel really never seen TV? Had he built the hives himself? He’d never heard of the world wide web? In turn, Castiel was amazed by Sam’s mobile phone, about four inches long and gray, with a small screen that revealed a message from Sam’s brother.
where r u
“I gotta go.” Sam rubbed his eyes and took the book he’d borrowed yesterday from his bag—he’d read six so far.
“Do you want another?” Castiel asked, because if Sam borrowed a book again, he would have to come back to return it.
He sent Sam with three and a bag of honey cookies he’d baked that morning instead of taking his usual run. He hadn't gone running since he met Sam, which only registered now that he was thinking about it. The excitement of someone to talk to had been all the adrenaline rush he needed, but it had been nearly a week. He’d go for a run as soon as Sam left.
The cushion of his running shoes and snap of elastic on his hips afforded a certain freedom from the pleasant humdrum of everyday. The moment his full weight came down on one heel, he was alive. Even when his lungs ached and he no longer felt in control of his limbs, body gone liquid from exertion and his legs limp as noodles, he was exhilarated.
He ran for miles toward the western edge of the property, intending to reach the street that marked it—why shouldn’t he? Sam came and went as he pleased, and nothing happened to him. Castiel wouldn’t go past the road, but this way he could say that yes, indeed, he’d left the property once. His father never had to know.
Castiel glimpsed the road through the tree trunks, a stretch of asphalt not a minute away! Victorious, he increased his speed as he approached it, when nausea buckled his knees and sent him sprawling a yard shy. He often ran for hours on the trails crisscrossing his family’s land. His body was well-conditioned and he’d eaten breakfast. The sudden dizziness and lack of energy wasn’t for lack of athletic ability. He must be coming down with something.
In his rush out the door, he'd forgotten water. It had been years since he’d made that amateur mistake and his head ached for it, the muscles in his calves and thighs cramping mercilessly. He needed electrolytes. Sitting up, he leaned over his toes to stretch his legs. If the cramps wouldn’t ease, he could always walk back.
His house was set far enough from any road that cars were rarely more than a distant rumble, but this close to the road, they thundered past. One coasted over the crest of a hill, a behemoth of a vehicle, long and glossy black. Chuck’s cars had changed over the years but were always practical sedans. This was older, a late ‘60s model by the body shape. A Chevrolet, perhaps. He’d never spent much time with the automotive books.
He flexed his ankle to stretch his calves, happy the car had provided a distraction from his discomfort. He was almost sorry he’d never find out what type of car it was, but it was gone now. The nausea had worked its way out of his body, but he was still weak. Castiel struggled to his feet, sucking in the bitter tar scent of the hot road, and trudged home.