#righteuos

“Mum?” he shouts, pulling on his jumper and collecting his ready-packed bag; extra undergarments and socks, a pack of cards, his sketch book and his pencil, his late father’s scarf.

Outside their front door, the corridor is a flurry of panicked activity. Voices raise themselves, shoes hit the rotting floorboards and threadbare carpets like fists.

“Mr Shirley?” Castiel cries, gripping tight to the man’s jacket sleeve. Mr Shirley turns with a forced smile.

“Castiel, come on, no time to dilly dally, we’ve got-“

“Have you seen my mother?”

Mr Shirley falls silent, goes pale.

“Mr Shirley? Have you seen her?”

Castiel watches his gentle neighbour, a writer, turn his anxious gaze down the corridor, and his stomach drops.

“Mr Shirley?”

“Castiel… we’ve… I’m sorry,” he replies before he’s swept out of Castiel’s desperate grip on a tide of unwashed bodies careening to safety.

The air raid sirens scream louder.

Castiel flies through the streets, brick walls draped in war effort propaganda, footsteps falling heavy, faster and faster.

He calls for his mother, so loud his voice becomes hoarse. Everywhere is chaos.

He can hear the propellors, even over the sirens.

He whirls around at the sound of his name being called, shouted over the mayhem.

“Castiel! What are you still doing out here?” It’s Mrs Moseley, wrapped in a moth-eaten tartan blanket.

“Get in the underground station, don’t you dare be trying any heroic nonsense, not here, not against them.”

“My mother, she’s missing, she… please, please you have to help me find her,” Castiel begs, his voice breaking over tears he resolutely refuses to shed.

He’s in secondary school now, a big boy. Eleven years old. Big boys don’t cry. That’s what his mother would say.

“She’s probably already down there, hun-“

“No,” Castiel shouts, hysterical, “No, what’re you saying? She would never leave without me, are you mad? She’s out here somewhere-“

“She can hear the siren as well as everyone else, son, she’s probably taken cover somewhere else.”

“I need to find her, and if you won’t help me then get yourself underground,” Castiel says, pushing away from her to take off down the street.

She calls after him, but eventually her voice blends into the white noise in Castiel’s head.

Lights fill the sky, searching this way and that, sounds almost deafening, but still Castiel keeps calling.

“Hey! Hey!”

Castiel barrels on, chest tight, vision growing misty until a strong hand clamps onto his shoulder and pulls him around to face a red-faced police officer.

“You can’t be here, son,” he yells, pushing Castiel back the way he just came. He pushes back, shoving past the officer and raising his voice all the louder, “Mum!”

Arms lock around his arms and waist, forcibly dragging him. Castiel digs his feet into the cobbles as hard as he can, wriggling, biting.

“No, let me go, let me go! I need to-“

“You need to get underground yesterday, son, what about this situation don’t you understand? Stop fighting me, you got a death wish?”

“My mother is missing! She’s missing! Help me, you have to help me. Please, sir-“ he babbles as the arms across his chest grow tighter, suffocating him.

The officer manages to drag him to the nearest tube station; not his usual, not familiar. He’s been heaved half way down the slippery stone steps when he sees her.

“Mum!” his voice breaks around his relief. His arms break free to reach for her. Her heels clack faster against the cobbled streets, and Castiel thinks he can see her crying.

“Mum, hurry!”

She’s running, screaming, arms outstretched.

“Castiel! Ca-“

Then it’s just blinding light and the roar of the engines. Fire. Intense heat.

Castiel screams.

His refugee number hangs heavy around his neck, like a collar, a noose. Castiel fiddles with it restlessly, clutching his suitcase tightly in his other hand. The other kids make a lot of noise; some of them cry as they remember their parents back in London, others joke and play and laugh, but Castiel stands rigid as stone, looking straight ahead.

He’s never been to Cumbria, never been outside of the smog of London, but he already hates it.

There’s a man in a top hat, stood on an overturned crate with carrots drawn on the side. He shouts identification numbers over the din.

“Numbers 736 through 742, Talbot, Tippens-Krushnic, Tran, Williams and Winchester, to the front please.”

Two young girls, hands gripped tight around one another step forward, with a small Asian boy whose jacket hangs off his shoulders, and a pair of boys, Castiel assumes they’re brothers with the way the smaller clings to the larger’s sleeve.

They’re loaded into a car, an actual car; Castiel has never been in one before. He watches the world flash past him just as fast as it had on the train. He lets his fingers trail down the window pane, whilst the excited conversation in the vehicle washes over him.

They’re packed close together, all along the back seat and there’s a sharp, bony elbow digging uncomfortably into his ribs.

“What’s your name?”

Castiel watches a field of sheep, grazing peacefully. Blissfully unaware of the horrors everywhere else but here, in their cosy field of dandelions and cowslips.

“Hey.”

There’s a hand on his arm. He turns, faces a pair of round, green eyes, framed with long, dark lashes and freckles.

He stares at the hand, laid gently on his sleeve, wordless.

Castiel lost his voice the night his mother died. His words just… dried up.

“I’m Dean,” the boy says again, lifting Castiel’s label to his eyes.

“And you are… C… Cas… tree… Cas. You’re Cas,” Dean grins, holding out his hand.

Castiel takes it hesitantly, shaking loosely.

“Sorry, don’t read so good,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but my brother, here? Sammy? He’s a genius. He’s only 7, but he can read better than half the kids in my English class.”

The young boy next to Dean blushes, turning his face into the collar of his coat.

Castiel nods his greeting, turning his eyes back to the rolling fields outside of his window.

He ignores the whispers over his shoulder; ‘Gee, what’s his problem?’, ‘Maybe he doesn’t speak english? His surname is Krushnic right?’ ‘Sounds Russian to me, you think he’s a spy?’

The house is the biggest building Castiel has ever seen, aside from Buckingham Palace. The grounds stretch for miles, the grass even greener than the grass in Hyde Park, where he and his mother would picnic when she wasn’t working at the factory. The gravelled driveway curls all the way to the wide entrance, raised on several steps where a group of adults gather in the weak sunshine.

A woman in a dark dress steps forward to greet them in turn, introduces herself as Miss Ellen Harvelle.

Bela Talbot, Hannah Williams, Kevin Tran, Dean and Sam Winchester greet her in turn.

She laughs at their jokes, compliments their clothes, welcomes them into her home.

“And you are?” she comes to stand in front of Castiel, hands at her hips.

Castiel stares at his scuffed, muddy boots with their threadbare laces.

“I asked you a question, boy,” Ellen says, with a finger under his chin. He doesn’t meet her eyes. She smells like his mother.

“Cas don’t talk much,” Dean says from the other end of the line, “Miss Ellen, ma’am.”

“Don’t smile much either do you, Cas?” Ellen comments, lifting each of Castiel’s eyelids, turning his head this way and that. Castiel lets her.

“Well, at least you’ll be a quiet guest,” she smiles before stepping back to address all of them, “Pemberly is your home now, and I would like you to treat it as such. The only rules are: no children in the kitchen, in bed and lights out by 8PM, breakfast is at 6AM. You’ll take your classes in the library, and take your exercise in the grounds.”

“Yes ma’am,” the children chorus back to her. Castiel nods his consent despite the churning of his stomach. He misses his home, wonders what happened to his neighbours. His head begins to ache.

The first night was the hardest; the room they all shared was filled with the sound of barely concealed sobs, urgent whispers in the dark that it was all going to be okay, that Miss Ellen didn’t look like she did any caning, that they’d be back in London before they knew it.

Castiel sleeps with his pillow (the comfiest pillow he’s ever laid his head upon) over his head that night.

But, after that, things get a little easier. The group of them settle into some form of rhythm. With breakfast comes mail for Miss Ellen and Mr Singer, the grumpy tutor who dresses as if he doesn’t own a light.

Sometimes there’s mail for the children too. And they’d all tried to work out why nothing ever came for Castiel, who would stare glum and silent at the breakfast table until they were dismissed for morning lessons.

Castiel’s clothes, along with everyone else’s, had been washed that first night, and they’d been presented with new shorts, trousers, shirts, shoes, dresses and pinafores for the girls. He found his skin unaccustomed to the feeling of clean cotton against it.  

He’d been doing okay in the classes so far with Mr Singer. Whilst the scruffy tutor had been annoyed at Castiel’s silence at first, they’d managed to work out some sort of system whereby Castiel was left mostly to his own devices, which was just fine by him.

His favourite place is the window seat right at the back of the library, where he can watch the grounds, with a book in his lap.

Reading helps him forget the smell of ash, the feel of fire on his skin… his mother’s screams.

The only person in this place who seemed to have missed the memo that getting Castiel to talk is like trying to glean blood from a stone is Dean Winchester.

The green-eyed boy tries to engage Castiel every single day. It doesn’t matter if Castiel avoids even looking at him, Dean continues to try, with the same bright smile on his face, the same excitement in his voice.

“One time, my dad made a joke so funny, milk came out of my nose,” he gushes on Monday.

“What’s your favourite colour? I think mine might be blue. My mum’s eyes are blue,” he ponders on Tuesday, “Hey! Yours are too!”

“My dad is out fightin’ right now. He writes as much as he can. My mum always cries whenever she reads them. He says he misses me and Sammy, but I can’t really see how he’d have the time to miss us you know? What with all that fightin’?”

Today, Dean plops himself down on Castiel’s window seat with a heavy sigh.

“Why don’t you ever talk, Cas?” he asks, tipping Castiel’s book away from his face with a single finger, “I bet you got all sorts going on in your head. And I know you can; I’ve heard you talk in your sleep.”

Castiel feels his cheeks heat, and he pulls his knees closer to his chest, but he lets himself meet Dean’s eyes before giving a little shrug.

“What’re you reading?”

Castiel holds up his book, Far From the Madding Crowd, for Dean’s inspection.

“I’m sure you ain’t about to tell me what it’s about, huh,” Dean jokes to Castiel’s profile.

“You wanna go outside?” Dean tries again, “There’s a lake in the woods. Kevin found it, it’s pretty cool. There’s a tire swing and everything.”

Castiel brings his lower lip between his teeth. He has wanted to explore the grounds more, but… being outside alone felt more… lonely.

“I’m going with Sammy anyhow, you’re welcome to come with us,” Dean says, nudging Castiel’s knee with his shoulder.

Before he can change his mind, Castiel wordlessly agrees with a small nod of his head.

He, Dean and Sam trample through the thick undergrowth of the forrest, and Castiel finds he enjoys the feeling of leaves against the skin of his hands, his exposed shins. He trails his fingers over every leaf, every twig, even the ones that sting the pads of his fingers, or graze the undersides of his wrists.

“I don’t know about you, Cas, but I think Miss Hervelle and Mr Singer, the tutor? They got something goin’ on,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ew, Dean, that’s gross; they’re so old,” Sam protests, pushing at his brother’s arm.

“Hey, I’m sure even old people fall in love; look at grandma and pops. They were… ancient, and they still loved each other.”

“How do you know?” Sam asked, narrowly avoiding several muddy patches on the path beneath their feet.

“Grandma always cut up Pop’s dinner when he couldn’t hold his knife and fork so good,” Dean replies confidently, “and they always walked around holding hands.”

“Oh,” Sam says, accepting Dean’s speech for truth.

“What do you think, Cas?”

Castiel stares at the brothers a long while, trying to puzzle out how he felt about love. He’d heard somewhere that love conquers all, that it’s the most powerful force in the whole universe or something.

But, his love for his mother hadn’t stopped her from dying.

And, he’d seen in the papers that he’d delivered up his street (before it was churned to rubble) that people were dying all over Europe, no matter how many people back home loved them, or how much.

He feels a tightening in his chest, so he shakes his head to dispel thoughts simply too raw, too painful to even think about right now.

Dean laughs, “You should believe in love, Cas, it’s pretty stupid not to.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, kicking a stone and watching it bounce into the shrubs. He doesn’t think he believes in love, and he certainly doesn’t care if Dean Winchester thinks he’s stupid.

Dean Winchester doesn’t understand what it’s like to lose a parent. Both of his are still alive, his mother still waiting for him in their family home in London. He bets Dean and Sam live in one of the fancy streets, they don’t share with anyone. Maybe he and Sam have their own room, or rooms even. Castiel is willing to bet they have their own garden. He imagines the Winchesters having a barbecue in that garden on a warm summer evening.

Dean Winchester doesn’t know anything about anything, he decides with a scowl, turning on his heel and picking his way back to the house without a single word.

Back in the safety of his little nook in the library, Castiel curls in on himself, swallowing the grief trying to claw itself out of his chest. Hannah and Bela had stared at him for a little while, but after a glare or two they’d thought better of approaching him.

“There you are.”

Castiel sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, turning to see Dean leaning against the wall across from him.

“Why’d you run away?” Dean asks, picking idly at the hem of his shorts, “Was it because I called you stupid?”

Castle drops his gaze to his fingernails, thin lines of dirt beneath them all. His mother would wrap his knuckles if she saw them.

“I didn’t mean it, Cas, I promise. Was just… being stupid. My mum always says I speak without thinkin’ first.”

Castiel takes in Dean’s ernest expression, his wide, green eyes, his mouth, so often pulled back into a smile but currently pulled downwards with concern. His neatly cut hair, bleached blonde at the ends by the sun.

The pain in his chest deflates almost instantly. He nods slowly, making a flippant gesture with a hand.

Dean grins again, pulling himself up into the window seat, “You think I can read here with you for a bit? I’m slow, but-“

Castiel shuffles a little closer, tipping the book more towards Dean in a silent invitation. They sit there until the sun dips beneath the horizon and the dinner bell rings throughout the dusty halls.

Castiel reckons he’s only ever had one friend his own age. Sure, there was Mr Shirley, and Mrs Moseley, his boss at the corner shop where he’d collect the papers for his rounds. His mother’s friends too, the women from the factory. They would pinch his cheeks and tell him how handsome he was growing to be, sneak him a boiled sweet or two before they left.

Alfie had been his closest and dearest friend. They had done everything together, shared everything, spent any moment they could together.

And Castiel had wanted to kiss him more than anything.

Alfie’s family moved to the countryside too, a place called Buxton. He’d promised to write to Castiel every chance he got.

Castiel wonders how many letters are currently piled up on their doorstep back in London.

Dean, over the weeks that have passed, has become Castiel’s friend.

They spend a lot of time together a lot of the time now, Sam too. He and Dean had finished Far From the Madding Crowd together, despite Dean joining him part-way through.

The Winchester brothers talk to him about everything; their lives, their school, friends and girls they’ve liked, dreams for the future, and Castiel listens gravely, committing every detail to memory.

He’s trailing behind Dean through the forrest again, Sam opting to study with Kevin for the afternoon.

The sun is warm on the back of his neck, his arms and legs. He turns his face to it and closes his eyes.

“Cas?” Dean says hesitantly. Castiel turns a gentle gaze his way.

“Why… Why don’t you get any mail?”

Castiel wants to answer him, more than anything, he does. But, if he says it out loud, rather than just reciting it over and over in his head (my mother is dead, my mother is dead, I’m an orphan, my mother is dead) he has no way of knowing what might happen.

So, he settles for another sigh, blinking rapidly and walking on through the woods. Dean follows without another word.

The lake appears gradually and all at once. They could see it through the trees, but once on the shores of it, it expands far beyond any imagining. The water is so clear, Castiel can see the coloured pebbles moving with the gentle tide as it laps against the shoreline.

He hurriedly removes his shoes and socks, ignoring Dean’s surprised laughter from behind him, and wades gingerly into the water. He’s never seen the sea, never seen any body of water bigger than the Thames before. He’d heard about trips to the beach, walking in the shallow water, how there was nothing better.

His toes curl; the water’s cold, but not at all unpleasant.

He looks back to Dean, laughter bubbling in his throat, spilling through his lips. It flows through him like a flood. He feels lighter than he’s felt in months, and he laughs all the louder.

Dean looks stricken, as if he’s seen a ghost.

Castiel slaps a hand across his mouth. He feels guilty for laughing, for feeling that glimmer of happiness. Just like that, he wants to cry again.

“Cas,” Dean says, water sloshing about his feet as he runs to Castiel’s side. There are fingers brushing against his tentatively, and that’s all it takes to break the dam.

Castiel cries right there, the lake lapping at his shins, Dean’s fingers tangled in his own.

“Cas, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Dean says, fingers squeezing tight, “by laughing I mean.”

His shirt sleeve is rough against the delicate skin of his eyelids as Castiel rubs irritably at them, as if he can stop the tears by sheer force.

“It’s good to see you happy, Cas, I just wanted to see you smile this whole time,” Dean continues, bumping Castiel’s shoulder with his own, “and you… you don’t need to feel guilty about it.”

Castiel stares at Dean’s freckled profile, watches his eyebrows draw close.

“I figured you’d… lost someone. That’s why you don’t talk. And, I guess you don’t get any mail because you… because you got nobody to send you any,” Dean grimaces, throwing his arm about Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him closer still.

“I want you to know you have a home with me and Sammy. My mum would love you, I know she would.”

Castiel feels a smile pull at the corners of his lips, and this time he doesn’t discourage it. Dean beams in return.

“When we get out of here, Cas, you’re coming home with me okay? You promise?”

Castiel nods, winding his arms around Dean’s waist and holding the other boy close. As they break apart, Dean pulls his sleeve over his hand, using the soft material to wipe the last of Castiel’s tears, which earns another chuckle.

Happiness lights Castiel from the inside out. He feels like he’s glowing.

“Come on,” Dean grins, pulling at Castiel’s hand, “you still haven’t seen the tyre swing!”

The boys’ laughter echoes through the trees, over the still surface of the lake.