Chapter Text
Castiel remembers his childhood in the way someone recalls a dream.
He thinks of those lazy summers and the smell of warm apple pie fresh out of the oven and he smiles.
He thinks of silly cartoons and playing hide-and-seek around his uncle’s salvage yard and he laughs.
But his fondest memory, the one that makes him close his eyes and yearn for the past, is that of a shiny black impala pulling into the driveway.
At the time, Castiel was sure the car was magical. It always seemed like a beast, a beautiful creature that growled and flew on the pavement like a panther, always on the hunt for danger and adventure, and only tamed by it’s driver: John Winchester.
To seven-year-old Castiel, John Winchester was a god. He was a hero that battled monsters with his own bare hands, he was an explorer who ventured far and wide throughout the galaxy, and he was a magician appearing in Castiel’s life with gifts and treasure, then disappearing just as quickly as he came.
The first time he met John Winchester was shortly after his parents died and he was sent to live with his uncle Bobby Singer at his salvage yard in a strange land called Sioux Falls. The first couple months were quiet and slightly awkward with him and his uncle dancing around each other, trying to get used to each other’s company. But one day Bobby announced they would be having a visitor: his old friend he called John.
Castiel was nervous when John pulled up in his shiny monster of a car, and even more so when the man stepped out in a beaten leather jacket and a cigarette hanging from his lips.
But the minute he looked down at Castiel and smiled, handing him a pack of skittles before saying, “Bobby told me he had a little nephew running around. Thought you might like a treat, kid,” Castiel believed the man was God himself.
The rest of the night was spent with John telling Bobby and Castiel about his travels and adventures. He spoke of all the fights he won and all the damsels in distress he rescued and all the glory and gold earned for his daring and strength.
When John Winchester left the next day, Castiel asked and asked his uncle when John would come back. Bobby just shrugged and said, “Hell would I know?”
John Winchester, the famous explorer and daring hero, returned a few months later. This time, unannounced. He came with gifts, with strange and delicious food, and with stories.
The three sat in Bobby’s kitchen, both men with some magical drink called beer and Castiel with juice, as John would tell more tales of danger and triumph and Castiel could feel his eyes widen in amazement that someone could have such adventures. When he grew up, he wanted to have adventures just like that.
Once again, John Winchester left the next day, promising Castiel he would come back to share his stories.
Just like he promised, he did return. But while his visits came often, they were mostly sporadic and short-lived. Castiel would never know when the man would show up, but when he heard the impala pulling into the drive, his spirits would immediately leap, knowing John would bring stories and gifts along with him.
In July, John brought Castiel a box of toy soldiers and a story about him meeting a magician in New Orleans.
A few weeks later, he returned to tell the story of how he tamed the wild beast he drove, laughing as Castiel stuffed his face with the candy he brought.
In September, he handed Castiel an old copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, which Castiel flipped through excitedly before setting down to listen as John told a story of him battling a demon.
‘The son of a bitch was shitfaced—’ Castiel remembered him saying, laughing as him and Bobby sipped from their beers.
‘What does ‘shitfaced’ mean, sir?’
John coughed then, ‘it means, uh, to be—possessed. The guy was a demon, a fucking monster.’
‘And after you staved him off with a broken bottle of whiskey, did you kill him?’ he asked, sitting at the edge of his seat, wondering what would happen next. He didn’t understand then, why John looked away, swallowing a little. Maybe his throat was dry or something.
John didn’t come back for a few months after that, but a little before Christmas he returned, once again with a gift and a story.
This time the gift was wrapped in old newspaper and as Castiel ripped it apart eagerly, a small golden amulet fell into his palm.
‘It’s a necklace. For you, kid,’ John said, smiling, and Castiel’s eyes began to water. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he tried to say, his voice quivering. ‘It’s just— thank you. For everything. You’re like the father I never knew and I’m so thankful. For not just the gifts or your stories, but for everything. I never knew my own dad, but I think he would have been just as brave and kind as you.’
And Castiel never understood why John looked so guilty then.
He never understood why John didn’t reply or why he left soon after.
Until now.
Now, eleven years later, he is standing at front of a casket as Pastor Murphy recites a speech that’s probably branded into his memory with certain names and words (‘John Winchester,’ ‘beloved father and friend,’ …) amended for this specific funeral.
And as the pastor speaks, Castiel looks around.
There’s only a small handful of people, maybe even less than a handful. The group just consists of himself, Uncle Bobby, and two other boys with clenched jaws and wrinkled shirts.
Castiel has no idea who they are and he looks away to mourn in silence.
It’s then that the pastor asks Dean, the elder of the two boys to say a few words, that Castiel realizes.
“My father was a fucking asshole,” the boy begins, and if Castiel’s childhood was like a dream, then this is him finally waking up.
Wait.
Since when did John have two sons?
Since when did he have a family, a whole entire secret life Castiel didn’t know about? He never mentioned—
“My father was a violent drunk…”
All the stories of fighting monsters. They weren’t about monsters, were they?
“My father was a deadbeat who was never home…”
All the times John was away, ‘exploring’ the world or telling tales to Castiel, he was neglecting two sons at home. All that time, he thought he knew John, he thought of John as a father, but he really had no idea who he was.
“So why the fuck are you crying?” Dean asks, and Castiel glances up like a dear in headlights to see Dean glaring at him, fire burning in his eyes. “And more importantly, who the fuck are you? John had no friends, me and Sammy here were his only family. What business do you have here, crying over his grave like he was some sort of goddamn saint?”
And Castiel gapes at Dean, his throat closing up and any words or coherent thoughts vanishing as he stares into the other boy’s eyes.
He’s speechless. Confused. Terrified. Disappointed.
“Well?”
Castiel finally remembers to breathe, glancing away from Dean’s heated gaze as he answers, his voice cracked and small. “I, uh. John was...like a father to me?”
“Like hell he was,” Dean screams and the last thing Castiel remembers is a sharp pain against his cheek before his world goes black.