#also it's funny that the person she looks most like is pinkie through pure coincidence

[irregularbillcipher]

screwball can make herself look more like a flatlander or a draconequus and like, she has once or twice for funsies, but everyone thinks it's really funny that she looks nothing like either of her dads. also being a pony throws people off and works well for bits sometimes and she thinks it's neat that she looks like a pony but a Little Off in a kind of unsettling way so she usually just stays as a pony

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 8 - Fly Me to the Moon

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 2450

Summary: Supportive Sam, pining angel wings (turns out it’s a thing), and a post-prayer reunion where Cas and the reader acquiesce to the undeniable goodness of the connection budding between them.

A/N: To those dedicated souls in the back still reading author’s notes, chapter 9 promises a payoff of pure fluff.

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The furious bellow of a tractor trailer horn blares somewhere ahead in a highway scene shrouded in a morning mist of rain burning off the blacktop under the blazing kiss of the rising sun. Undisturbed by the distant noisy intrusion into the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the car, Sam’s fingers remain near motionless where they drape the steering wheel; the gracefully long digits occasionally flex and contract, making minute undulant adjustments to compensate for the winding curves of the road. Hazel eyes peacefully pensive, brow untroubled, the hunter stares ahead into the lifting fog, intent on the drive home.

Sat in the passenger seat, Cas contemplates the green and white mile markers sailing by in a blur along the roadside; according to his angelic reckoning – a feat of navigational honing very much akin to that of the regrettably extinct species of North American homing pigeon – the markers are off by a mere fraction of a thousandth of a mile probably owing to the result of a surveyor’s error, malfunctioning equipment, or the United States obstinate failure to adopt the metric system of measurement like the rest of the freaking developed world. The freaking, of course, is Dean’s invaluable contribution to the angel’s internal flow of meditative monologue.

It’s a fact of technicality the angel keeps to himself; although, within the limited circle of humans he calls friends – no, family – he considers Sam most likely to harbor the humor necessary to appreciate the trivial observation. Dean’s mode would be mockery. Then, of course, there’s the great unknown of you; you, who persistently dominates his thoughts now no matter where they bend. In gleaning fragmented knowledge of your past and present with each healing pass of his grace and the too brief spans of time spent in your company, he’s beginning to understand the battered but brave survivor better – well enough to guess that, if not the detail of the erroneous measurement itself, you might find his absurd notation of it nonetheless amusing. The possibility of arousing some small joy within you excites an ephemeral smile on his lips.

The anticipatory buzz of excitement is fleeting.

“Cas!” Your pained appeal slams into his celestial awareness with no loss of momentum in traversing the gulf of distance between you.

His wings jolt to the ready, an irrepressible instinct, outstretching and straining against the restrictions of their impairment upon perceiving the desperation of your plea. Reaching their broad black span upward in a single swift beat, ensnared inescapably in the confines of their hidden heavenly dimension, the appendages ripple and rustle in dissent to their damage; silken feathers tattered, plumes stripped to the bare barbs and deeply scarred in sections, they reflexively recollect but are rendered incapable of their once swift capacity for flight.

Lightning searing across and seizing his vessel’s shoulders, Cas pitches forward with a ragged groan and braces his palms against the dashboard as he struggles to subdue the rising winged revolt taking place in response to your summoning. He’s hopelessly immobilized from instantaneous arrival at your side, yet every atom of his celestial being tears at his vessel, beckoning to answer your prayer.

“What?!” Startled by the sudden commotion – the worst of which remains unseen by him – Sam swerves sharply, steering to the gravel edge of the road. “What is it?” He taps a tentative hand to Cas’ arm – every muscle of the limb beneath the layers of fabric tenses and trembles with all modicum of control the angel is able to rally. Although he doesn’t fully fathom the extent of it, Sam recognizes the symptoms of stress disturbing his friend. “Angels again?”

“No,” Cas forces the reply through a gritted jaw. “It’s Y/N. She’s hurting . . . praying for help . . . for me. Just keep-” Regaining his composure through sheer command of celestial will, fingers slipping on the vinyl dash as the initial sting of pain passes, he slumps into the scooped embrace of the seat. “Just keep driving.”

Sam’s eyes rove to the gauges of the car. He hasn’t expressed it aloud, but he worries about the effect you’re having on Cas here at the precipice of the latest looming apocalypse. He admits it’s good to see his friend backing down from do-or-die Terminator-esque soldier mode; but you, your coarseness toward him, abrasiveness in general, the angel surely feels a debt of responsibility learning there’s an evil version of himself traipsing around in the other universe who all but destroyed your mind. He thinks it’s a lot even for a stoical seraph to absorb.

Sam can’t imagine the conflict Cas feels, mainly because processing emotions verbally – or at all – isn’t exactly the angel’s strong suit. He knows well that Cas’ greatest fault and his best quality are one and the same – a habitual need to make things right no matter the personal cost. He wonders if the burden of caring for you circles back to making amends with Dean for Donatello – a chance to correct a mistake. “Is she okay? You know, if you want, we can talk about what’s going on.”

The angel knows you’re not okay; that, although he appreciates the open offer, talking will do nothing to correct this; and that, from his present distance-impaired location, he can do frustratingly little to help you. Grace uselessly surging, he may as well be human. Dismissing Sam’s concern, head sagging to his shoulder, blues squinting, he grumbles, “Sam, we’re not moving.”

“Right, got it.” Sam stows his concern, throws the clutch in gear, and swings the car back onto the highway.

A final spasm twitches the angel’s wings as they fold and refold fitfully together. He thinks – slanting his gaze at the console clock now and then, excruciating minutes of separation stretching into hours that should pass inconsequentiality for an ageless being existing since the dawn of time but instead drag – that perhaps, like the specious mile markers, time itself on this endless sun-drenched stretch of highway is faulty.

Inclined against the door jamb of the kitchen, fretting over her gleaming red manicure, Rowena pauses mid-chew of her pinky nail when she perceives a rush of footsteps resounding in the hall. She taps the chipped nail thoughtfully on her tooth – the redeemed witch didn’t sign up to babysit; she’s also wise enough to comprehend how it would bode for her if something terrible happened on her watch whether or not she was still present in the bunker to be blamed when the Winchesters and their angel arrived home to find you in a deeply disturbed state. Caring, she’s beginning to discover, comes with its own unique set of complications.

As Cas rounds the corner in purposeful, gloriously angelic, and full trench coat billowing stride toward the kitchen, Rowena bodily flings herself at him with an exaggerated squawk. “There’s our high and mighty hero! Took your time getting here, didn’t you? The poor girl’s been in there sufferin’ for hours. Hours! And where were you? Off gallivanting with a Winchester, of course!”

Cas ignores both the ridicule and the whip-tongued woman wielding it. He brushes past her explicatory flailing form as she animatedly complains about the circumstances of being left alone with you completely ignorant of your infirmity and alternately drones on about an episode with a screeching tea pot.

The angel finds you hunkered in a corner – wedged between the wall and a shelf – hugging your knees, face buried in your bent arms. Approaching cautiously, he crouches before you and, remembering your adverse reflex to his unexpected touch, resists the desire to lay a palm comfortingly to the roundness of your shoulders rising with a shallow inhalation. “Y/N?”

Hair sweeping in clumps across your red-rimmed eyes, you peer out at him through puffy lids from within the cocoon of crossed limbs. The reality is, your head stopped aching hours ago. You staged a kitchen coup because precisely when your headache peaked and subsided, your heart assumed hurting where your head left off under the barraged return of your memories. Remembering feels a whole lot like losing everything and everyone you ever loved all over again to an apocalypse. Sniffling against a long since dried well of tears, defaulting to your signature defensive defiance in affront to this new and improved onslaught of internal agony, you muster a bit of spirited pluck for the especially concerned looking seraph’s sake to prove to him you’re fine. “You’re late.”

Several lines fissuring his anxiously wrought features iron themselves out in a wash of relief. Spunk is good; it’s expected – it’s limitless spring in your soul is something he admires. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I can’t-” His blues – swiftly subduing into seas of sadness and shame – glaze and veer in avoidance to the assortment of dusty disused cooking utensils on the bottom shelf beside you. Husky tone sinking to a raw whisper, he addresses what seems to be a sensitive subject. “Well, you’d call it flying. I can’t do that, not anymore.” Regard bending back to you to gauge your reaction to his admission of angelic debilitation, he adds gravely, “In all likelihood, not ever again.”

“That’s funny.” You realize the unintended offence as soon as the words lob off your tongue.  You meant to say: ‘Hey, that’s an interesting coincidence, cause the other you can’t fly either.’

Cadence clipped, his expression hardens. “I fail to see the humor in the incapacitation of my wings-”

“No, I didn’t mean-” You grab at his sleeve, apologetic. “It’s not funny, ha ha. I meant that it’s strange. Strange, because the other Castiel – he can’t fly either. The angels, when we wouldn’t talk, they summoned him and he came in a truck – an armored truck – by himself. An angel travelling by land, it was . . . weird.” Grimacing, it occurs to you that you’ve managed to deride Cas’ feathery debility and imply he’s strange and weird in the same breath. Apparently, your ability to translate thoughts into lucid unoffending speech is short-circuiting. You try again, because the idea of band-aiding the situation with more syllables sounds super sound inside your noggin. “Not that you’re weird, you-”

“You remember all of that?” he interrupts what was likely to be another unintentional seraphim slight. There’s a suggestion of forgiveness in the subtlest of smiles skirting his mouth.

“I’m remembering a lot of things,” you reply, watching the smile shift upward to crease the corners of his eyes at the news. Self-conscious when your gaze catches his, your focus falls from the glimmer of gladness flooding his face to your fingers continuing to clutch at the fabric of his coat sleeve. You should let go. You don’t want to let go. It’s strange and weird to still be holding on, but he hasn’t made any motion of protest. Here, and there, Cas – the first person you saw in this world, or Castiel – the last face you saw in yours, the angel is a constant. It’s why you prayed to him, this him in a tea pot induced panic when your miserable memories came crashing back to your consciousness all at once; he’s your touchstone in the good.

If he notices the epic struggle of self-discovery taking place in the fluctuating pressure of your fingertips attached to his coat sleeve, he doesn’t mention it. “You’re remembering – that’s good.”

“Is it? Most all of it – it’s bad. Really bad.” You know he’s right – in theory it’s good. In practice it cinches your fist tighter and gives you greater reason to hold on to him.

“It’s good because it means you’re recovering,” he states – at least one of you has an accurate read on deciphering your thoughts. “How’s your head?”

Biting your lower lip, you tease, “Still attached.”

Chin tilting, gaze narrowing, he chides, “Y/N.”

You shrug. “Better . . . I guess. The noise sensitivity resolved the hundredth or so time witchy Nanny McPhee ingratiatingly asked me if she could do anything else – ‘Anythin’ at all, dear!’ – that didn’t involve boiling water in brass pots.”

A skeptical humph vibrates in his throat. He casts you a doubtful stare to punctuate his pessimism over your lack of certainty.

“Okay, better, definitely better,” you concede and posit his next thought before he can mutter it. “And before you ask if I’m tired, the only tired I am is of being stuck in this damn bunker.”

“Can you stand?” Reaching his free hand across the sleeve you have securely embedded in your grasp, he glides the rough pads of his fingers gently along the ticklish inner surface of your thumb and upturned wrist; when you don’t flinch away from him, he allows his light caress to linger there longer, heat sparking on your skin.

“I-I think so,” you stutter, attention torn between the simple question and the balminess of his flesh where it grazes yours.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” His tender touch trails to your elbow; encircling your arm, he helps you rise to your feet. He pivots and sidesteps to ensure you don’t feel cornered without escape upon standing.

You wobble on your disused legs, using the unsteadiness as an excuse to lean into him for support. “A walk? You mean, outside?”

He peers down at you, aspect and affect afflicted with an utter sense of soberness as square as his jawline at this proximity. “No, a walk on the moon,” he retorts.

Puffing an airy burst of laughter, a grin broadens your cheeks. “Did you just crack a joke?”

He nods, the shine of a smile again brightening his serious countenance. “Dean mentioned recently that I should try to lighten up. Was that a suitable occasion to do so?”

“Yes. And yes to the walk!” Skipping several steps backward, socked heels slipping on the tile floor, your palm reluctantly parts from the anchoring stability of his chest as you dash for the door to change out of pajamas and into the clothing you previously deemed stupid – considering you had nowhere to wear it – which was generously purloined for you by Sam and Dean from their mother’s closet. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back!” You pause at the threshold and flash him an enthusiastic parting grin before scampering down the hall.

Exhaling a contented sigh, Cas’ lashes shutter to envision the delight of your grin etched into his memory. He thinks, based on the warmth radiating from within his vessel’s chest, that your joy, too, is everlastingly emblazoned on his heart. The experience of bringing you that bit of happiness, it’s so much more meaningful than the bounds of angelic imagination permitted him to conceive; and, the angel who wants nothing for himself wants more of this exhilarating sensation.

Next: Ch. 9 - The Fable of the Fawns