The Fire of Paris - 2/2
Mar. 30th, 2011 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zoemathemataPrevious Part here
Work proceeds on the cathedral and Dean makes arrangements to meet with Zachariah regarding the bell tower.
He’s been over the plans and the measurements and Castiel is correct: if the front facade of the cathedral is to remain in place and stable, the bell tower must stay. Dean’s sure once he explains the reasoning behind the change in plans, it won’t be a problem.
After all, the Bishop must be a reasonable man.
He knocks on the door to the Bishop’s office and when he hears a grumbled sound, takes that as a cue to enter. He pokes his head in through a crack in the doorway.
As soon as Zachariah’s eyes meet his, Dean sees them light up and it makes something in his gut clench in distaste.
"Dean," Zachariah beams. "Come in." He waves enthusiastically, motioning Dean inside.
"Your secretary indicated you were free this afternoon."
"You needn’t make an appointment to see me Dean. For you, my door is always open."
Dean manages a firm grimace of his lips that he hopes comes across as vaguely resembling a smile. He taps the rolled up plans he has in one hand against the open palm of the other. "I wanted to speak to you about the cathedral."
"Sit, sit," Zachariah says, gesturing the chair in front of his desk. As Dean sits, Zachariah stands and comes around to perch on the edge of his desk. The change in position leaves him a little too close to Dean for his comfort and he scoots his chair back.
"Are you enjoying our lovely cathedral?"
"Uh, sure," Dean responds with a slight nod. "Great… stone work," he adds for lack of anything else to say. In truth, he does love the building and it’s sweeping arcs and polished stone, but he’s not really interested in having any sort of extended conversation with Zachariah about anything.
"Actually, as I said, I wanted to talk to you about the plans."
"Of course. What I can do for you?"
The intensity of Zachariah’s gaze is unsettling and Dean stands up just so that he doesn’t feel towered over by the Bishop any longer. He goes around the edge of the desk and spreads the plans out, focusing on the fine paper.
"As it turns out, your plans for the bell tower won’t work," Dean says, leaning slightly over to point out the tower on the schematics. He glances over to Zachariah and stops dead.
He knew he got some kind of creepy vibe off the Bishop, but he’d been telling himself to ignore it. However, turning around and catching a man of the cloth outright staring at his ass was a bit hard to turn a blind eye to.
Zachariah has the gall to look up at Dean and smile as though Dean didn’t just notice him ogling his ass.
"I’m sure I can explain it to you," Zachariah says, inching closer to Dean.
Dean eases a step back. "It’s not that I don’t understand the plans, it’s that if the tower comes down, so does the facade at the entrance.
That finally breaks Zachariah’s creepy fond stare and he frowns. "Impossible."
"I’m afraid not," Dean answers, turning back to the plans. "The facade is marble and to support the weight, it’s bolted to the structure of the tower. The tower in turn has several load bearing arches built into it to even out the distribution." He pauses as he points to the areas on the plans he’s discussing. "The tower can’t come down."
Zachariah makes a low sound of displeasure as he stares at the plans. "I’ve never seen these plans, where did you get them?"
"They’re the original plans for the cathedral. They were filed in town hall."
"Are you sure they’re accurate? They must be ancient."
"They’re accurate. I’ve been up in the bell tower myself."
"When?" Zachariah asks sharply.
"The other day," Dean answers noncommittally and somewhat wary. He has the sudden thought that Zachariah wouldn’t want anyone up in the tower to see how meagre Castiel’s lodgings are. "Why?" he adds, just to be contrary.
Zachariah feigns indifference. "I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him, but we’ve an unfortunate. Desolo. He lives in the tower."
"One of the parishioners mentioned him."
"Yes, well. He’s quite… wretched. Barely speaks. It can be…difficult to converse with him. It would be best to steer clear of the tower entirely."
"Really," Dean drawls. "Well, I guess it’s lucky for him then that the tower isn’t coming down."
"Pardon?"
"Since he lives up there and all."
"Yes. I suppose it is. There but for the grace of God," Zachariah postulates flatly, clearly displeased. "It would be best if you did not engage him."
Best for whom, Dean wonders. "I’ll keep that in mind."
"Well, if that takes care of business?" asks Zachariah, straightening.
Dean nods and rolls the plans up. "Yep."
Zachariah’s smile is back in place, toothy and somewhat feral. "You should come to dinner tonight," Zachariah states, placing his hand on Dean’s forearm.
His touch immediately makes Dean’s spine stiffen and the hair on the back of Dean’s neck rise. "Thanks, but I uh, have plans."
"Oh?"
"My, uh, brother and his wife. You know how family can be."
"Of course," Zachariah murmurs and although his smile is still in place, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Some other night."
"You bet."
***
Castiel hears Zachariah climbing the stairs to the tower. The bishop’s steps are unmistakable. Heavy, solid. Ominous.
He hides the books he has out with the others in his meagre collection behind a loose stone in the masonry. Every one of his books hides there except for his new book. The one Dean gave him. He carved out a special spot for it underneath one of the floor boards, not wanting to risk it with the others which have become somewhat dampened hiding in the stone wall. Dean’s book is precious. Though it’s only been in his possession a short time, he’s already read it through once, noting the pages Dean had turned over while he read it himself. Castiel fingered the crease in the thick paper with his own finger tip, imagining in some strange way that he could almost touch Dean.
With his book safely stowed, he turns to face the door, head bowed, at the ready for Zachariah.
The door opens without a knock, but this is unexpected. Zachariah made it clear from a young age that Castiel is separate and distinct from the general populace and cannot, dare not, expect such considerations. He is not worthy of them.
Castiel understands this perfectly and is grateful to Zachariah for patience he has shown instructing him in these manners. How else would he learn the complicated and intricate ways of the world?
"Desolo," Zachariah says lowly. He never calls him Castiel. He used to, many years ago, Castiel thinks. He has vague memories of the sisters calling him Castiel as well. But at some point, the parishioners became aware of him and started calling him Desolo and the rest of the church follows suit.
"Your Grace," Castiel replies, keeping his head bowed down.
"Dean Winchester informs me he has been in the bell tower."
Castiel freezes. He’s not sure what to say. Yes, Dean was in the bell tower. But it was for the good of the cathedral. Still, it was a horrible mistake. Zachariah made it clear that no one is to come into the bell tower. No one is to be burdened with any details of Castiel’s life other than Zachariah.
"I’m sorry, Your Grace, and humbly beg your forgiveness. Yes. Mr. Winchester was in the tower."
Zachariah circles him. "And you didn’t see fit to tell me. To inform me of this?"
"I…" He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure why Dean told Zachariah or what Dean told Zachariah.
But he doesn’t want to lie. He’s already cursed and deformed. Surely if he lies to a man of God, he will be punished. If not by the Bishop, than by God himself.
But telling Zachariah about Dean’s visit, about Dean being in the tower… thinking of it makes his stomach clench and cramp painfully. It’s his. His secret. His to take out and hold close to him when he wants. He cannot bring himself to utter the words.
"I am sorry, your Grace," he repeats.
"On your knees."
Castiel falls to his knees on the rough stone, the sharp pain of the impact shooting through his kneecaps.
"A lie of omission is still a lie, Desolo," Zachariah intones, voice hard and cold. "As you are already overburdened with sin, adding to your load will surely secure you an even more horrid place in hell."
"Yes, your Grace."
"How can I redeem you, Desolo, if you cannot follow my simple rules?"
"I…"
"Do not speak, it was not a question to which I wanted an answer. I want you think on it."
"Of course."
"Your penance is a week in the tower," Zachariah says easily, without pause. "Your duties below will be attended to by the sisters. I shall bring you water and bread twice, that is all. You may use this time to reflect on your condition and your insolent attitude and ungrateful behavior."
"Yes. Of course," he replies, head hanging down. Oh, he is shamed. To lie, even by omission to the Bishop, after all the Bishop has done for him. And the worst of it is, the Bishop does not even know the full extent of his sin. He does not know that he has spoken to Dean, told him his real name.
Accepted a gift.
His heart is heavy.
"Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Desolo? You will not be permitted to speak this week either."
"I am eternally grateful to his Lordship for the kindness and mercy he has bestowed. Thank you."
"Think carefully, this week, Desolo."
He nods his head once more in silence, the weight of the bishop’s disapproving glare solid and dense on him. Zachariah sighs, long and suffering, before leaving the tower and locking the door behind him.
***
The first night Dean doesn’t see Castiel, he doesn’t think much of it. It’s not like he knows what Castiel’s routine is, or how often certain things need to be done at the cathedral. When he sees one of the sisters replacing the candles at the votive stand, the same thing he saw Castiel doing the first night, he thinks, well, maybe that’s how it works here.
The bells still ring on time, each and every day, so that is proof enough that Castiel is still around.
The second night, he admits to himself he’s a little disappointed. He can’t quite say why. He doesn’t really know Castiel at all, but he finds him compelling in a strange way and although he’d only spoken with him twice, he looked forward to speaking to him more. Only he doesn’t know when. There’s another sister from the nunnery doing chores in the cathedral on the third day, smiling serenely at him in the way that nuns have. He sees her look up at the bell tower, a sad expression on her face and she crosses herself.
Dean frowns.
Before he even really knows what he’s doing, he’s approaching her. She sees him coming forward and looks up. She is older, perhaps in her forties or fifties, her skin soft and slightly lined. Her wrinkles indicate she spends most of her life with a look of unflappable calm on her face.
"Hi, sister," he says awkwardly. He is strangely nervous speaking to her. He has no nervousness when speaking to Zachariah. If anything he has a disdain for the man, but looking down at this tiny woman, in her dark habit and open face, he is more scared than he’s ever been in his life.
"Hello."
"Um, I was wondering, if you know… Desolo?" he says.
She smiles sadly. "Yes, of course."
"Uh, I just wondered… I mean, I saw him the other night… and well…"
"Are you troubled by him?" she asks carefully, her expression wary.
"Yes, I mean, no, I mean…" he stammers.
"How can I help you, my child?" She places a hand on Dean’s forearm, and unlike Zachariah who makes him feel slimy, her touch is warm and light.
"I’m… I mean, I just wondered… because I saw you doing some stuff. With the candles and I saw him working around here and I thought he… but I haven’t seen him."
She nods. "Yes, it is my understanding that he is in his tower."
"But he comes out. I mean, I’ve seen him out. Just not… lately."
Her expression is quiet and thoughtful. "Bishop Zachariah asks the sisters, at times, to take over for Desolo. He is generally in charge of the running of the cathedral and he does it very well. But…" she pauses, looking up at the tower.
"But?" Dean prods.
Again, the small sister waits a moment and Dean can see her choosing her words carefully. "I live to serve. The Lord is my master and I must answer the call as it is given, though I may not always understand. I can only trust that his will is served. Ask me another question."
Dean is absolutely flummoxed. He stares openly at her, having no idea where all that came from.
"Uh, sister? I have no idea what you are talking about."
She nods slowly and then squeezes his forearm. "I shall ask you one then. You are in charge of work on the cathedral, are you not?"
"Uh, yes."
She nods again. "Then perhaps, it is your duty to check on all areas of the cathedral."
"Sure."
"Including the tower."
His eyes are locked with her quiet brown ones for a heartbeat and he gets it. "Yes. Yes of course."
She bows her head toward him. "I trust the Lord has a true and faithful servant in you, Mr. Winchester."
Dean can’t stop the huff that comes out. "Sister…"
"Rosetta. Sister Rosetta."
Dean grimaces a smile. "Sister Rosetta, I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not really into the whole God thing."
She pats his arm, ignoring his protest. "And that is why he has chosen you, I am sure. If you will excuse me, it is time for evening vespers."
Before he can reply to that, she is gone.
***
The cathedral is empty when Dean begins his ascent up the darkened spiral stairwell. His small candle lights the way and he is still surprised by how small the stairs are, how cramped the space is. He tries not to think about how he can’t even stand up straight and simply focuses on going up one step at at time.
The small door that was open before is closed when he reaches the top, but there is a key jutting out of the old skeleton lock. He tries the handle first and is surprised when he finds it locked, not understanding how it can if the key is on the outside. He turns the key with a whine of metal and the knob squeaks as he lets himself in.
There are no candles burning this time, the small bell tower dark and cold. Dean pokes his head around the door, eyes glancing around.
"Castiel?" he says softly and when he gets no answer, he steps fully into the tower, pocketing the key and pushing the door closed behind him. A few hesitant steps into the room and he sees Castiel, stretched out on his side on his small pallet, a dark blanket covering him.
No, that’s not right. It’s not a blanket, Dean thinks as he moves closer. He frowns, eyebrows drawing together as he moves closer, crouching with his candle before Castiel.
Feathers.
Dark, luscious feathers. They appear black, but the soft light shines on their sleekness, giving off hints of color. A slight reflection of purples, blacks, blues, oranges and greens. Dean imagines in the sunlight, they would be magnificent, lustrous black highlighted with darkened rainbows. They are stretched out over Castiel, like a blanket, moving softly as he breathes in and out. Dean moves the candle slightly, casting the light up and over the feathers, over Castiel’s body, to where his feet poke out from below, pale and fragile.
And suddenly Dean understands.
Wings. They’re wings.
They’re stunning.
Lying there, sleeping, pale pink lips against alabaster skin, dark shock of hair and even darker feathers, Castiel is beautiful. Ethereal and otherworldly. Without being conscious of it, Dean’s hand is reaching out to touch the feathers.
They are soft and smooth, slightly cool to the touch and the wings tremble slightly as Dean strokes with the grain. Bolder, Dean slides his fingers under them, finding a softer, downy layer that’s warm and silky.
Castiel makes a quiet sound and his eyes blink open, dreamily once and then again, settling on Dean and Dean smiles. Castiel blinks one more time, his eyes widening.
There is a flurry of black, of feathers, a loud flapping and whirring sound. The candle winks out in the breeze and it’s suddenly dark.
Then silence.
"Castiel?" Dean calls out quietly, stretching his hand out and finding nothing but a rapidly cooling mattress under his fingers.
In the quiet, Dean can hear his own heart beating and, if he listens closer, Castiel’s soft breaths.
"I didn’t mean to startle you," Dean says. "I’m sorry."
More silence. And then, "You should not be here."
Dean’s eyes dart over to the corner, where he heard Castiel’s voice come from.
"I was worried. I hadn’t seen you." A thought occurs to Dean then. "Why was the tower door locked?"
"Please, you shouldn’t be here. I… no one is allowed to be up here."
Dean works that over in his head along with the sister’s words and Zachariah’s surprise when Dean mentioned he’d been in the tower.
"Did Zachariah lock you in here?"
"I… I did not tell him you were here. It is a sin to lie. I must reflect on it and do my penance."
Dean grinds his teeth together. "Your penance is to be locked in the tower?"
"For reflection and prayer."
"For how long?"
"A week."
Dean sets the candle on the ground and pulls a box of matches from his pocket. The match flares with a strike and Dean can once again see. He lights the candle, leaving it on the ground and turns, still crouching on the ground, to where he can hear Castiel’s voice.
Castiel is hunched in on himself, his wings pressed behind him in what must be a painful and awkward position. There is not enough room as he sits for them to be pulled behind him like that. His eyes are downcast, his face solemn and grim. He is shirtless, presumably because of his wings. Folded in on himself, even his bare toes curling inward, he looks like he’s trying to disappear.
"I am sorry," Castiel says, voice low.
"For what?"
"That you should see my abhorrent disfigurement." His wings twitch slightly at that and then sag downward, as if Castiel is trying to pull them in even closer.
Dean is struck dumb for words for a moment, not sure what he’ll say until he opens his mouth and words come out.
"They’re beautiful."
Castiel flinches slightly, turning his head further away and pressing himself father back against the stone wall. "I am a monster."
Dean drops his knees down, from his crouch, and shuffles slightly closer to Castiel, approaching him cautiously, like a wounded animal in a forrest.
Castiel inches back, his entire body tense. "Zachariah says -"
"I don’t give a fuck what Zachariah says," Dean cuts him off, voice angry. Dean kneels down in front of Castiel’s hunched form, keeping his hands out, palms up. Confusion roams over Castiel’s face as he stares down at Dean’s hands as if they are things alive on their own, sentient. Dean forces his voice to calm down, become soothing. "You’re not a monster."
One of Dean’s hands drifts upwards, hovering over the arch of a wing where some of the fine feathers are poking upright, their angle spoked awkwardly by the position Castiel has forced them into. He hovers his hand a centimeter above, sees Castiel watching his hand suspiciously.
"May I?"
"No one… not even… I keep them covered, except at night… it’s… I get cold. They are grotesque."
"I don’t think they’re grotesque," Dean says gently.
Castiel’s eyes finally meet his. Even in the half-light, Dean is surprised by the blue of them. Open and afraid, they stare at Dean gravely. Dean doesn’t break his gaze as he lowers his hand carefully and bestows a tentative pet on the wings. Dean turns his eyes from Castiel’s tense face and focuses on the feeling of the feathers beneath his fingertips. He runs his hand over the silky strands and then, emboldened by the fact that Castiel has not pulled away, has not moved an inch, threads his fingers through the veins of the feathers, touching the warm down underneath. Dean shifts, moving his weight from his knees to sit down on the floor, and Castiel starts slightly, flinching.
"Sorry," Dean breathes, pulling his hand away quickly and holding both of them up in a gesture of surrender. "Just sitting down."
Castiel nods his head after a moment, looking from Dean’s hands, to the tip of his wing and then back to Dean’s face. Dean slowly reaches out and starts touching the feathers again, soothing them where they had spiked up in agitation when he moved.
"Can you fly?" he asks Castiel, keeping his voice quiet.
"I don’t know."
"You never tried?" His tone is surprised. It seems to him that if he had wings, he would have repeatedly thrown himself from rooftops at adolescence, just to see if he could.
"They… I don’t… when I go out, I wear my coat. I don’t want to disgust anyone."
Dean purses his lips tightly, not a doubt in his mind where Castiel got his notions of disfigurement and horror.
"And in the tower," Castiel continues, his voice loosing some of its wariness, "there is not enough room. To stretch them out. And…" Castiel breaks off, looking away from Dean’s hands, away from Dean.
"And?"
Castiel drops his chin down. "And I hate them."
The words are barely audible.
"They’re incredible," Dean says, looking over the parts he can see, his fingers traveling through the softness. As he sits there quietly, not moving other than his one hand stroking the feathers, not saying anything, he can see Castiel relax. The wings inch downward and out, no longer hunched up painfully tight behind him, but starting to stretch out slowly, marginally.
Castiel’s pants are worn and thin, and without a shirt nor his feathers covering him, he shivers in the damp night air. It is cold in the tower. A pervasive, penetrating cold that leeches any and all heat out of your bones, refusing to let your body warm itself. Castiel’s wings probably saved his life, keeping him from freezing to death many times over. Dean is fully dressed, but he still feels the chill himself, permeating his clothing and settling into his body, like a intrusive visitor that will not leave.
Castiel shivers again and Dean marvels at the wings, at the whirring shimmying sound they make, puffing themselves out slightly. He pulls his hand back.
"It’s cold up here."
Castiel shrugs.
"It must get colder in the winter," Dean adds and Castiel gives another shrug. Dean can only imagine how much colder the stone walls would get in the winter months, without any hope of the sun warming them throughout the day.
Castiel has had a dismal existence, he thinks. Alone in this tower, with only a man such as Zachariah for companionship, if he can even call it that.
"Are you happy?" Dean asks.
Castiel looks at him strangely, as though the question is incomprehensible.
"I mean," Dean clarifies. "Here in the tower, living in the cathedral, don’t you ever want to leave?"
Castiel blinks a few times. "Where would I go?"
Dean shrugs. "Anywhere."
"I would be stoned upon sight. Or burned at a stake, or perhaps drowned in a well. I am very fortunate that the Bishop in his infinite -"
Dean stops him with a raised hand. "Got it." He studies Castiel. "But what if you could leave? Would you want to?"
"I… don’t know." Castiel looks around the dark tower. "I am safe here."
Dean nods thoughtfully. He thinks he gets it. If he’d spent his whole life hidden away, imprisoned essentially, he doubts he would have any idea there was anything wrong with it. Especially if someone like Zachariah was telling him repeatedly how cursed and wretched he was.
Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing when he inches closer to Castiel. Castiel watches him with wide eyes as Dean scoots in close to him, sitting beside him. He’s so close to Castiel that even in the dim light, he could count his eyelashes. Castiel makes no sound, no movement as Dean slides in next to him.
"It’s cold," Dean says simply. "Your wings felt warm." He gives a little wiggle, settling himself in closer, sitting somewhat upright so there is room behind him for Castiel’s wing. He waits patiently, like he’s trying to lure a wild rabbit out of a bush, and in some ways, he supposes he is. Castiel is timid and easily spooked. Dean has the thought that if he were to make a sudden movement now, Castiel would bolt from his presence, leaping out of a window if it meant he could get away.
So Dean waits patiently, not moving, breathing slow and even.
Carefully, so carefully at first that Dean thinks he’s imagining it, Castiel’s wing moves out and brushes across Dean’s back, pausing at times as if waiting for rebuke, before continuing on. Finally, it settles across Dean’s shoulder, around his arm and it’s blissfully warm, a shocking change from the boundless cold. Dean shifts slightly again, leaning against Castiel, feeling him tense up at first and then ease again. His wing comes further, enveloping Dean in its inky blackness. Castiel has his face tipped away from Dean, even as Dean leans in, his expression timorous and shuttered.
Dean feels inexplicably content, here in the crisp, cold bell tower, sitting on a stone floor next to Castiel, enfolded in his wing. He feels peaceful and calm. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.
***
Zachariah hesitates with his hand outstretched toward the door handle.
The key is missing from the lock.
He sets the jug of water he’s brought for Castiel down on the step and reaches out, turning the handle slowly. He heads in candle first, holding it in front of him like a talisman to ward off evil.
For it is the least of what he expects.
He cannot say which emotion overcomes him first when he lays eyes upon the scene in the bell tower. Jealousy, rage, horror, disgust, anger, spite all tumble and swirl together in an unholy fervor, helixing around his mind and body.
In the corner of the tower sits Castiel, feet curled up beneath him, head tipped to once side. Leaning against him, beautifully asleep sits Dean Winchester. Castiel’s wings are folded around them both, rising slowly and falling softly with each of their synchronized breaths. He has no conscious thought of what he does as he storms back to the stairs, snatching up the ceramic jug of water and then smashes it down at their feet.
"Abomination," he hisses.
They bolt awake as the icy water hits, them, shards of pottery flying. A small piece slices across Castiel’s face and blood blooms red and bright against his pale skin. Dean jerks upright and his expression goes from confused awakening to righteous fury in a second flat. Castiel pulls his wings in immediately, first in response to the cold water splashing htem and then tries to tuck them behind him even farther when he sees Zachariah’s face.
"Demon-seed, I’ve always known you were the devil in our midst," Zachariah sneers, pointing cruelly at Castiel who is already curling in on himself tighter and tighter. "I have tried to show you the way of the Lord and save your soul, and yet I have failed, your black wings always proving your filth. You are a curse upon this cathedral and I should have drowned you the moment I found you. The holy water alone would have burnt the flesh from your bones and that would have been the end of your corruption. Satan could have taken you and done what he saw fit."
"Enough!" Dean shouts, clambering to his feet. "Jesus Christ, enough!"
Zachariah’s face goes red with fury. "You dare blaspheme in the house of God! In my righteous presence?"
"Yeah, well, if God doesn’t like it, then he knows where to find me, doesn’t he?" Dean answers with a smirk, spreading his arms wide. He takes a step forward toward Zachariah, almost nose to nose with him. Dean’s smile goes somewhat feral. "And if you don’t like it, well, you’re right here, aren’t you?"
They both look down as Castiel, on his knees, his coat spread awkwardly over his wings, tugs on Zachariah’s robes.
"I’m sorry. Please, please, I’m sorry," he whispers. He’s looking at Zachariah as though he is the answer to every question he’s ever wanted to ask.
"No, Cas," Dean starts, sliding a hand under his arm. "C’mon, get up."
Castiel doesn’t break his gaze from Zachariah. "Please, forgive me, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
Zachariah sneers down at him. "You are a stain on fabric of humanity." Zachariah grips his robe and yanks it out of Castiel’s grasp harshly, taking a step back.
"No, please, if you give me penance I will do it."
"Cas, don’t. He’s…he’s not… You can’t listen to him," Dean argues as Castiel shuffles forward on his knees. Dean pulls at Castiel’s shoulder, but Castiel is resolute, watching Zachariah with panicked blue eyes.
"You will leave this cathedral, this tower." Zachariah’s voice is imperious and low.
Castiel eyes widen. "No, I… I can’t…this… this is my home."
"This is a sacred house of God and I can no longer sully it with your filth."
"He doesn’t want to live here anyway," Dean shouts. "In your sanctimonious house with your arrogant God and your fake charity and lying pious ass.
"No, please!" Castiel pleads, ignoring Dean’s hand on his shoulder. "I can do better, I’ll pray harder and I’ll, I’ll fast and I’ll never leave the tower again."
Zachariah remains stone-faced and grim in the face of Castiel’s begging and Dean’s vitriolic anger.
"You will leave here and never return."
With that solemn declaration, Zachariah turns, chin high and leaves the tower. The door remains open behind him and it’s clear that he’s dismissed them both from his mind, from his presence. Dean snatches up a piece of pottery from the broken water jug and darts after him, hurling it down the stairs with a curse.
With a huff of indignation, he turns around to face Castiel. He freezes at the sight.
Castiel is staring forlornly at the ground, face open and somehow empty, blood from the cut across his cheek oozing down his pale skin. His eyes are blue and blank. He is still on his knees, his coat flung over his wings.
"Cas?" Dean begins hesitantly. "You okay?"
Castiel’s fingers and wings twitch slightly. "I am forsaken."
Dean takes another step toward him. "This is a good thing, Cas. You don’t want to stay here anyway. Locked in this tower for the rest of your life. You’re… you don’t have to be afraid."
"I have lived here my entire life. I have nowhere to go."
"Come with me."
Dean stretches his arm out, holding his hand palm up in front of Castiel. Castiel raises his head slightly and stares at it like holds the secrets of the universe, strange and fantastical; incomprehensible to mortals.
"Where will we go?" Castiel’s voice is small and timid.
"Anywhere. Everywhere." Dean shrugs. "Wherever you want."
Castiel’s gaze moves up the length of Dean’s arm, across his shoulder, his neck and finally settles on Dean’s eyes. His expression is serious and careful.
"I… am… I know this place. The town. People… people don’t stare at me very much anymore. "
"Then we’ll stay here. Near the cathedral."
Castiel looks back at Dean’s hand, contemplating it and starts to raise his own toward him. Dean tries to hold himself very still, like he’s trying to corral a wild doe in the forest. Slowly, so slowly, Castiel’s fingers slide into his, the skin dry and cool. Dean pulls him up to his feet, until they’re standing toe to toe.
"Let’s pack your things," says Dean.
Castiel turns his head, threading his arms through his coat as he does. His wings are uneasy under the fabric, stiff with nerves.
"There is only one thing I wish to keep." Castiel’s fingers slip out of Dean’s easy grasp and he goes to a floorboard and pries it up, pushing the board aside. He reaches in and pulls out Robinson Crusoe, the book Dean gave him after they met, and clutches it close to his chest.
He comes to stand in front of Dean again. "This is all I want to keep."
Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak so he only nods, resting his hand heavy on Castiel’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
They leave the tower without looking back.
***
Epilogue - After
Sister Rosetta has dedicated her life to God and she has never once doubted him. She has doubted herself, the factual recording of the bible, the catechism of the church, the priests and bishops under which she works diligently and truthfully but she has never doubted God.
One night, many years ago, she dreamt she was walking down a long, dark corridor, with only a small, insubstantial candle in her hand. The walls were dark and wet with something she couldn't’ identify and she trembled but she walked on, knowing that she was not alone.
Be not afraid, I go before you always.
Her favorite song in church since she was a little girl. Be not afraid. She repeated the lyrics to herself, even as she dreamed.
Finally, at the end of the corridor, she found a door and when she passed through it, she found herself in a lush and beautiful forest, the likes of which she had never seen. In the midst of all the greenery and foliage, surrounded by birds, bugs, lizards, snakes, deer, flowers and an elephant, stood a young woman.
She was sturdy and sure and when she smiled, Rosetta had to smile back, her heart was so full.
"I hope you’re not afraid," the woman said. Her voice was like molasses traveling down a warm hill.
"Never. You go before me always."
"I have a task for you, Rosetta."
Rosetta thought her heart might burst with joy. "Yes, my Lord. Anything."
"Tomorrow night, when Dean Winchester comes to you, please direct him to the tower, but do not tell him why."
Rosetta nodded firmly. "It shall be done. Thank you, thank you for your faith in me."
The woman reached out and Rosetta fell into her arms. They were strong and warm, firm and yet… soft.
"It is I who should thank you for your faith in me."
Rosetta awoke with a smile still on her lips, tears of happiness running down her face. That night, when Dean Winchester approached her, as she knew he would, she did her best to direct him to the tower, her heart squeezed painfully with jubilation when she saw him head for the stairs.
Even now, so many years later, she remembers how Desolo, no, Castiel, left the cathedral the next day, led by Dean Winchester, clutching a single book to his chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world. The next week, he was at the market, with Dean introducing him by his name and pointedly correcting anyone who got it wrong.
It was many years after that, long after Zachariah had left for his coveted position in Rome, when Castiel arrived at the market for the first time without his coat. The world had stood still as he shyly stepped forward, head slightly down, fingers entwined with Dean’s.
No one uttered a word and Castiel hesitated, trying to pull his hand away from Dean. Dean stood firm unmovable.
The silence was broken when Mary-Elizabeth Roarke stomped up to Castiel and placed a hand on her eight year old hip.
"You got wings," she stated eyes wide as she took in their span. Dark, inky black, glistening with sparks of color in the sun. They hunched inward, cradled close to Castiel’s body.
"Yes," Castiel said quietly, head nodding once.
"Huh," said Mary-Elizabeth. "I want some."
Castiel looked at Dean who shrugged and then back at Mary Elizabeth. "I was born with them."
Mary-Elizabeth sighed dramatically, as only an eight year old girl can. "Figures," she groused and then, "Oh, look custard!" She darted off as she spied Tom Cairns fresh custard bowls cooling in the afternoon air.
The market was quiet for a moment longer and then as if a seal had been broken, everyone went back to what they were doing.
Now, Sister Rosetta is tired, very tired.
It is time to go home, she thinks. Her breath rattles and her lungs are tight, and everything feels far away and disjointed, like she is viewing it all from a great distance through a small telescope.
The corridor is the same and this time she runs down it, carefree and reckless, laughing as she reaches the door and throws it open wide.
She is still there, standing calm in the woods. She smiles as Rosetta approaches.
"I am home," Rosetta says.
"Yes."
"Please, my Lord, if I may…"
"Yes?"
Rosetta hesitates for a moment, the question on her lips.
The woman smiles, pulling Rosetta close and tucking her under her chin.
"Yes, he is an angel."
Fin
Paris to Helen
I wished for you before you were known to me.
Your face was in my mind before I saw you with my eyes:
news of your fame first brought me the wound.
Still it’s no wonder I love, just as if I’d been struck a blow
by the arrows from a bow, fired from a distance.
So the Fates are pleased: lest you try to shy away from them,
accept the words I tell you, in true honour.
My birth delayed, I was yet held in my mother’s womb:
by now her belly was swollen with my full weight.
In the form of a dream, she saw herself delivered
of a flaming torch from her pregnant belly.
She woke terrified, and told the fearful vision of deep night
to old Priam, and he in turn to his seers.
One prophesied that Troy would be burnt by Paris’s fire –
the torch in my heart, such as there is now.
Work proceeds on the cathedral and Dean makes arrangements to meet with Zachariah regarding the bell tower.
He’s been over the plans and the measurements and Castiel is correct: if the front facade of the cathedral is to remain in place and stable, the bell tower must stay. Dean’s sure once he explains the reasoning behind the change in plans, it won’t be a problem.
After all, the Bishop must be a reasonable man.
He knocks on the door to the Bishop’s office and when he hears a grumbled sound, takes that as a cue to enter. He pokes his head in through a crack in the doorway.
As soon as Zachariah’s eyes meet his, Dean sees them light up and it makes something in his gut clench in distaste.
"Dean," Zachariah beams. "Come in." He waves enthusiastically, motioning Dean inside.
"Your secretary indicated you were free this afternoon."
"You needn’t make an appointment to see me Dean. For you, my door is always open."
Dean manages a firm grimace of his lips that he hopes comes across as vaguely resembling a smile. He taps the rolled up plans he has in one hand against the open palm of the other. "I wanted to speak to you about the cathedral."
"Sit, sit," Zachariah says, gesturing the chair in front of his desk. As Dean sits, Zachariah stands and comes around to perch on the edge of his desk. The change in position leaves him a little too close to Dean for his comfort and he scoots his chair back.
"Are you enjoying our lovely cathedral?"
"Uh, sure," Dean responds with a slight nod. "Great… stone work," he adds for lack of anything else to say. In truth, he does love the building and it’s sweeping arcs and polished stone, but he’s not really interested in having any sort of extended conversation with Zachariah about anything.
"Actually, as I said, I wanted to talk to you about the plans."
"Of course. What I can do for you?"
The intensity of Zachariah’s gaze is unsettling and Dean stands up just so that he doesn’t feel towered over by the Bishop any longer. He goes around the edge of the desk and spreads the plans out, focusing on the fine paper.
"As it turns out, your plans for the bell tower won’t work," Dean says, leaning slightly over to point out the tower on the schematics. He glances over to Zachariah and stops dead.
He knew he got some kind of creepy vibe off the Bishop, but he’d been telling himself to ignore it. However, turning around and catching a man of the cloth outright staring at his ass was a bit hard to turn a blind eye to.
Zachariah has the gall to look up at Dean and smile as though Dean didn’t just notice him ogling his ass.
"I’m sure I can explain it to you," Zachariah says, inching closer to Dean.
Dean eases a step back. "It’s not that I don’t understand the plans, it’s that if the tower comes down, so does the facade at the entrance.
That finally breaks Zachariah’s creepy fond stare and he frowns. "Impossible."
"I’m afraid not," Dean answers, turning back to the plans. "The facade is marble and to support the weight, it’s bolted to the structure of the tower. The tower in turn has several load bearing arches built into it to even out the distribution." He pauses as he points to the areas on the plans he’s discussing. "The tower can’t come down."
Zachariah makes a low sound of displeasure as he stares at the plans. "I’ve never seen these plans, where did you get them?"
"They’re the original plans for the cathedral. They were filed in town hall."
"Are you sure they’re accurate? They must be ancient."
"They’re accurate. I’ve been up in the bell tower myself."
"When?" Zachariah asks sharply.
"The other day," Dean answers noncommittally and somewhat wary. He has the sudden thought that Zachariah wouldn’t want anyone up in the tower to see how meagre Castiel’s lodgings are. "Why?" he adds, just to be contrary.
Zachariah feigns indifference. "I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him, but we’ve an unfortunate. Desolo. He lives in the tower."
"One of the parishioners mentioned him."
"Yes, well. He’s quite… wretched. Barely speaks. It can be…difficult to converse with him. It would be best to steer clear of the tower entirely."
"Really," Dean drawls. "Well, I guess it’s lucky for him then that the tower isn’t coming down."
"Pardon?"
"Since he lives up there and all."
"Yes. I suppose it is. There but for the grace of God," Zachariah postulates flatly, clearly displeased. "It would be best if you did not engage him."
Best for whom, Dean wonders. "I’ll keep that in mind."
"Well, if that takes care of business?" asks Zachariah, straightening.
Dean nods and rolls the plans up. "Yep."
Zachariah’s smile is back in place, toothy and somewhat feral. "You should come to dinner tonight," Zachariah states, placing his hand on Dean’s forearm.
His touch immediately makes Dean’s spine stiffen and the hair on the back of Dean’s neck rise. "Thanks, but I uh, have plans."
"Oh?"
"My, uh, brother and his wife. You know how family can be."
"Of course," Zachariah murmurs and although his smile is still in place, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Some other night."
"You bet."
***
Castiel hears Zachariah climbing the stairs to the tower. The bishop’s steps are unmistakable. Heavy, solid. Ominous.
He hides the books he has out with the others in his meagre collection behind a loose stone in the masonry. Every one of his books hides there except for his new book. The one Dean gave him. He carved out a special spot for it underneath one of the floor boards, not wanting to risk it with the others which have become somewhat dampened hiding in the stone wall. Dean’s book is precious. Though it’s only been in his possession a short time, he’s already read it through once, noting the pages Dean had turned over while he read it himself. Castiel fingered the crease in the thick paper with his own finger tip, imagining in some strange way that he could almost touch Dean.
With his book safely stowed, he turns to face the door, head bowed, at the ready for Zachariah.
The door opens without a knock, but this is unexpected. Zachariah made it clear from a young age that Castiel is separate and distinct from the general populace and cannot, dare not, expect such considerations. He is not worthy of them.
Castiel understands this perfectly and is grateful to Zachariah for patience he has shown instructing him in these manners. How else would he learn the complicated and intricate ways of the world?
"Desolo," Zachariah says lowly. He never calls him Castiel. He used to, many years ago, Castiel thinks. He has vague memories of the sisters calling him Castiel as well. But at some point, the parishioners became aware of him and started calling him Desolo and the rest of the church follows suit.
"Your Grace," Castiel replies, keeping his head bowed down.
"Dean Winchester informs me he has been in the bell tower."
Castiel freezes. He’s not sure what to say. Yes, Dean was in the bell tower. But it was for the good of the cathedral. Still, it was a horrible mistake. Zachariah made it clear that no one is to come into the bell tower. No one is to be burdened with any details of Castiel’s life other than Zachariah.
"I’m sorry, Your Grace, and humbly beg your forgiveness. Yes. Mr. Winchester was in the tower."
Zachariah circles him. "And you didn’t see fit to tell me. To inform me of this?"
"I…" He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure why Dean told Zachariah or what Dean told Zachariah.
But he doesn’t want to lie. He’s already cursed and deformed. Surely if he lies to a man of God, he will be punished. If not by the Bishop, than by God himself.
But telling Zachariah about Dean’s visit, about Dean being in the tower… thinking of it makes his stomach clench and cramp painfully. It’s his. His secret. His to take out and hold close to him when he wants. He cannot bring himself to utter the words.
"I am sorry, your Grace," he repeats.
"On your knees."
Castiel falls to his knees on the rough stone, the sharp pain of the impact shooting through his kneecaps.
"A lie of omission is still a lie, Desolo," Zachariah intones, voice hard and cold. "As you are already overburdened with sin, adding to your load will surely secure you an even more horrid place in hell."
"Yes, your Grace."
"How can I redeem you, Desolo, if you cannot follow my simple rules?"
"I…"
"Do not speak, it was not a question to which I wanted an answer. I want you think on it."
"Of course."
"Your penance is a week in the tower," Zachariah says easily, without pause. "Your duties below will be attended to by the sisters. I shall bring you water and bread twice, that is all. You may use this time to reflect on your condition and your insolent attitude and ungrateful behavior."
"Yes. Of course," he replies, head hanging down. Oh, he is shamed. To lie, even by omission to the Bishop, after all the Bishop has done for him. And the worst of it is, the Bishop does not even know the full extent of his sin. He does not know that he has spoken to Dean, told him his real name.
Accepted a gift.
His heart is heavy.
"Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Desolo? You will not be permitted to speak this week either."
"I am eternally grateful to his Lordship for the kindness and mercy he has bestowed. Thank you."
"Think carefully, this week, Desolo."
He nods his head once more in silence, the weight of the bishop’s disapproving glare solid and dense on him. Zachariah sighs, long and suffering, before leaving the tower and locking the door behind him.
***
The first night Dean doesn’t see Castiel, he doesn’t think much of it. It’s not like he knows what Castiel’s routine is, or how often certain things need to be done at the cathedral. When he sees one of the sisters replacing the candles at the votive stand, the same thing he saw Castiel doing the first night, he thinks, well, maybe that’s how it works here.
The bells still ring on time, each and every day, so that is proof enough that Castiel is still around.
The second night, he admits to himself he’s a little disappointed. He can’t quite say why. He doesn’t really know Castiel at all, but he finds him compelling in a strange way and although he’d only spoken with him twice, he looked forward to speaking to him more. Only he doesn’t know when. There’s another sister from the nunnery doing chores in the cathedral on the third day, smiling serenely at him in the way that nuns have. He sees her look up at the bell tower, a sad expression on her face and she crosses herself.
Dean frowns.
Before he even really knows what he’s doing, he’s approaching her. She sees him coming forward and looks up. She is older, perhaps in her forties or fifties, her skin soft and slightly lined. Her wrinkles indicate she spends most of her life with a look of unflappable calm on her face.
"Hi, sister," he says awkwardly. He is strangely nervous speaking to her. He has no nervousness when speaking to Zachariah. If anything he has a disdain for the man, but looking down at this tiny woman, in her dark habit and open face, he is more scared than he’s ever been in his life.
"Hello."
"Um, I was wondering, if you know… Desolo?" he says.
She smiles sadly. "Yes, of course."
"Uh, I just wondered… I mean, I saw him the other night… and well…"
"Are you troubled by him?" she asks carefully, her expression wary.
"Yes, I mean, no, I mean…" he stammers.
"How can I help you, my child?" She places a hand on Dean’s forearm, and unlike Zachariah who makes him feel slimy, her touch is warm and light.
"I’m… I mean, I just wondered… because I saw you doing some stuff. With the candles and I saw him working around here and I thought he… but I haven’t seen him."
She nods. "Yes, it is my understanding that he is in his tower."
"But he comes out. I mean, I’ve seen him out. Just not… lately."
Her expression is quiet and thoughtful. "Bishop Zachariah asks the sisters, at times, to take over for Desolo. He is generally in charge of the running of the cathedral and he does it very well. But…" she pauses, looking up at the tower.
"But?" Dean prods.
Again, the small sister waits a moment and Dean can see her choosing her words carefully. "I live to serve. The Lord is my master and I must answer the call as it is given, though I may not always understand. I can only trust that his will is served. Ask me another question."
Dean is absolutely flummoxed. He stares openly at her, having no idea where all that came from.
"Uh, sister? I have no idea what you are talking about."
She nods slowly and then squeezes his forearm. "I shall ask you one then. You are in charge of work on the cathedral, are you not?"
"Uh, yes."
She nods again. "Then perhaps, it is your duty to check on all areas of the cathedral."
"Sure."
"Including the tower."
His eyes are locked with her quiet brown ones for a heartbeat and he gets it. "Yes. Yes of course."
She bows her head toward him. "I trust the Lord has a true and faithful servant in you, Mr. Winchester."
Dean can’t stop the huff that comes out. "Sister…"
"Rosetta. Sister Rosetta."
Dean grimaces a smile. "Sister Rosetta, I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not really into the whole God thing."
She pats his arm, ignoring his protest. "And that is why he has chosen you, I am sure. If you will excuse me, it is time for evening vespers."
Before he can reply to that, she is gone.
***
The cathedral is empty when Dean begins his ascent up the darkened spiral stairwell. His small candle lights the way and he is still surprised by how small the stairs are, how cramped the space is. He tries not to think about how he can’t even stand up straight and simply focuses on going up one step at at time.
The small door that was open before is closed when he reaches the top, but there is a key jutting out of the old skeleton lock. He tries the handle first and is surprised when he finds it locked, not understanding how it can if the key is on the outside. He turns the key with a whine of metal and the knob squeaks as he lets himself in.
There are no candles burning this time, the small bell tower dark and cold. Dean pokes his head around the door, eyes glancing around.
"Castiel?" he says softly and when he gets no answer, he steps fully into the tower, pocketing the key and pushing the door closed behind him. A few hesitant steps into the room and he sees Castiel, stretched out on his side on his small pallet, a dark blanket covering him.
No, that’s not right. It’s not a blanket, Dean thinks as he moves closer. He frowns, eyebrows drawing together as he moves closer, crouching with his candle before Castiel.
Feathers.
Dark, luscious feathers. They appear black, but the soft light shines on their sleekness, giving off hints of color. A slight reflection of purples, blacks, blues, oranges and greens. Dean imagines in the sunlight, they would be magnificent, lustrous black highlighted with darkened rainbows. They are stretched out over Castiel, like a blanket, moving softly as he breathes in and out. Dean moves the candle slightly, casting the light up and over the feathers, over Castiel’s body, to where his feet poke out from below, pale and fragile.
And suddenly Dean understands.
Wings. They’re wings.
They’re stunning.
Lying there, sleeping, pale pink lips against alabaster skin, dark shock of hair and even darker feathers, Castiel is beautiful. Ethereal and otherworldly. Without being conscious of it, Dean’s hand is reaching out to touch the feathers.
They are soft and smooth, slightly cool to the touch and the wings tremble slightly as Dean strokes with the grain. Bolder, Dean slides his fingers under them, finding a softer, downy layer that’s warm and silky.
Castiel makes a quiet sound and his eyes blink open, dreamily once and then again, settling on Dean and Dean smiles. Castiel blinks one more time, his eyes widening.
There is a flurry of black, of feathers, a loud flapping and whirring sound. The candle winks out in the breeze and it’s suddenly dark.
Then silence.
"Castiel?" Dean calls out quietly, stretching his hand out and finding nothing but a rapidly cooling mattress under his fingers.
In the quiet, Dean can hear his own heart beating and, if he listens closer, Castiel’s soft breaths.
"I didn’t mean to startle you," Dean says. "I’m sorry."
More silence. And then, "You should not be here."
Dean’s eyes dart over to the corner, where he heard Castiel’s voice come from.
"I was worried. I hadn’t seen you." A thought occurs to Dean then. "Why was the tower door locked?"
"Please, you shouldn’t be here. I… no one is allowed to be up here."
Dean works that over in his head along with the sister’s words and Zachariah’s surprise when Dean mentioned he’d been in the tower.
"Did Zachariah lock you in here?"
"I… I did not tell him you were here. It is a sin to lie. I must reflect on it and do my penance."
Dean grinds his teeth together. "Your penance is to be locked in the tower?"
"For reflection and prayer."
"For how long?"
"A week."
Dean sets the candle on the ground and pulls a box of matches from his pocket. The match flares with a strike and Dean can once again see. He lights the candle, leaving it on the ground and turns, still crouching on the ground, to where he can hear Castiel’s voice.
Castiel is hunched in on himself, his wings pressed behind him in what must be a painful and awkward position. There is not enough room as he sits for them to be pulled behind him like that. His eyes are downcast, his face solemn and grim. He is shirtless, presumably because of his wings. Folded in on himself, even his bare toes curling inward, he looks like he’s trying to disappear.
"I am sorry," Castiel says, voice low.
"For what?"
"That you should see my abhorrent disfigurement." His wings twitch slightly at that and then sag downward, as if Castiel is trying to pull them in even closer.
Dean is struck dumb for words for a moment, not sure what he’ll say until he opens his mouth and words come out.
"They’re beautiful."
Castiel flinches slightly, turning his head further away and pressing himself father back against the stone wall. "I am a monster."
Dean drops his knees down, from his crouch, and shuffles slightly closer to Castiel, approaching him cautiously, like a wounded animal in a forrest.
Castiel inches back, his entire body tense. "Zachariah says -"
"I don’t give a fuck what Zachariah says," Dean cuts him off, voice angry. Dean kneels down in front of Castiel’s hunched form, keeping his hands out, palms up. Confusion roams over Castiel’s face as he stares down at Dean’s hands as if they are things alive on their own, sentient. Dean forces his voice to calm down, become soothing. "You’re not a monster."
One of Dean’s hands drifts upwards, hovering over the arch of a wing where some of the fine feathers are poking upright, their angle spoked awkwardly by the position Castiel has forced them into. He hovers his hand a centimeter above, sees Castiel watching his hand suspiciously.
"May I?"
"No one… not even… I keep them covered, except at night… it’s… I get cold. They are grotesque."
"I don’t think they’re grotesque," Dean says gently.
Castiel’s eyes finally meet his. Even in the half-light, Dean is surprised by the blue of them. Open and afraid, they stare at Dean gravely. Dean doesn’t break his gaze as he lowers his hand carefully and bestows a tentative pet on the wings. Dean turns his eyes from Castiel’s tense face and focuses on the feeling of the feathers beneath his fingertips. He runs his hand over the silky strands and then, emboldened by the fact that Castiel has not pulled away, has not moved an inch, threads his fingers through the veins of the feathers, touching the warm down underneath. Dean shifts, moving his weight from his knees to sit down on the floor, and Castiel starts slightly, flinching.
"Sorry," Dean breathes, pulling his hand away quickly and holding both of them up in a gesture of surrender. "Just sitting down."
Castiel nods his head after a moment, looking from Dean’s hands, to the tip of his wing and then back to Dean’s face. Dean slowly reaches out and starts touching the feathers again, soothing them where they had spiked up in agitation when he moved.
"Can you fly?" he asks Castiel, keeping his voice quiet.
"I don’t know."
"You never tried?" His tone is surprised. It seems to him that if he had wings, he would have repeatedly thrown himself from rooftops at adolescence, just to see if he could.
"They… I don’t… when I go out, I wear my coat. I don’t want to disgust anyone."
Dean purses his lips tightly, not a doubt in his mind where Castiel got his notions of disfigurement and horror.
"And in the tower," Castiel continues, his voice loosing some of its wariness, "there is not enough room. To stretch them out. And…" Castiel breaks off, looking away from Dean’s hands, away from Dean.
"And?"
Castiel drops his chin down. "And I hate them."
The words are barely audible.
"They’re incredible," Dean says, looking over the parts he can see, his fingers traveling through the softness. As he sits there quietly, not moving other than his one hand stroking the feathers, not saying anything, he can see Castiel relax. The wings inch downward and out, no longer hunched up painfully tight behind him, but starting to stretch out slowly, marginally.
Castiel’s pants are worn and thin, and without a shirt nor his feathers covering him, he shivers in the damp night air. It is cold in the tower. A pervasive, penetrating cold that leeches any and all heat out of your bones, refusing to let your body warm itself. Castiel’s wings probably saved his life, keeping him from freezing to death many times over. Dean is fully dressed, but he still feels the chill himself, permeating his clothing and settling into his body, like a intrusive visitor that will not leave.
Castiel shivers again and Dean marvels at the wings, at the whirring shimmying sound they make, puffing themselves out slightly. He pulls his hand back.
"It’s cold up here."
Castiel shrugs.
"It must get colder in the winter," Dean adds and Castiel gives another shrug. Dean can only imagine how much colder the stone walls would get in the winter months, without any hope of the sun warming them throughout the day.
Castiel has had a dismal existence, he thinks. Alone in this tower, with only a man such as Zachariah for companionship, if he can even call it that.
"Are you happy?" Dean asks.
Castiel looks at him strangely, as though the question is incomprehensible.
"I mean," Dean clarifies. "Here in the tower, living in the cathedral, don’t you ever want to leave?"
Castiel blinks a few times. "Where would I go?"
Dean shrugs. "Anywhere."
"I would be stoned upon sight. Or burned at a stake, or perhaps drowned in a well. I am very fortunate that the Bishop in his infinite -"
Dean stops him with a raised hand. "Got it." He studies Castiel. "But what if you could leave? Would you want to?"
"I… don’t know." Castiel looks around the dark tower. "I am safe here."
Dean nods thoughtfully. He thinks he gets it. If he’d spent his whole life hidden away, imprisoned essentially, he doubts he would have any idea there was anything wrong with it. Especially if someone like Zachariah was telling him repeatedly how cursed and wretched he was.
Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing when he inches closer to Castiel. Castiel watches him with wide eyes as Dean scoots in close to him, sitting beside him. He’s so close to Castiel that even in the dim light, he could count his eyelashes. Castiel makes no sound, no movement as Dean slides in next to him.
"It’s cold," Dean says simply. "Your wings felt warm." He gives a little wiggle, settling himself in closer, sitting somewhat upright so there is room behind him for Castiel’s wing. He waits patiently, like he’s trying to lure a wild rabbit out of a bush, and in some ways, he supposes he is. Castiel is timid and easily spooked. Dean has the thought that if he were to make a sudden movement now, Castiel would bolt from his presence, leaping out of a window if it meant he could get away.
So Dean waits patiently, not moving, breathing slow and even.
Carefully, so carefully at first that Dean thinks he’s imagining it, Castiel’s wing moves out and brushes across Dean’s back, pausing at times as if waiting for rebuke, before continuing on. Finally, it settles across Dean’s shoulder, around his arm and it’s blissfully warm, a shocking change from the boundless cold. Dean shifts slightly again, leaning against Castiel, feeling him tense up at first and then ease again. His wing comes further, enveloping Dean in its inky blackness. Castiel has his face tipped away from Dean, even as Dean leans in, his expression timorous and shuttered.
Dean feels inexplicably content, here in the crisp, cold bell tower, sitting on a stone floor next to Castiel, enfolded in his wing. He feels peaceful and calm. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.
***
Zachariah hesitates with his hand outstretched toward the door handle.
The key is missing from the lock.
He sets the jug of water he’s brought for Castiel down on the step and reaches out, turning the handle slowly. He heads in candle first, holding it in front of him like a talisman to ward off evil.
For it is the least of what he expects.
He cannot say which emotion overcomes him first when he lays eyes upon the scene in the bell tower. Jealousy, rage, horror, disgust, anger, spite all tumble and swirl together in an unholy fervor, helixing around his mind and body.
In the corner of the tower sits Castiel, feet curled up beneath him, head tipped to once side. Leaning against him, beautifully asleep sits Dean Winchester. Castiel’s wings are folded around them both, rising slowly and falling softly with each of their synchronized breaths. He has no conscious thought of what he does as he storms back to the stairs, snatching up the ceramic jug of water and then smashes it down at their feet.
"Abomination," he hisses.
They bolt awake as the icy water hits, them, shards of pottery flying. A small piece slices across Castiel’s face and blood blooms red and bright against his pale skin. Dean jerks upright and his expression goes from confused awakening to righteous fury in a second flat. Castiel pulls his wings in immediately, first in response to the cold water splashing htem and then tries to tuck them behind him even farther when he sees Zachariah’s face.
"Demon-seed, I’ve always known you were the devil in our midst," Zachariah sneers, pointing cruelly at Castiel who is already curling in on himself tighter and tighter. "I have tried to show you the way of the Lord and save your soul, and yet I have failed, your black wings always proving your filth. You are a curse upon this cathedral and I should have drowned you the moment I found you. The holy water alone would have burnt the flesh from your bones and that would have been the end of your corruption. Satan could have taken you and done what he saw fit."
"Enough!" Dean shouts, clambering to his feet. "Jesus Christ, enough!"
Zachariah’s face goes red with fury. "You dare blaspheme in the house of God! In my righteous presence?"
"Yeah, well, if God doesn’t like it, then he knows where to find me, doesn’t he?" Dean answers with a smirk, spreading his arms wide. He takes a step forward toward Zachariah, almost nose to nose with him. Dean’s smile goes somewhat feral. "And if you don’t like it, well, you’re right here, aren’t you?"
They both look down as Castiel, on his knees, his coat spread awkwardly over his wings, tugs on Zachariah’s robes.
"I’m sorry. Please, please, I’m sorry," he whispers. He’s looking at Zachariah as though he is the answer to every question he’s ever wanted to ask.
"No, Cas," Dean starts, sliding a hand under his arm. "C’mon, get up."
Castiel doesn’t break his gaze from Zachariah. "Please, forgive me, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
Zachariah sneers down at him. "You are a stain on fabric of humanity." Zachariah grips his robe and yanks it out of Castiel’s grasp harshly, taking a step back.
"No, please, if you give me penance I will do it."
"Cas, don’t. He’s…he’s not… You can’t listen to him," Dean argues as Castiel shuffles forward on his knees. Dean pulls at Castiel’s shoulder, but Castiel is resolute, watching Zachariah with panicked blue eyes.
"You will leave this cathedral, this tower." Zachariah’s voice is imperious and low.
Castiel eyes widen. "No, I… I can’t…this… this is my home."
"This is a sacred house of God and I can no longer sully it with your filth."
"He doesn’t want to live here anyway," Dean shouts. "In your sanctimonious house with your arrogant God and your fake charity and lying pious ass.
"No, please!" Castiel pleads, ignoring Dean’s hand on his shoulder. "I can do better, I’ll pray harder and I’ll, I’ll fast and I’ll never leave the tower again."
Zachariah remains stone-faced and grim in the face of Castiel’s begging and Dean’s vitriolic anger.
"You will leave here and never return."
With that solemn declaration, Zachariah turns, chin high and leaves the tower. The door remains open behind him and it’s clear that he’s dismissed them both from his mind, from his presence. Dean snatches up a piece of pottery from the broken water jug and darts after him, hurling it down the stairs with a curse.
With a huff of indignation, he turns around to face Castiel. He freezes at the sight.
Castiel is staring forlornly at the ground, face open and somehow empty, blood from the cut across his cheek oozing down his pale skin. His eyes are blue and blank. He is still on his knees, his coat flung over his wings.
"Cas?" Dean begins hesitantly. "You okay?"
Castiel’s fingers and wings twitch slightly. "I am forsaken."
Dean takes another step toward him. "This is a good thing, Cas. You don’t want to stay here anyway. Locked in this tower for the rest of your life. You’re… you don’t have to be afraid."
"I have lived here my entire life. I have nowhere to go."
"Come with me."
Dean stretches his arm out, holding his hand palm up in front of Castiel. Castiel raises his head slightly and stares at it like holds the secrets of the universe, strange and fantastical; incomprehensible to mortals.
"Where will we go?" Castiel’s voice is small and timid.
"Anywhere. Everywhere." Dean shrugs. "Wherever you want."
Castiel’s gaze moves up the length of Dean’s arm, across his shoulder, his neck and finally settles on Dean’s eyes. His expression is serious and careful.
"I… am… I know this place. The town. People… people don’t stare at me very much anymore. "
"Then we’ll stay here. Near the cathedral."
Castiel looks back at Dean’s hand, contemplating it and starts to raise his own toward him. Dean tries to hold himself very still, like he’s trying to corral a wild doe in the forest. Slowly, so slowly, Castiel’s fingers slide into his, the skin dry and cool. Dean pulls him up to his feet, until they’re standing toe to toe.
"Let’s pack your things," says Dean.
Castiel turns his head, threading his arms through his coat as he does. His wings are uneasy under the fabric, stiff with nerves.
"There is only one thing I wish to keep." Castiel’s fingers slip out of Dean’s easy grasp and he goes to a floorboard and pries it up, pushing the board aside. He reaches in and pulls out Robinson Crusoe, the book Dean gave him after they met, and clutches it close to his chest.
He comes to stand in front of Dean again. "This is all I want to keep."
Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak so he only nods, resting his hand heavy on Castiel’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
They leave the tower without looking back.
***
Epilogue - After
Sister Rosetta has dedicated her life to God and she has never once doubted him. She has doubted herself, the factual recording of the bible, the catechism of the church, the priests and bishops under which she works diligently and truthfully but she has never doubted God.
One night, many years ago, she dreamt she was walking down a long, dark corridor, with only a small, insubstantial candle in her hand. The walls were dark and wet with something she couldn't’ identify and she trembled but she walked on, knowing that she was not alone.
Be not afraid, I go before you always.
Her favorite song in church since she was a little girl. Be not afraid. She repeated the lyrics to herself, even as she dreamed.
Finally, at the end of the corridor, she found a door and when she passed through it, she found herself in a lush and beautiful forest, the likes of which she had never seen. In the midst of all the greenery and foliage, surrounded by birds, bugs, lizards, snakes, deer, flowers and an elephant, stood a young woman.
She was sturdy and sure and when she smiled, Rosetta had to smile back, her heart was so full.
"I hope you’re not afraid," the woman said. Her voice was like molasses traveling down a warm hill.
"Never. You go before me always."
"I have a task for you, Rosetta."
Rosetta thought her heart might burst with joy. "Yes, my Lord. Anything."
"Tomorrow night, when Dean Winchester comes to you, please direct him to the tower, but do not tell him why."
Rosetta nodded firmly. "It shall be done. Thank you, thank you for your faith in me."
The woman reached out and Rosetta fell into her arms. They were strong and warm, firm and yet… soft.
"It is I who should thank you for your faith in me."
Rosetta awoke with a smile still on her lips, tears of happiness running down her face. That night, when Dean Winchester approached her, as she knew he would, she did her best to direct him to the tower, her heart squeezed painfully with jubilation when she saw him head for the stairs.
Even now, so many years later, she remembers how Desolo, no, Castiel, left the cathedral the next day, led by Dean Winchester, clutching a single book to his chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world. The next week, he was at the market, with Dean introducing him by his name and pointedly correcting anyone who got it wrong.
It was many years after that, long after Zachariah had left for his coveted position in Rome, when Castiel arrived at the market for the first time without his coat. The world had stood still as he shyly stepped forward, head slightly down, fingers entwined with Dean’s.
No one uttered a word and Castiel hesitated, trying to pull his hand away from Dean. Dean stood firm unmovable.
The silence was broken when Mary-Elizabeth Roarke stomped up to Castiel and placed a hand on her eight year old hip.
"You got wings," she stated eyes wide as she took in their span. Dark, inky black, glistening with sparks of color in the sun. They hunched inward, cradled close to Castiel’s body.
"Yes," Castiel said quietly, head nodding once.
"Huh," said Mary-Elizabeth. "I want some."
Castiel looked at Dean who shrugged and then back at Mary Elizabeth. "I was born with them."
Mary-Elizabeth sighed dramatically, as only an eight year old girl can. "Figures," she groused and then, "Oh, look custard!" She darted off as she spied Tom Cairns fresh custard bowls cooling in the afternoon air.
The market was quiet for a moment longer and then as if a seal had been broken, everyone went back to what they were doing.
Now, Sister Rosetta is tired, very tired.
It is time to go home, she thinks. Her breath rattles and her lungs are tight, and everything feels far away and disjointed, like she is viewing it all from a great distance through a small telescope.
The corridor is the same and this time she runs down it, carefree and reckless, laughing as she reaches the door and throws it open wide.
She is still there, standing calm in the woods. She smiles as Rosetta approaches.
"I am home," Rosetta says.
"Yes."
"Please, my Lord, if I may…"
"Yes?"
Rosetta hesitates for a moment, the question on her lips.
The woman smiles, pulling Rosetta close and tucking her under her chin.
"Yes, he is an angel."
Fin
Paris to Helen
I wished for you before you were known to me.
Your face was in my mind before I saw you with my eyes:
news of your fame first brought me the wound.
Still it’s no wonder I love, just as if I’d been struck a blow
by the arrows from a bow, fired from a distance.
So the Fates are pleased: lest you try to shy away from them,
accept the words I tell you, in true honour.
My birth delayed, I was yet held in my mother’s womb:
by now her belly was swollen with my full weight.
In the form of a dream, she saw herself delivered
of a flaming torch from her pregnant belly.
She woke terrified, and told the fearful vision of deep night
to old Priam, and he in turn to his seers.
One prophesied that Troy would be burnt by Paris’s fire –
the torch in my heart, such as there is now.
