#wee!cas

He sits in the living-room, in an armchair near the fire, and stares at the dancing flames, a forgotten glass of whisky in hand. He's thinking about Colette and trying not to think about Colette, remembering what the doctors said and trying to forget it, wondering what will become of her, of them, now, all the while trying to avoid picturing it.

Chronic disease, they said, and added that Colette was lucky, of all things, lucky that it manifested that early on instead of developing silently for years, a ticking bomb--because now they know and they can treat it, they can have hope.

Cain has never been one to hope, though, and right now all he can see, all he can think, is--

"Dad?"

The voice draws him out of his spiralling dark thoughts. He glances over to see his son standing in the doorway, his small silhouette almost swallowed by the darkness behind him. In his eyes Cain glimpses the same fright he feels in his own guts.

And oh, he isn't good with this. Of them both Colette is the one who is the most demonstrative, the most generous in her affections, the most reassuring in her words and gestures. But Colette isn't here right now and Castiel still needs...

He needs his father.

Cain stands up, putting his glass on the mantle, out of reach, before he goes to sit on the couch.

"Come here," he croaks. He gestures with a hand and raises his arm for Castiel to curl under.

The boy swallows and comes at once. Yet when he steps into the room, Cain realizes that he isn't alone. His sister is here too, hiding behind him, in the shadows, and now she trails after him, clutching his hand.

She only lets go when they reach the couch and, after a second of hesitation, imitates her brother, climbing onto the cushions and burrowing against her father's other side. Cain stiffly wraps his arms around their small shoulders, hesitant and awkward. After a while he manages to relax.

"It's going to be okay, right?" Castiel asks, voice hushed.

Cain doesn't know and he isn't one to see the future in a positive light, but for his children's sake he knows he has to try.

"Yes, it's going to be okay," he says. "The doctors know what they are doing and your mother is strong. And stubborn. You'd have to be to put up with me," he adds in an undertone. "I think we can trust her to pull through, don't you?"

Castiel and Hannah nod with barely a sliver of uncertainty. Cain wonders what more he can give them, what reassurances he can utter without it turning into a lie. He squeezes them a little tighter.

He'll take proper care of them, he will--he promised Colette, even though she was unconscious at the time. He promised himself.

"Can you tell us a story?" Hannah asks, resting her little head more comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, her little hands curling into his henley. Her voice trembles like she is afraid, like she is about to cry.

"Of course," Cain stutters at once--only to immediately start to rack his brain, trying to remember one.

Only one comes to mind--one in which he's always seen a reflection of his relationship with Colette, even though she always scolded him for it, because she only sees all the ways in which they are nothing alike. He can't help it, though. Even now her love feels like a miracle, acts like a saving grace. It always will, to him.

He clears his throat and starts: