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Title: Mementos&Memories Artist: @pantydean Author: NadiaHart @hartlessfiction Rating: Explicit Pairings: Dean/Cas, Destiel Wordcount: 17,182 Read on A03

Summary:There is a distance between memory and reality and it doesn’t always look as you’d expect it to. Sometimes it’s a tangible thing, a long stretch of deserted back roads. Pavement, patched and faded from years of weather and wear. Sometimes, it doesn’t have a look at all, but a sound. The whirr and buzz of an old Polaroid camera printing a photo.

There is a distance between then and now. Sometimes the distance is small, just the space of an exhale. Sometimes it’s fathomless, like the fall from heaven to earth.

Castiel is a man making his way across the chasm between divinity and humanity. A distance between who he was, and who he is now. Along the way he learns about himself, the family he finds, the memories he makes, and all of the moments he manages to capture in-between.

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“Nooooope,” Sam stiffens and turns on a dime, heading back to the Impala.

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean sighs, tossing his duffel bag back into the trunk with more force than is probably necessary. “I just want a fucking shower, man!”

To be fair, Dean is covered in some sort of slowly dripping green goop, his shirt plastered to his chest and the flannel he’s wearing is more or less in ribbons down his back. He’s pulled off the highway into the first town they found, then into the first parking lot of the first motel he saw from the road. It’s a severely run down little dive called The BigTop. Castiel is halfway out of the back seat when his eyes snap to what has caused Sam’s sudden one-eighty and Dean’s outburst.

Behind the dingy reception desk, standing under a flickering yellowed bulb is a seven and a half foot tall statue of a clown. It’s in disrepair. Its already creepy face–the paint half chipped off like at some point someone had tried to move it and instead dropped it on its head, cracking the veneer–is mangled and sinister looking, to say the least. The flickering light casts slithering shadows across its hollow eyes and eerily parted half curled mouth, make it seem like it's snarling. Like it’s peering directly into your soul and just waiting to suck it right out of your mouth.

Castiel shivers at the sight of it, and the longer he stares at the statue, the more uneasy he feels. He can understand Sam’s hesitancy. The half balding man hunched behind the reception desk, on the other hand, is more interested in the battered paperback in his hands than realizing the imminent threat of that statue looming over his shoulder obviously poses, as Sam Winchester clearly does.

The passenger side door slams closed as Sam slides resolutely back into his spot. Sam’s made his decision; they won't be staying here tonight. Castiel glances around at the bleak motel with its faded circus theme and spots at least two more equally forlorn statues scattered around the property. He’s more than pleased to slip back inside the Impala, grimacing as Dean catches his eye and silently implores him to take his side. When Castiel shrugs, Dean slams the trunk and stomps around the Impala, grumbling as he slips back behind the wheel.

“This shit fucking itches.” He complains as he throws the car into reverse. Sam’s shoulders visibly relax as they back out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. “If I get a rash…” Dean grumbles as Sam flicks on the radio. Castiel watches the interaction fondly, fatigue makes him weary, his head tipping to lean against the window.

The streetlights pass wetly over the Impala as Dean drives through the night, the sound of his voice singing along to the radio and the rumble of the car pulling at Castiel’s mind until he’s drifting. Now that Castiel’s fallen and the last remaining vestiges of his grace are fading to nothing, sleep is something he is learning to treasure.

There are lots of things, in fact, that he’s learning to treasure. Hot coffee in the morning, peanut butter and jelly on white bread before bed, buttered rye toast and runny eggs, cheeseburgers with bacon, pie––and cake, but he keeps that to himself. Sheets fresh out of the dryer, the smell of old books... orgasms. He hums a sigh rolling his forehead against the cold glass of the back window. He’s really learning to treasure orgasms. The heat, the rush, the sudden euphoric rise, and crash. He especially enjoys them in a nice hot shower or tucked between the sheets of his bed in the bunker, right before he falls asleep at night. There’s nothing like that loose-limbed feeling to pull him into a dreamless slumber. Dreamless nights are few and far in between, now that the nightmares of his past chase him whenever his mind starts to wander.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” Dean rumbles, mirth in his tone. Castiel lurches as Dean yanks the door he’s leaning against open, his body sliding towards the ground before he can stop it. Dean's there, though, hand on Castiel's shoulder to keep him from tumbling to the cracked pavement.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, voice deep like thunder until he clears his throat. “Why would you do that?”

Dean smirks. “Found a place the princess deems acceptable.”

“Shove it, Dean” Sam’s voice calls from somewhere by the trunk.

Castiel nods and licks his lips, accepting Dean’s hand when he extends it to help Castiel out of the back seat. He takes a moment to stretch, flexing his fingers and arching his back until it pops and he sags back in on himself with a sigh. “Where are we?”

Dean tosses him his duffle. “‘Bout four hours outside of Tulsa.”

“You drove all night?” Castiel’s brows rise. “Why?”

They are standing in the parking lot of another motel. It’s always another motel, and if it’s not, its the backseat of the Impala. Now that there are three of them, that's not an option anymore, so they stick to motels. This motel appears, at least, to be without a theme, though it’s many decades out of date, which isn’t unusual for them.

Dean shrugs in response to Castiel’s question, the: ‘cause it’s what they do, they’re hunters', goes unsaid. They move around the country, drive all night, face one close call after another until the call is too close and they end up another John Doe in the paper mauled by a mountain lion or eaten by a bear. No one believes that werewolves or wendigos are real, anyway.

Castiel falls into step with Sam as the trio approach the reception desk. His eyes stray to the bulletin board as Dean flirts with the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“What is a... swap... meet… ?” Castiel asks, his eyes drawn to a little orange flyer.

Sam slides up next to him and reads over the advert. “Huh. It's kind of like a yard sale, or... um...” he’s obviously struggling, his eyebrows furrowed, lips pinched. Castiel patiently waits for Sam to find a suitable analogy to make him understand.

“You know what? Why don’t we go check it out? I can take you down; it's a good place to pick up some cheap supplies. We could all use some new shirts…” He spares a glance at Dean, who obviously cleaned up a bit during the drive last night but still has dark green stains along the back of his jeans and behind his ears. “It will be a good experience.”

That is something Sam’s been saying a lot recently. It will be a good experience . Since Castiel fell, since he became the hollow shell of what he once was, Sam has been trying to fill the void with distraction. Dean, on the other hand, seems resolutely determined to ignore the fact that Castiel is different now. Though Dean always seems to be close by, hovering on the edges of Castiel's awareness. It would be endearing if it weren’t so annoying like he’s just waiting for Castiel to fuck up… again . Not that Castiel could blame him really, he’s been fucking up pretty badly for a long time now.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, his face morphing in concern. “We don’t have to go…”

Sometimes Castiel forgets that his face shows more emotion now that he's human. That whatever he’s thinking no longer has the buffer of his grace to soften it before it’s written into his expression. Now they are one and the same.

“I’m not going,” Dean says before Castiel can respond. He pushes the spare room key and the keys to the Impala into Sam’s chest. “You two lovebirds can do whatever you want. All I want is a nice hot shower and my four fucking hours.”

“Dean…” Sam hisses scolding his brother for what Castiel assumes is Dean’s apparent lack of concern for his feelings. He can’t help but roll his eyes. He might be (mostly) human now, but that doesn’t mean he needs Sam acting like he’s going to break from getting his feelings hurt. He’s not fucking fragile. Well, maybe his body is fragile now, but Dean’s ordinarily crass attitude is something he’s used to. It’s a constant, and sometimes it even makes him feel like he’s still his old useful self.

“Fine,” Castiel says, handing his bag off to Dean, who takes it without complaint.

“Bring back food.” Dean calls over his shoulder as he juggles the bags, “... and pie!”

It turns out that Cas loves the swap meet. He points at random everyday objects with a contained sort of speculative wonder. He spends over twenty minutes at a table full of snow globes and old tea sets. Once Sam’s able to drag Cas away from examining a blender made in the sixties he manages to get a few gently used Carharts from a hunter who’s arthritis is keeping him out of the cold. Sam encourages Cas to try on a pair of hiking boots, and they hit a gold mine at a table run by an elderly woman whose kids have long since moved away. Apparently, her sons went through a ‘hipster phase’ because they find a bunch of henleys, flannels, and a few pairs of jeans in both Dean and Cas size. Cas nabs a pair of running sneakers and Sam spends a few minutes looking through a stack of old musty books.

“Oh my, yes.” The elder woman says with a smile. “Jimmy loved that silly thing.”

Sam’s looks around in time to see Cas’s head snap up. “Jimmy?”

“Mmm, my son,” the woman hums softly, shuffling over to where Cas is standing. “It's an instant camera. A Polaroid.” Gently she takes the gray and black box from Cas’ hands and shows him how to use it, the rainbow neck strap hanging limply from its hinges. “Have you not seen one of these, deary?”

“No…” Cas replies, his voice a deep rumble that Sam recognizes by this point as him feeling emotional. Sam knows he’ll be getting Jimmy’s camera for Cas. Selecting one of the books from her table at random, Sam moves to stand next to Cas.

“Here, smile!” The woman says, lifting the camera to her eye and snapping a photo. The old device whirrs and whines as it prints. She deftly plucks the picture from the mouth of the camera and gives it a little shake. Cas takes the photo with both hands when she offers it over to him, his mouth parting in wonder as the image develops before his eyes. And like a child, his head snaps up to Sam’s, eyes shining with the silent question.

“How much?” Sam asks with a small indulgent smile as Cas’ head swings back to the old woman. Sam knows Cas is giving her the puppy dog look he’s been accidentally perfecting on Dean since he fell. The old woman smiles at Cas, the lines around her eyes deepening.

“You know what. Ten dollars and I’ll throw in the box of film I’ve got around here somewhere.” She shuffles off, shifting around a few boxes until she comes back with a small retro style suitcase, it’s got all sorts of stickers across the top and the name Jimmy in faded black print along the bottom right corner. “I hate to see it go, but I think…” she slides the case across the folding table “it’s going to a good home.”

“Indeed” Cas agrees, and he shares one of his rare gummy smiles with the elderly woman. Even Sam feels the warmth radiating from the fallen angel. It’s the little things, he thinks, the small experiences that make being human worth it .

On the way back to the motel, packages in hand, Cas sits in the front seat the camera carefully draped around his neck by the rainbow striped strap and clicks open the buttons on the little suitcase. Even Sam is surprised at how well this mysterious Jimmy ket his things organized. The instruction book is in there, along with what appears to be two dozen unopened boxes of film and a small red photo album explicitly designed to hold Polaroids. Inside is a photo of the elderly woman looking much younger smiling up at the camera, a son on either side of her. They seem happy. Sam watches Cas trace his fingers over the image before returning it to the front slot of the photo album. He flips the page and adds the photo of he and Sam smiling in the old church parking lot among the piles of stuff at the swap meet.

Cas picks up the instruction book humming as he reads it all the way up to the motel door. Sam unlocks it, juggling the bags from the swap meet and sees Dean passed out on one of the two queen beds. “Shh,” he hushes over his shoulder, stepping into the room with Cas on his heels.

He’s setting down all the packages, sorting out things to wash when the absence of movement draws his attention. Cas is standing just a few paces from the door, frozen like a statue, his lips parted slightly, eyes wide and focused on Dean.

His brother is sleeping belly down on the bed in just a t-shirt and a faded pair of boxer briefs. It’s a sight Sam’s seen a lot in their life of motel hopping. It must still be fairly new for Cas though, because he slowly lifts the camera to his face, hesitates for the breadth of a heartbeat, and snaps a photo. The sound of the camera working is loud in the quiet room, and Dean flinches, his whole body reacting. His hand snaps out from under his pillow; a gun pointed directly at Cas. Sam watches the former angel shift back slightly the camera dropping from in front of his face.

“Sonnova… Cas, what the hell man!” Dean snaps dropping his head back onto the pillow with a low groan. He takes stock of the situation half of his face still pressed into the pillow, and his one-eyed gaze falls with accusation on Sam. “Why did you buy him a fucking camera, Sam,” he says, arching a brow.

Sam shrugs, a smile spreading across his lips “I dunno, but I feel like it’s going to be a good investment.”

Dean chucks the pillow at Sam’s head.

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