you are broken and callow;

[wingborne]

Like stepping stones of a river, two events twisted the flow of Castiel’s life. They were huge, hulking behemoths of boulders embedded in his existence, unmovable in every plane of reality.

The first was his earliest memory of light. He couldn’t quite describe it, but the pithy illumination of light bulbs and even the roaring presence of the sun on the back of his eyelids couldn’t compare. This light was bright, and good, and holy, and he felt emotions beyond emotions—they could not be simplified into love or adoration, though they were the nearest approximate words in the English language. But he woke up from this light in a small crib, coddled in dry cotton towels, a swinging mobile with small angelic figures above him.

The family priest told them that Castiel was blessed with holy light, and he would do great things.

His eldest brother, Michael, called him blessed, but the word creaked under ages of decrepit lawful text. His older brother, Gabriel, called him blessed, but the sincerity and warmth of the word was lost to a too-knowledgeable twinkle in his eye. He was closest to his sister, Anna, who called him blessed, but the word felt dried up and shriveled, salted and flung aside on solid dishes.

“You were meant for great things, Castiel,” she would say, “Greater than illogical dreams will make you believe.”

She meant that his worth was not found within illusions of babies, but Castiel did not mind that his holy vision was demarked quickly into infantile hallucinations. He did not believe himself blessed; he performed no miracles, did not part the milk in his cereal, did not turn grape juice into water, and the third day of his birth was marked only with the newsboy throwing yesterday’s paper through their front window. If he had to believe he was blessed, with some sensibility of goodness granted to him through the divine light, then waiting his entire life for his one miracle seemed gloomy.

The second event of his life, which changed him forever, was the opening of a bookstore in their small town. They passed it often without thought, until Anna impulsively decided to stop inside to run her fingers through the shiny paperbacks, though their family was explicitly warned against reading terrible literature. She was the black lamb of the family, just as Gabriel was the black sheep, and Michael, the good son. Castiel was the child, and he followed Anna into the bookstore that day.

The bookstore itself boasted no prizes, no house tributes to a larger commercial branch. It was small and shady, and the owner smoked a pipe and read newspapers claiming Elvis had been spotted in Indiana, which Castiel believed would have been enough for a proven miracle. If he spotted Elvis in Indiana, perhaps then he could earn the church’s pride and become worthy of the light-vision of his birth, and be crowned the fallen saint of Elvis. In the meanwhile, he proved himself a good martyr for standing still while Anna collected her books from the shelves.

“Those do not appear very Biblical,” he observed. They had ancient texts in their houses, mostly translations or originals of Holy Scriptures and related text. Anna’s books, however, contained shiny visions of bare-chested men, sculpted and simmering with emotions Castiel could only faintly construe as either lust or constipation.

“Oh, they’re bibles for some,” she said, stuffing another book into his arms to hold. “Don’t tell Michael about this. Or do, he’ll blow a gasket.”

Castiel was too young to know the definition of a gasket. He could only presume it was related to some sexual intercourse allusion, which Anna was prone to allude.

“We’ll take these, then,” she said, and she offered the credit card without hesitation. Castiel thought no more about her purchases that day, other than being forced to parcel them out behind her bookshelf in secrecy. They were paperback, but thick, so Castiel was forced to jam some of them underneath her frilly bed, as well.

“Racy,” Gabriel said, but he rarely told about Anna’s more fun endeavors. He was prone to tattle on anything more threatening to the family, but he could often be found spinning around in Anna’s room with a lollipop sill stuck to his mouth.

“They’re good literature,” Anna said, running her fingers down a muscled man with remarkable features, gazing off into the distance.

“Good, racy literature. And exposing the baby of the family to them, oh. Just because he’s your least favorite doesn’t mean you have to put him through the wringer of sexy abs—or at least you should let me handle him first, Casa Erotica is only one button away—”

“Castiel is my favorite,” Anna said, pursing her mouth abruptly. She stopped brushing her hair to face him.

“Really? You don’t believe in his prophecy of doing great things—”

“He will do great things. But on his own terms. Just because they’re great doesn’t mean they’re going to be holy.”

“Great but not good, you mean.”

“You’re my least favorite,” she said.

“That hurts, darling. Castiel, who’s your favorite?”

“I love you all,” he said, not looking up from his books, “But I do enjoy your companies the most, out of the entirety of the family. We have a special connection. I did not want to say it, but—” For his troubles, Anna laughed and Gabriel ruffled his hair, and it was the happiest Castiel would feel for a long while, since Anna would run away and Gabriel would disappear into the world.

But before she ran away, Anna told him to pick the first book she would read. He chose at random, to a book where a shirtless man stood outside a prestigious house. Two men stood there, but Castiel presumed the book would be investigating the mystery of how the man lost his shirt. The man on the left, holding a bag of what appeared to be flour, seemed to bring a sense of emotion to him. But he could not identify it, and he settled to peer over Anna’s shoulder on occasion as she flipped through the book called Supernatural.

It wasn’t very good literature. It seemed trite, and simplistic, and shaky, a fowl not having found its ground. Castiel thought he far preferred the grounded text of the Bible, but he graciously granted the book a one star rating because it was charming. It was charming, to think two brothers would go off adventuring into the wilderness for their father. He, himself, had a missing father, and more brothers than his fingers could count. But no brother would go along with him to search. That would be foolish. The logical conclusion would be to watch and wait.

Through the nitty-gritty text, Castiel could further surmise that these two characters didn’t appear too impressive. They barely escaped through the fights with the monster, despite their boasting of the heritage. They seemed little more than vagrants who granted themselves a title. But he granted them one star, not zero, because he saw something through the text about the characters. This Sam was useful, but Dean—showed something else. Dean showed earnestness about his father’s plight, even misguided. He showed power, despite his fumblings. Strength, though his façade spoke of fear.

“He sounds like someone I would date,” Anna said, closing the book with a sigh. “Dean, I mean. Dreamy sort of guy. Not so bad on the eyes.” She traced along his features on the cover of the book, where Castiel saw now he was holding a sack of salt.

“You cannot copulate with him,” Castiel said politely. “He is fictional.”

“I know, I know. You don’t have to take everything so seriously, Castiel.” She paused before turning around, nearly flipping her hair into his face. Her teeth barely brushed past her bottom lip as she bit down in thought.

“Yes?” he asked, because he knew her pensive face.

“If he was real, then I wouldn’t be allowed to date him. Nobody in this family dates. Or does anything. We all just sit around and wait for our father. But he’s not coming back.”

“He will return,” Castiel told her somberly, sitting amongst her frilly pillows. “And I see no problems with your copulation attempts with Dean Winchester. He is a good man.”

“You just believe what Michael says. But what Michael says isn’t always right, Castiel. Father isn’t coming back, and if Dean Winchester was real, nobody would date him in this family because we can’t. It’s against some rules for some reason, and it makes no sense, and if anybody opened their eyes—even for just one second—”