He raises the the healthiest sheep in this hemisphere, this he knows. They’re sheep, so they’re about as happy as they can be, but they give good milk and fine wool and pretty good lamb in the spring. They follow where he leads them on the four wheeler. He’d love to keep dogs, but he can’t. He tried, once, but it didn’t end well. Ended with a shotgun and a cross in the background he can’t talk about, not with anyone who would swing by to buy wool or cheese. His farm isn’t that big- the house, the barns, the garage, the gardens. It’s huge for just himself, but that’s okay.
Castiel goes into town maybe twice a month, but usually only once. He grabs lunch at the diner, grabs fruit he can’t raise himself and vegetables that his soil won’t support. Salt and sugar and flour and cows milk and butter. Maybe picks up a few books from the library, if he wants to. Smiles at the people who smile at him.
There are some women in town, he knows, who think of him as being some lone shepherd, some romantic figure out on the land who reads deep books and write poems and sings songs to himself. Someone they can shape into a husband, someone they can make smile with their soft bodies and long hair and sweet voices. Wives for a farm, wives with a stoic and sensitive husband and beautiful children with his dark hair and blue eyes.  And maybe they were right, once, maybe he could have wanted them.  Thing is, though, Castiel shouldn’t have people in his life. He should live alone. He’s tried, once or twice, but it hasn’t ended well. He should have known better.
He’s a monster, but he’s okay with that. Really.
Once a month, he moves his sheep into the other barn. The smaller one built of silver nails. He closes the door and closes the lock with heavy leather gloves on his hands. He leaves a note on the kitchen counter, the same note every time.
I’m sorry. I meant to come back. Please take care of them for me. Please don’t tell my brothers or my sisters. Please sell my property and give the money to the school. Name something after me- I’m vain.
Leaves his clothes on the back porch and walks away from the highway and towards the woods. Waits, shivering, until the moon comes up.
He doesn’t tend to remember much after that. Just waking up in the same place every time.
He’s drawn to it, like magnetic north. The place in front of the river. Right where he had been camping, right where he had been hiking. Out alone.
If he’d known (and how could he have known, really?) he would have worn silver.
It’s a morning in late February when he wakes up and marches through the cold across the land and back towards home.
He doesn’t drink the river water (even though his mouth feels disturbingly furry and deery and bloody). He just rubs his naked arms as he walks as fast as he can the mile or so back home. In the opposite direction of the great stripe of churned turf that streaks out away from where he woke up like skid marks.
He’s shivering (February in Montana is cold, no matter how much adrenaline is in your system) and moving as fast as he can when his house comes into view, his barn comes into view, and a car comes into view.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh- oh no.”
It’s a long, black car. One he’s never seen before, and he’s always been quite careful to catalogue the vehicles he’s seen in town. This is new and new is bad.
A tall man steps out of the car. Long brown hair. Badly fitting black suit.
He looks at Castiel, as close as eye-to-eye as he can get at this distance and says easily, despite the distance, “Not many people build two barns, especially ones with silver nails.”
“Shit,” Castiel hisses.
He freezes. Spreads out his legs to shoulder width and raises his hands to the sky. “Look,” he calls. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
The guy holds his own hands up. “No, dude,” he calls. “It’s fine. Not gonna hurt you. Just wanna talk. Promise.”
Castiel looks at him. He looks at his barn and his house. He can’t get to the barn fast enough, and even if he could, his rifle is in his safe in the house and it’s not even loaded. And he’s naked.
He marches up to the house.
The guy is even taller this close, towers a good five inches over his head or something. If he didn’t have all of his clothes on and look so well rested, Castiel would be damn sure he was a monster, too. He holds two cups of coffee. The smell of them makes him want to vomit.
“I’m Sam,” he says. Castiel walks on by, strides into his house, leaving the door open. “I’m kind of a lawyer, actually- see, there are all of these people out there who might be interested in, well, in killing you but-”
“You gonna kill me?” Castiel asks behind himself.
“No,” Sam answers, slipping inside. Shutting the door behind himself. “No, see, I want to make a directory or a database of people like you who aren’t...out of control or anything so you don’t get hurt. I want to make sure you have your rights and-”
“Great,” Castiel replies. “Whatever this is, can it wait until after I’ve showered and had some real sleep?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Great,” Castiel continues. “Please come back tomorrow. You should know that the day after moonrise is kind of shit for werewolves.”
He turns to look at Sam. Hopes he looks every bit his sleepless night, his adrenaline crash, his near frostbite, his cuts and bruises and scars and dark circles under the eyes and twigs in his hair.
Sam has the decency to blush. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll be by tomorrow. Sorry. I’m still- I’m still figuring this out, I guess.”
He leaves. Shuts the door behind himself.
Castiel doesn’t move until he hears the car drive off, the engine a heavy roar down the gravel road that leads out into his property. He slinks upstairs to shower.
His muscles ache. His skin hurts. His head hurts. His lungs hurt. He hurts all over, hell, even his hair hurts. It comes from stretching out and bending back into himself. It comes from letting something of the truth of himself out and then crushing it back in.Of forcing shapes and forms. Bending and breaking and popping and squeezing.
He put a curtain in front of the mirror a long time ago. He doesn’t like to look at himself, not after what happened and especially not after the moonrise.
His scars are on his face, heavy ghost-white lines under his left eye and on his cheek. Remarkably shallow, really. Not nearly as bad as it could have been.
He has to remind himself sometimes. Not nearly as bad as it could have been.
The water is hot on his back and shoulders, cards through his hair and rinses off dirt and mud and grime.
He feels like he breathes for the first time in a week, under the warm spray. He doesn’t even use soap, almost too exhausted to stand. Waiting for it all to happen is almost as bad as it happening.
He climbs out of the shower and walks to his bedroom. He marks his calendar with a red circle. Dries off and lays down in his bed. He closes his eyes.
He feels the shape of last night in his mind. The chase. The run. The ground underneath himself. The snap of skin and bones in his mouth. The taste of blood and fur.
So overwhelming, he leans over and vomits into the trash can by his nightstand.
Castiel’s done this enough now that he has it down to a science.
He falls asleep. There’s enough food for the day in the barn for the sheep.
Tomorrow’s going to take care of itself. The guy in the car, he’ll take care of that tomorrow. He’ll take care of all of it tomorrow. Today, though, today he has to sleep.
He dreams of the moonlight.
