twentysomething

I saw a shimmering light-

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean/Alwaysagirl!Cas

Summary: "Death stops and looks, stops and looks, sometimes stooping to close the eyes of a fallen soldier. When Death finally reaches Dean, he is amazed to see a woman standing above him.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dean mutters, and is no less surprised than the face of the woman above him when she shouts over her shoulder that he is alive."

Length: 5200 wordsish.

Warnings: TERRIBLE SELF INDULGENCE. 1860'S MEDICINE. GRATUITOUS WHEATGOOGLING.

Notes: I'm off on a field trip of sorts with internet access, but no DW access. (Don't ask.) This does however mean that there won't be any WIPs until Monday, probably. (I know, you're sobbing.) But as an apology, here is one of my most terrible and most favorite AUs- the one where Dean is a Union soldier and Cas is a Confederate widow. I SHIT YOU NOT.

No, still, really.



Dean is not dead.

But that's about all he can give the situation, in terms of positives, because he's laying half in a creek, possibly in someone else's organs and his shoulder feels as though there's a hole the size of damned Kansas in it.

"I suppose this is what I get for going along with thrice-damned Kil-cavalry. No one can babysit that fool's bad ideas. Damned Dayton, damned crazy Sherman, damn, damn, damn," Dean thinks. There's a smudge of darkness on the horizon and a haziness to the light that suggests evening can't be far off.

When Dean sees Death, all he can think, at first is, "I actually don't feel that poorly", which is almost immediately followed by "Well, Sam said it would be the death of me, damn, I hate to give him the last word in an argument."

Death stops and looks, stops and looks, sometimes stooping to close the eyes of a fallen soldier. When Death finally reaches Dean, he is amazed to see a woman standing above him.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dean mutters, and is no less surprised than the face of the woman above him when she shouts over her shoulder that he is alive.

Dean would hesitate to say he faints, but his memory is patchy at best- he can recall some kind of stretcher and the motion of traveling over corduroy roads which is second only to being kicked by a horse on the list of Physical Stimuli Dean Winchester Could Live Without, a faint memory of a hand steadying his injured shoulder gently as they moved and a beautiful worried face whispering "shh, just a little further." He awakes for the third time this day- once at the crack of dawn to shouting and panic, once at sunset, covered in blood and mud and now, again- in a room he can only describe as oppressively floral. Dean moves to sit up, but is halted by a delicate hand and a screaming pain in his shoulder.

"You should lay still, you're safe and you need rest," he hears a quiet voice say and turns his head to see the same pale, lovely face from the battlefield. Looking closely now, everything about her suggests mourning- the black satin bow at the crown of her dark brown hair, the jet cameo wreathed in braided sandy hair at her neck, the tired, shuttered expression on her face. Her blue eyes are huge and sorrowful.

"Where am I?" Dean asks, because unless he was unconscious for far longer than he can imagine, he's still a Union soldier in the middle of Georgia and they have no friends here, regardless of the Christian charity of widows. She sighs.

"I told you, you're safe-" she starts, but Dean is unwilling to take that as his answer.

"Ma'am, I am eternally and fully grateful for your aid earlier, but you must know I am not a Confederate soldier," he presses. She stares at him blankly for a second.

"If you are under the impression that I am intending to alert anyone of your presence here in the household, rest assured that I have no such intention," she explains quietly. "As to your personal allegiance in this military conflict, I am aware, but I would further assure you that it had no impact on my duty as a Christian and as a human being to remove you from that battlefield and tend to your wounds." It is Dean's turn to stare because, contrary to all odds and likelihoods, he has found the one, honest-to-God, Good Samaritan in this whole country. She stares back earnestly.

"I will give you my word, sir, on the Holy Bible, if need be," she presses on and Dean can only shake his head.

"Somehow, I think I believe you on that, Ma'am." he answers, because he would be willing to bet his best horse that the woman sitting beside him has most likely never told a lie in her whole life. "Again, my thanks are yours, Miss...?" Dean trails off and she does not disappoint. She flushes slightly, indubitably thinking herself rude for failing to introduce herself, which, frankly, is the least improprietous thing she's done. Not that Dean thinks himself any judge of propriety, at all. The overall effect is very charming, which Dean is sort of abstractly horrified to think- again, not because Dean is the king of appropriate social graces, nor is it the first time he's had indelicate thoughts about a widow, but because the lady has the kind of face that would be borrowed to paint the Virgin Mary or an angel and Dean is glad she's not Death, after all, because he's in no way eager to head to Hell.

"Mrs. McCutcheon," she replies, hand trailing to the cameo at her neck and Dean cannot help notice the shadow that passes over her features that suggests her grief is still fresh. "Mrs. Castiel Meyer McCutcheon." Dean inclines his head carefully, wincing slightly at the corresponding tug in his battered body.

"Lieutenant Dean Winchester, of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania," Dean offers in return, and Mrs. McCutcheon smiles slightly.

"I am pleased to make you acquaintance, Lieutenant, as much as I wish it were not under these circumstances." she allows. Dean attempts to smile, but he suspects it's more of a grimace. His head is throbbing fit to explode and his temple is sore. He raises his good arm to feel for a wound, but she reaches across him to gently press it back down to the bed.

Dean cannot breathe for a second, because she's a tiny woman and reaching across him has established her face scant inches from his, making her bright blue eyes appear even larger framed behind dark lashes, her mouth shell pink like the roses his mother used to coax into life in their gardens.

"You'll harm yourself, you- you should lie down," she says, whisper soft into the small space between them. After what seems an interminable amount of time, she sits primly back down, looking slightly flushed again. "To satisfy your curiosity without your examination, bringing unneeded stress to yourself, the wound in your shoulder was not clean through, a bullet wound, which I suppose you would know, well, we simply got the bullet out, stitched it up, and there was a nasty gash on your temple which bled terribly, but required no sewing," Her hands flutter slightly as she explains, aborted half-gestures to his head and shoulder quashed into her lap.

"It sounds like I owe you a great debt," Dean says solemnly, because he strongly suspects that he would not have received such good care at the hands of an infantry surgeon. Mrs. McCutcheon stares at him for another long moment.

"On the contrary, Lieutenant, no debt is owed. As I said, if aid is in my power to give, I give it unstintingly." she replies, no trace of pride in her tone, but straightforward kindliness- something Dean has not encountered with any regularity in the last four years.

"In that case, Mrs. McCutcheon, your acquaintance and regard cannot be valued highly enough, and I find myself honored to be within it," Dean provides frankly, because, in his experience, it's rare to find beauty and compassion, untainted, in a woman so young and fresh. He often finds that one precludes the other, and yet, as sweet a Georgia peach as surely ever was made pulled him out of a creek and dug a bullet out of his shoulder. She colors prettily.

"You are too kind, sir," she says, carefully arranging her hands in her lap again. Dean smiles, because Sam may despair of him, and he can never remember which fork to use, when, but he knows when a compliment has been duly received by a member of the fairer sex. She seems to remember herself after a second, drawing her blue eyes up to meet Dean's again.

"Can I get anything for you? Surely you must be hungry, or perhaps tired, I can leave you to rest," she offers, and Dean frowns. His head is still pounding and despite how charming and delightful he might find his Confederate captor, it cannot account for the dizziness. Dean abruptly realizes he's freezing.

"Perhaps-" he breaks off, because after taking the trouble to save his life, he certainly doesn't wish to have his host thinking her accommodations are wanting in any way- "Perhaps another blanket? I find myself quite cold." Mrs. McCutcheon frowns.

"Cold? The room is quite warm, almost stifling," she contradicts and lays a hand that feels like ice gently across his forehead. "You have a fever," She stands up swiftly, moving to exit the room, and Dean has a moment to wonder at her sudden change of heart regarding her nursing abilities before she abruptly turns back.

"I promise, I will return immediately, Lieutenant, I am only leaving to fetch some medicine and cool cloths," she assures him. Dean thinks it may be rude to fall asleep before she returns, but all of a sudden, he's very tired.

The next few days are snatches, more impressions than anything else.

He recalls feeling frozen through and feeling as though he's been placed in a fire alternatively, but there's always a cool cloth on his forehead, leeching the fever away from his body. Whenever he opens his eyes, Mrs. McCutcheon is there.

It's the most relentlessly capable nursing he's ever experienced in his life, including ages 7 through 9, when Sam was convinced he wanted to be a doctor and insisted on diagnosing Dean hourly. Any time he comes awake, she feeds him, milk and beef broth, and even when fading in and out of sleep, she's there, leaning gently against the side of the bed.

Dean thinks he awakes to hear her singing once, but he can't be sure if it was a dream or not.

He's pretty sure he's delirious, but he could swear, at one point he sees Sam sitting in the corner, looking at him disapprovingly.

Theoretically, they're both Quakers, and comparatively, Dean doesn't understand the bowing and scraping of the Anglicans and the Protestants, because Dean knows that there's no need to have a house of God- all houses have Him in it- and if Dean can be still enough, God will come to him. The only problem is, Dean is never still- it would drive him to distraction, sitting in the meeting house, waiting for someone, *anyone* to speak, but Sam- Sam had sat there rapturously- *waiting*. Which is why Sam is mad at him now- because they had thrown giant screaming tantrums at each other about Dean enlisting- and though Sam has sworn himself to pacifism like a blushing bride, there was a time or twenty when he looked ready to beat Dean about the ears for a while if it would keep him from leaving. Dean hopes he doesn't die, so he can tell Sam he was right- war is hideous, war is *wrong*, but that even after all the terrible things he's seen, there are still things worth fighting and dying for.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he is freezing again and can't even summon the energy to be much more than uncomfortable in the face on the languor and pain in his limbs, but over him, Mrs. McCutcheon is having a fight with a little old black woman.

"Missy, I won't do it, it's barbaric," she insists. The wrinkled little old lady shakes her head.

"Miss Castiel, I axed the doctor, jest like you said," Missy argues back. "He said the cuppin' would ease the pain," Mrs. McCutcheon shakes her head.

"I won't. I can't," she pleads. "Missy, I can't *burn* him," Dean manages to think back to the surgeon's tent- the piles of limbs, the wan faced boys, laying there, sweating out their fevers and the huge, terrible blisters. Dean's not a doctor, but he cannot help but agree with her- he'd rather skip it.

"If he ain't better- if his ague ain't down by the mornin', you gonna have to," The old woman stubbornly insists. Mrs. McCutcheon turns away and settles back into her usual chair by his bed, gently smoothing back the damp hair off his forehead, her hands cool and soft.

"I can't. I won't," she pledges, gently rubbing the pain out of his hands. Her hair is escaping from its neat rolls, wisping around her face in sweet little curls. "I won't."

Dean awakes the next morning and for a moment, cannot decide what this strange new sensation is, until he realizes, it's not something new- it's the lack of something constant. For once- he feels cool without being cold- warm without being hot. His vision is clear, no longer hazed by fever or constant exhaustion. He looks about himself, only to discover his vigilant guardian asleep.

He takes a moment to study her. She's wrapped in a deep purple paisley shawl, her elbow leaning on the end of the bedside table, hand gently propping her head up. Mrs. McCutcheon is a small woman, and the deep black dress she wears in mourning serves to make her look fragile, like a young bird unexpectedly out of the nest in a frost. Dean had found her lovely before, but in rest, face unmarred by grief or concern, her expression is seraphic.

As is sensing his gaze, her eyes flutter open. The slight bruising under her eyes, suggesting the indubitably small amounts of rest she's received in defense of Dean's health, only serve to make her blue eyes look even more luminously large in her pale face. She immediately springs into action, finding him awake.

"Lieutenant Winchester, how do you feel?" she tries solicitously, and when Dean attempts to speak, he finds that all he gets from his voice is a croak and a spate of coughing. She swiftly brings a glass of water to his lips and after taking about four sips that taste like ambrosia to Dean, he tries again.

"Distinctly better," he manages. She gently presses her hand to his forehead, and being more sensate than any other time it has occurred, Dean finds it remarkably pleasing. Her face breaks into a relieved smile and the expression of joy on her face transforms her from beautiful to breath-taking.

"Your fever has broken, the worst is over," she assures him, confirming what he already suspected. "Are you in much pain, what can I do for you?" Dean finds his limbs hesitant and slow to obey, but he still succeeds in placing a hand over hers on top of the coverlet as he intended.

"I find that you have already done more than could have possibly been required of you," Dean insists, because truthfully, he does owe her his life, and he will do his damnedest to begin to repay that debt. Mrs. McCutcheon's cheeks bloom pink.

"Lieutenant, I-" she begins and Dean pats her hand.

"I think, as you have saved me from Death not once, but twice, Mrs. McCutcheon, you may feel free to call me by my given name," Dean says cheerfully, fully enjoying the way she goes scarlet, and averts her eyes, but keeps her head up and straight.

"Well, then." she says, placing her hands decidedly in her lap, which Dean thinks some nanny trained her to do rather than saying something socially regrettable and apparently true to her nature. "Well, then, you ought to call me by mine." She darts her eyes back up to meet Dean's and he cannot help but smile.

"Well, then, Castiel," And Dean cannot deny, it gives him a pleasure not wholly platonic to say her name- "I find myself indebted to you, regardless of whether or not you feel your actions were extraordinary," He continues, even as she opens her mouth to protest. "So now it is my turn to offer my aid, such as it is, at any time, place or need. I owe you my life. Anything in my power is yours." For a moment, Dean thinks she might object but instead a slow pleased smile stretches across her face.

"Alright." she concedes, and after a second- "Dean." He smiles widely, like a boy infatuated before the scene is ruined by the loud grumblings of his gut. He tilts his head slightly in lieu of a shrug, an apologetic grin forming. Castiel has a small smile in the corner of her mouth as she stands and stretches slightly.

"I believe that is my cue to arrange for some breakfast to be brought up. Do you feel well enough to stomach it?" she asks delicately. Dean abruptly realizes he's starving, as if his body intends he ought make up for the meals he's missed all at once.

"I would say so," he replies, and she bustles out of the room with one last admonition to not worry himself or move. Dean, naturally, intends to do exactly the opposite of that, but finds he cannot manage much more than arranging himself in a seated position, leaning up against the headboard. Taking stock of the situation, he is wearing nothing more than a pair of soft linen breeches, worn comfortable by many years of use, and spares a second of amusement wondering if the lady of the house herself delivered him into the garments. Regardless, it affords him the opportunity to peer at his shoulder without obstruction- although it proves to be little help- clean, even strips of muslin wrap the whole wound. It is painful- that is certain- and Dean, having so far avoided being shot unto this point, has no basis of comparison, but he feels solid, if not whole. He vaguely recalls her mentioning a cut on his temple, and even more vaguely can think back to the creek, blinking blood out of his eyes and wondering where the hell his horse was, so he gingerly reaches a hand to where he can feel a faint ache and finds a clean, scabbed line from just above his left eyebrow running down toward his ear. Dean supposes that after he was shot off his horse- the indignity still stings a bit- he must have hit his head on a rock or something else in the creek bed.

He further supposes he cannot be far from the creek, and furthermore, far from the damn Calvary regiment he'd been stuck with, on their inexorable push to Savannah, to the sea, but even if he were to leave today, beg, borrow, steal a horse, he strongly suspects he would pass out somewhere and die anyway, which really, just seems ungrateful to all the industry Castiel put into keeping him alive in the first place. So, truly, it's not desertion, he justifies, especially considering that they most likely believe him to be dead. Ergo, there is no shame in staying until healed enough to travel and then catching up to the front, maybe two, three weeks at the outside. But despite the sound nature of his reasoning, he still feels like a coward when he thinks about the younger boys of the regiment, sitting around the fires at night, mute and hollow-eyed.

Nor does it particularly assuage his guilt when Castiel comes back in, holding a tray laden with the best breakfast Dean has seen in three years.

"I apologize, it's been somewhat difficult to get to town, as you might imagine, so we make do mostly with what we can do here," she says, even as she stops to frown at him. "Lieutenant Winchester, I believe you have moved." Dean tries the smile that had worked on a number of nannies when Dean had been found out back watching the stable hands rather than doing his lessons. He cannot particularly tell if it has worked or not, but she just carefully places the tray on a side table and reaches for the dressings on his shoulder.

"I should check to make sure your stitches are still-" she breaks off as Dean jumps at her touch, because her hands are like ice. However, she goes ashen and snatches her hands back like she's been burned, cramming them in her lap.

"I apologize, that was terribly... forward of me-" she tries, and Dean blinks.

"Ah, no, ma'am, it was just your hands were cold," Dean explains, because surely she cannot have thought that- well. It was certainly within the bounds of some kind of propriety. She frowns.

"Oh," Castiel says softly, pressing her hands together thoughtfully. Dean frowns, because he feels like he's upset her somehow, and that certainly was not his intent.

"Mrs. McCutcheon, if it will put your mind at ease, you may check my wounds, although I believe I would have felt the stitches tear," Dean tries and some of the color returns to her face, even as her hands fidget restlessly.

"Yes, that would settle my mind," she says, even more softly, but makes no move to check until Dean finally supposes perhaps he ought to take off the dressing himself, since something has clearly rattled her- and he is surprised again as she gently, but firmly restrains his other hand, reaching for his shoulder.

"Please do not disturb yourself," Castiel finally says after a long moment, placing his captive hand carefully against his chest. She silently unwraps his shoulder and so very delicately lifts the cotton next to the wound. Dean arches his neck as best he can, but all he can see is a lot of ugly bruising and a curve of tiny, nigh invisible, stitches. Dean takes a second to wonder that there will probably be hardly any scarring at all, and yet it nearly shuffled his mortal coil, so to speak.

"Thank you," she nearly whispers after she has silently redone her work, as Dean has no doubt that the careful embroidery knitting him back together is her handiwork. He admits he is puzzled, as he believed that his perceived further injury had discomfited her, and yet, he proves to indeed, be no worse for wear than he was moments ago, and she still seems shadowed, preoccupied with misgivings.

"Lieutenant, I have a confession to make," she finally says after a moment more. Dean knows he should be struck dumb with horror, with the anticipation that she has turned him in, after all, but he finds himself merely expectant. Castiel bites down on her lower lip softly, blue eyes dark and worried. "I took certain liberties, while you were ill and unconscious." She looks vaguely like an animal expecting to be hit, tense and resigned. Dean just blinks.

"Liberties?" he repeats, because he honestly cannot imagine what on God's bountiful Earth she means. Castiel looks guilty, guilty, guilty.

"I realize now, that the whole situation is completely beyond the bounds of propriety, and I would be more than willing to recluse myself from your care if you find the circumstances of your stay... distasteful." she concludes. Dean is, honest to God, baffled.

"Castiel, what are you trying to to tell me, for I am at a complete loss as to your meaning." Dean finally admits. She stares at him.

"I may be a widow, but I am still an unmarried woman and I assure you, my motives were and are wholly related to your well-being-" she begins, but breaks off as Dean begins to laugh. He cannot help himself, because he's horrified and amused all at the same time that she believes, that by tending to his wounds, by taking care of him in his fevered state- that she has- has- compromised his virtue?

"I must have you mistaken, but," Dean wheezes out, because it is somewhat painful to laugh. "If you feel as though you have acted in a way that reflects on your reputation, please, let me again put your mind to rest." Castiel just stares at him imploringly, as if willing him to understand.

"But, I- I touched you," she finally says, and Dean has a wholly inappropriate reaction to that statement. He takes a deep breath.

"Castiel, I understand that you acted out of the most sincere charity and goodwill I have ever known, and that alone. Whatever you may have done, it requires no forgiveness or explanation," Dean replies, as seriously as he can and Castiel is still frowning slightly, even though the color has begun to come back into her cheeks and she seems to be breathing again. She starts suddenly.

"Your breakfast," she explains, turning to reach for the tray, and Dean has already reached out a hand to grasp hers before he even knows why. She stares at him and Dean cannot explain it, but there is something about her that is so deeply strange and sorrowful, beyond her obvious grief, something unfathomable, that makes him curious.

"I mean that. I owe you my life." Dean insists again, because he will not have her dodge his answer. "I trust you." Castiel's cheeks pink slightly, but she nods.

"Now, you must be starving," she says, passing him the tray, and Dean cannot resist that offer. There are biscuits and oh god, real coffee, and eggs- the last time Dean had seen eggs, one of the scouts had found them climbing a tree and they had spent most of the day after eating them wishing they were dead. He tucks into the meal happily, pausing only halfway through to ascertain that Castiel has taken breakfast, as well. Dean is rather irritated by the way his shoulder aches and his hands shake, although he spends most of the meal wondering why he is not made more uncomfortable by the way his host watches him, as if Dean finishing his breakfast is the thing the world's very existence hinges upon.

"I don't mean to distract you from anything else requiring your attention," Dean finally tries, because he has the feeling that unless he lets her go, she will spend the whole day watching him like a hawk. Which he cannot say he would exactly be adverse to, but he imagines it might become tedious. She blinks.

"I wouldn't want you to be bored," she replies, arranging the folds of her skirt absently. "I could... read to you?" Dean raises his eyebrows.

"As long as I'm not keeping you," Dean suggests, because really, she cannot want to sit around all day with an invalid. Castiel just shakes her head.

"Is there a book you would prefer? My father kept an extensive library." she offers. Dean thinks about it, but thinks, in the end, he would be more entertained by seeing what she would choose for him. He spends the next five minutes trying to keep even one of his hands from shaking when held aloft, wondering if Castiel is standing in front of a bookcase somewhere in the house, staring at the shelf, trying to pick a book. Finally, as he is reaching the point of real frustration with his inability to lift his arms, Castiel appears in the doorway. She settles herself back in the chair ensconced by Dean's bedside, holding two books.

"I was not sure whether you would prefer Dumas' The Three Musketeers in the original French, or I have Barrow's translation, as well," Castiel offers and Dean stares at her for a moment in mute amazement, because without a doubt, this is the strangest and loveliest woman he has even met. Dean is hesitant to explain to her that his French is limited to asking for a refill and which prostitute is the most flexible, for understandable reasons, he thinks.

"The translation, I think," he says when he finds himself able to speak, but Castiel just gives him an approving look, as if he has just single-handedly ended the war between the states. Her expression as she opens the book is vaguely reverent, careful, and Dean can imagine her as a quiet, studious girl, sneaking in to her father's library and reading books to avoid cotillions and embroidery.

"On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of Romance of the Rose was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it." Castiel reads, comfortable and falling into a cadence of habit, and Dean cannot resist a flight of fancy, wondering if perhaps there is a fatherless child somewhere in the house that is read to in much the same fashion, with large blue eyes and a curious disposition. "Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity."

Dean finds himself, full and contented, unable to stop the relentless tide of exhaustion, although it seems as if all he has done is sleep, slipping into unconsciousness before D'Artagnan even leaves for Paris.

When he awakes, it is still light, and he is alone, although the book is thoughtfully placed near his good arm, easily within reach. Dean is still for a moment, listening to the song of some stubborn bird outside his window, chirping determinedly, and tuneless humming. He is debating the possibility that he will fall over if he attempts to stand versus his need to discern his surroundings, and coincidentally, urinate, when he decides to compromise by sitting up. It goes better than he anticipated, frankly, considering his earlier weakness, and he is relieved to find no particular difficulty in swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Dean is preparing himself to actually achieve verticality, when the rustle of skirts suggests that he is not alone.

"Lieutenant Winchester, I believe we had discussed the fact that you were not to leave bed," Castiel says disapprovingly. Dean smiles winningly at her.

"I feel remarkably fine, Castiel," Dean assures her. "I'm not saying I'd like to go to a cotillion, just outside, to the necessary." Castiel blinks then, nods.

"I suppose then, nature cannot be denied," she allows, taking a step back to give him room to stand. Dean, propelling himself upright with his uninjured arm, teeters slightly, but Castiel's hand catches his elbow, steadying him. This close, she is even tinier than he realized and while Dean is particularly tall, although, nowhere near as enormously tall as Sam, the top of her head barely reaches his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asks, and where her hands bracket his arm is warm, and Dean abruptly realizes he is not wearing a shirt. Castiel seems to recognize this fact as she ducks her face, but does not move from where she is delicately supporting him.

"I'm fine, just a little unsteady on my feet, it would seem." Dean says. She nods, slowly releasing his arm.

"It's cold outside, I ought to get you a shirt and coat," she says, twisting her hands together, stepping quickly to a cabinet in the corner. "I brought some things in for you. You look to be about the same size as Michael-" Castiel stops abruptly and takes a deep breath. "The same size as my brother."