Chapter Text
When Castiel fell for the final time, he fell in more ways than one. He fell from Heaven. He fell from Grace. And he fell for Dean Winchester.
The last had been the easiest, and the longest in coming. The acknowledgement of it was as simple as breathing. Acting on it proved to be much more difficult.
Now, for all intents and purposes human, Cas felt useless, a burden to Sam and Dean. He was no longer strong, fast and virtually indestructible. He could not heal even their most minor cuts, much less major injuries. Why then, Cas wondered, would they - would Dean - wish him to remain beside them?
He knew his continued inability to understand basic human needs and social norms frustrated both Winchesters. He knew them well enough to know they wouldn’t tell him to leave either. Dean especially, was loyal to a fault. But now that Cas had fallen, he wanted more than a place to stay, he wanted a place to finally belong like he had never really belonged amongst his brothers and sisters in Heaven. Even more than that, he wanted Dean - in every way humanly possible.
So he set out to try and find a way to prove himself to Dean.
One advantage to being a former angel and several millennia old was his vast experience and personal knowledge. Dean and Sam constantly needed to perform research on various demons and monsters. The Men of Letters library was well equipped, it was true, but it still lacked much.
Though his vessel, his body, now required sleep, he still could not get used to the sensation of it - most particularly, the surrender to the unconscious. It reminded him uncomfortably of falling again every night and he dreaded that moment of utter defenselessness as his senses slipped away from him. So he avoided it as much as possible, only resting when absolutely necessary, and rarely in a bed. He preferred to sleep in a chair; it forced him to sleep lightly and kept him more alert to the things around him.
Even this level of surrender galled him however, so many nights he could be found in the bunker’s library, pen and paper in hand, transcribing as much of his knowledge as possible. Perhaps, if he shared his wisdom with Sam and Dean in a way more familiar and easily accessible to them, he would manage to earn a place with them.
So he wrote, eventually filling up so many notepads that Sam had to clear a shelf for him. The younger Winchester tried to show Cas how to use a laptop, suggesting perhaps it would be a better way to organize the information Cas wanted to get down, but Cas found he didn’t like the computer. He preferred the way his fingers clenched a pencil, and the shapes of the letters as they formed across to the page to the sterile, uniform clacking of the keyboard. And he was overtly aware of his inability to type without painstakingly picking out each letter using only his index fingers. Besides, he discovered that despite the fall, he maintained a photographic memory and had no problem recalling exactly where he had written down each piece of information. He hoped this alone might be a small incentive for the Winchesters to keep him around. Even if it was as a glorified card catalogue.
His efforts seemed to impress Sam, who would often come to the library the next morning and start reading whatever it was Cas had written the night before, attempting to absorb as much new knowledge as possible. To his frustration though, Dean seemed not only indifferent to his efforts, but somewhat irritated as well. Before going to bed each night, he would come to the door of the library where Cas had settled down to write with a small frown on his face that Cas couldn't interpret. Since he never said anything, Cas kept on at his task.
One evening, after finishing a particularly long entry on some of the lesser known monsters of Greek mythology, Cas leaned back and stretched, lacing his fingers together and reaching them back over his head, feeling his shoulders pop as he did so. He winced, still unaccustomed to the shifting and aging of his human body.
As he glanced around the room, his eyes lit on Dean’s well-worn leather journal. Standing up, he moved towards the well cared for record and began to flip through it. He frowned as he noted several mistaken translations along with a few other minor errors. Cas hesitated. This journal was Dean’s and something he kept meticulous care of. However, he was sure Dean would want his information to be as accurate as possible. Cas knew he wanted Dean’s information to be as accurate as possible, painfully aware he could not live with the idea that Dean might be hurt or worse on a hunt because of a simple mistranslation. So after only a moment’s pause, Cas sat down with his pen and began to make changes.
The results were not what he anticipated.
“What the hell!” Dean’s shout carried through the entirety of the bunker early the next day. Both Sam and Castiel came running, Cas cursing his inability to fly to Dean’s side in an instant. What if the hunter was injured or in danger?
He realized there were times he could be grateful for his now slower, human speed. He arrived at the library, where Dean’s shout had emanated, and came face to face with an irate hunter.
“Who’s been screwing with my journal?”
Dean spoke to the room at large, but his eyes zeroed in on Cas. “Cas? There is no friggin’ way Sam’s dumb enough to touch my journal.”
Cas flinched, he understood he had violated one of those mysterious social rules others seemed to instinctively know. Dean’s current anger at Cas’s imprudence seemed to cap off the irritation Cas already felt in each frown Dean had shot him every evening before bed. The pressure now was palpable and Cas stepped back from Dean, feeling as though their old positions were swapped and Dean currently possessed the ability to smite Cas into the farthest, darkest pit of hell.
“I only corrected a few translation errors, Dean,” he raised his hands in defense as he tried to explain his actions, hoping to placate his friend.
“There is nothing wrong with my translation, Cas,” Dean growled out low, eyes narrowing in anger.
Cas felt a flare of irritation at Dean’s stubbornness. “Dean, I speak all the languages of the world fluently. I assure you, some of your translations made no sense. Some were not even translated to proper words.”
“You might speak all the languages of the world, Cas, but you clearly don’t speak shorthand. Don’t touch my journal again.” Twisting on his heel, Dean left the library without a backward glance. As he went, Cas was sure he heard him muttering something under his breath about “angels” and “God damn rocket scientists,” though Cas was baffled as to how his translations in a hunter’s journal related to the science of rockets.
As silence filled the room, Cas felt his stomach sink to a low and unfamiliar place. How had his efforts gone so far wrong? Now he felt even more useless than before. Worse, he began to suspect perhaps Dean would prefer him to leave.
Sam, who had wisely stayed quiet, patted him on the shoulder. “Hey man, don’t sweat it. He’ll get over it soon enough.”
Cas hoped so. If he couldn’t use his intelligence to make himself useful to Dean, he would have to find something else. And fast.