#however i think the intention (to spread awareness of characters like cass and to make comics accessible) is so sweet

[casscainmainly]

Wayne Family Adventures Fun Fact: It was pitched by two Asian women (Susan Cheng and Maria Li), one of whom was a Cassandra Cain fan. So WFA fans you're legally obligated to support Cass by reading Batgirl (2000) :)))).

From this interview.

[solarcelest]

escape route

Day #8

It was one of those horrid, much dreaded nights. The type that comes only once a month and somehow that still seems to be way too often. None of the family took too well to attending Fathers galas, all doing their best to produce excuses and reasons to warrant their absence. Most get away with it, especially Dick and Jason since the public are aware that the oldest Wayne has his own, separate life in Bludhaven and the second eldest is hardly ever in the public eye. He wished that Richard were there, he at least would wave off some of the offending hands and, unlike the unfortunate Cass, the irritating miscreants surrounding him would listen to the five foot eleven man. For now however he was there to suffer, with some of the other members of his family who seemed to have more of a difficulty cultivating excuses to escape these horrid gatherings.

Cassandra, the only official female member of the Wayne family, was absolutely adored by the press. There were more gossip magazines and new articles about his sister than Damian was able to make himself aware of (no matter how hard he tried to keep up on all the tabloids about his siblings). The public was always going on about how what a beautiful young lady she is (something Cass doesn’t particularly appreciate) and how everyone knows she will grow up to do great things for the world and about how great she is for the family.

Tim, being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises is therefore obligated to attend nearly every company event (except for the many he doesn't) and always does his ‘best’ to show.

Such a surprise he was not there tonight.

He was, Damian does have to credit him, at the gala for a brief time earlier in the evening. But, the city calls and with the Bats already short staffed and Tim neck deep in a nearly solved case, he had checked out early to go on patrol.

Oh, how envious Damian was of him. He was getting antsy, crowded into this (really not so) small room with so many intolerable people.

Damian was similar to Cass. Through the oh so innocent eyes of the public, ten year old Damian Wayne was nothing more than a poor abused child who was always clinging to his family members like shadows. Just a little kid who had been beaten and abandoned by his mother for the first decade of his life before being left to the father who wasn’t even aware of his existence.

And, well, Damian did have to give them a few points for accuracy.

The thing they didn’t have the right, however, the fact they had absolutely incredibly wrong was the assumption that Damian Wayne was cute. Which, to anyone idiotic enough to have to question that fact, was not.

Still, the rich snobs who occupied the event hall seemed to believe otherwise with how often they approached simply to coo and attempt to ruffle his still baby soft raven hair or pinch his, only slightly, chubby cheeks. Damian, who was not the biggest fan of physical contact already, disliked the constant attention from the ogling strangers and thus was his reason for tagging so close to Cassandra that night.

The two stood as they were, would probably make the front page, or at least popular photo the following day. Cassandra, who, even at her short stature stood nearly a foot above Damian, had each of her hands placed on either of shoulders. The boy was nearly rigid beneath her slender fingers, anxious from the crowd around him and the constant touching and pestering. She herself wasn’t much better but still, be older and the current big sister kept her discomfort to herself and helped to ground her brother.

They made their way off to the side, standing a ways away from the denser areas of the crowd in order to breath again. Pulling cover a chair, Cass motioned for her little brother to take a seat.

“Going to help Bruce.” She said, gesturing to where he was being bombarded with Vicky Bales never ending questions. She then turned back to Damian before pointing to the food tables not far to his right. “Eat.” She said, before sauntering off, her black dress flowing behind her.

Damian watched, more than a little jealous that at least she had something to go and do before he sighed and headed over to the food tables. He want necessarily hungry, he was trained to run in very little nutrients (much to Pennyworth disliking) but decided to at least see what was available.

Most of the items in the spread were finger foods, small sized appetizers and tapas that were meant to be grabbed and easily snacked on, not like the three course meal that was planned to come later in the night. There were a few different things though, a chocolate fountain that dripped lazily and cheese fondue. Damian sighed at both of the rather fattening choices, opting instead for one of the oranges resting in the fruit bowl.

He grabbed a dull steak knife then, the only blade near him that was not secured to his hip by a holster or tucked into his sock, resting the fruit on a plate set on the table before going about cutting it. He realized how hungry he actually was then, his stomach growling in response to the fresh smell of the fruit.

He had only altered his focused to his plate momentarily but, as it seemed, a second was all it had taken. Suddenly, all too quickly, there was a breath on his neck and a voice in his ear. It was sweet, sickly and male. The exact kind of things his father and siblings had always warned to watch for at events like these.

Bold of them to assume that Damian wasn’t always watching.

“Hungry?” Was all the voice asked. Yet the simple question carried so much weight and implied all the wrong intentions. Damian jumped, shocked by the voice and even more so by what was said. As he startled, the knife slipped, fingers moistened by the fruit juice, the handle slipping easily through them.

The blade, no longer in his control, cut down into the orange once again. But this time it was too far forward, too near his other hand and cut through the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

The cut was jagged, the blade too dull to slice evenly and blood began to seep from the wound almost immediately. Acidic oils from the citrus began to sting at the cut, causing a burning sensation to add to the pain.

Damian saw his opening.

After staring at this hands in offense, easily mistaken for shock by a bystander, he promptly burst into tears. It was humiliating, most definitely and he could nearly feel his pride dwindling on the spot, but Damian thought that was an okay payment if it meant he able to leave this wretched event even a little bit early.

Turning around and sliding past the creep, only after wiping just enough blood on the man's coat to mark the offender, Damian made a beeline towards his father and Cassandra. The buffet table, though out of the way, was still close enough to where the crowd was more congested, that numerous heads had already turned to see the source of the sound. Father was included, the man tall amongst the other elites, was brushing by them as he hurried past.

Damian met Father in the middle. By this time, the crowd had begun to form around them, interested in the cause of the scene. Damian had salty tears running down his soft cheeks and snot collecting in his upper lip. The perfect picture of a distraught child, he nearly smiled at his own perfected acting skills.

“What’s the matter, son? What happened?” Father asked as he kneeled down. Even then, he was slightly taller than Damian. Father was a large man.

Damian sniveled, offering his bloodied hand for observation. Father took it gingerly and began to gently prod at Damian’s minuscule fingers.

Damian had suffered much worse during his training and on patrol and was well aware that Father knew he was playing this up. Like, a lot. Presumably, the ‘world's greatest detective’ also knew his sons motives.

“I-I was c-cutting an orange a-and someone snuck up b-behind m-me!” He gasped, sucking in large gulps of air between his sobs, just as he had seen the misbehaved children and the park do.

Perfect.

“What man?” Father inquiered, looking around at the crowd. Damian reeled, pointing a shaking finger at the man accusingly. He still wore his suit jacket, a red swipe of Damian’s blood across the pocket, he was also turning to walk away. Only guilty men attempted to escape. Father nodded to Jim Gordon, who had been running security at that nights event, before turning back to Damian.

“I think this needs stitches.” He said, grabbing a cloth napkin to press against Damian’s hand. “Come on, we’ll go to Leslie’s.” And then, much to Damian’s surprise, Father lifted Damian by his underarms and rested the ten year old on his hip, motioning to Cassandra to follow. Damian stiffened, unused to the feeling of being held like this, of his feet dangling above the ground even though he was not in shackles. Father didn’t seem to mind though, and was able to easily support Damian’s small weight on only a single arm.

From over Father’s shoulder, Damian could see the other guests of the gala stare at the trio as they left the hall. Most of their faces held concern, some confusion at Bruce’s relatively calm hold on the rather bloody situation. Damian ceased his tears as the crowd became smaller, but hid his face in the collar of Bruce’s coat nonetheless. He never liked the feeling of eyes boring into him, of having all the attention on him when he was out as a civilian. It was unnerving, even if he would never admit it.

Bruce hadn’t said anything about the incident as they left, but Cassandra sent her brother a knowing look. Damian knew he would not be getting out of giving his sister the full run through of tonight's events later in the evening. He had a feeling he would not be in trouble though. After all, as a civilian child, a cut such as so would have them heading for the hospital whether he played it up or not. He was only staying in character acting as he was.

Father had acted well too, playing the part of the concerned parent and comforting Damian. No doubt it would be the top headline by the following morning, pictures everywhere.

Pennyworth was waiting by the main entrance for them, a gauze wrap in his hands for a temporary bandage.

Cass was looking at Damian again, a soft smile on her lips as Pennyworth began to wrap the tender cut. Father had yet to put him down and Damian was beginning to wonder why. After all, he hadn’t really been in danger and, even if he had been, Damian was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you.  

But, even as Pennyworth secured the wrap and the buildings staff opened the door for them Father did not loosen his hold. And still, when they stepped into the cool autumn air, Father went further as to place a hand on Damian's back and honestly, the boy couldn’t tell whether the act had been continued for the sake of the few valets tending the entrance or, if it was simply just a dad, looking for an excuse to hold his son.

read on Ao3 instead

[sophisticated-angel]

The Fledgling - Part 5

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel

Warning: None

Word Count: 1,135

Summary: A hitch in the Winchesters’ aim to keep the baby angel protected puts them on the run, and Castiel has a run-in with Kerubiel and his followers.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Story

   Sam enters the motel room much too rushed for Dean’s liking. It’s not the way he moves that Dean doesn’t like, but rather how he has the fledgling clutched to his shoulder and nearly smothered by his jacket. Now, Dean doesn’t claim to know much about parenting, but he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to hold a baby like that. He’s handed the fledgling quickly, however, and his discomfort is alleviated.

   “Have you heard from Cass yet?” asks Sam.

   “Not a word. Same thing as every day for the past two weeks.” Dean nestles the infant in his lap and lets her dig her feet into his stomach. “Did you scare him off? Hm? Two days with you, and he runs away. What’re you hiding, huh?”

   Waving her arms, the fledgling blows a razzberry. She makes Dean smile. Lately, she’s been developing at an astonishing rate. Only yesterday, it seems, her eyes were barely open, and now she’s wide-eyed and substantially more aware of her surroundings. If she had a name, she might recognize it by now. Sam and Dean have tried out a few names, but nothing seemed to fit. They gave up and decided that they don’t have the authority to name an angel. That job should go to Castiel if it goes to anyone.

   Now Cass . . . there’s a walking conundrum. While his infant kin has been doing some growing, the angel has been entirely absent. He’s uncharacteristically quiet about the whole affair and hasn’t brought up finding her a permanent home since leaving her with them. From Dean’s perspective, it’s like his friend is ashamed, and to a degree he understands why. If Sam had a kid knowing it would be in danger of execution its whole life, Dean would be ashamed of him too. He would do what could be done to protect the child as Cass has done, but shame and anger would be with him forever. Yes, Dean understands Castiel, but when he looks at the baby, at her deep blue eyes and head of recently grown dark fuzz, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s information he’s missing.

   “Dean!” barks Sam.

   “Huh?” Dean looks up. “Why are you packing your stuff?”

   Sam rolls his eyes. “I just told you. We need to leave town.”

   “What? Why? We just got here. What’d you do this time?”

   “Someone saw me and the baby in the park.”

   “Well, it is a park.”

   “Pretty sure it was an angel, Dean. Call Cass and let him know we’re leaving.”

   “He won’t answer.”

   “Then leave a message. Just do it quickly because we have to go.”

*    *    *    *    *

   There are no less than thirty-six missed calls in Castiel’s inbox. A little less than one third of these calls are from Sam, and the rest are from Dean. Many of them have voicemails attached, and the angel has listened to a few.

   “Cass? Hey, um, she won’t eat. Keeps whining every time I give her the bottle. Don’t know if something’s wrong. Call me back.”

   “Cass” —this one had screaming in the background— “she’s so loud, I can’t find her pacifier – wait, never mind. It’s good. Call me back.”

   “Cass? Could use a little help. Sam’s out for a run, and I ran out of diapers. Oh my God, there’s so much poop. Help me, Cass.”

   “Cass? It’s me. How many times a day do babies spit up? Don’t know if this is normal or if we need a different formula. She puked all over my last clean shirt. Call me back.”

   “Cass, it’s been more than a week. You’re supposed to be helping, remember? You can’t vanish like this. If there’s something wrong, tell us. Call me back.”

   In Castiel’s opinion, Dean is acting like a helpless parent, and, well he is one, but he’s overreacting. As far as Cass is concerned, the fledgling’s needs are the same as any human baby’s with the added bonus of never getting sick. Maybe she can be injured at this young age, but she should become invulnerable with time. Really, the Winchesters needn’t worry about her physical health.

   Meanwhile, the angel has immersed himself in Heaven’s inner workings. With so much still broken, there’s more than enough to keep him busy. He purposefully stays close to Kerubiel and the others while trying to not attract their attention. Harut is with him for many of his jobs, so it’s inevitable that she picks up on his pattern.

   “Why do they concern you so much?” she finally asks him.

   “They intend to kill, Harut.”

   “There’s nothing to kill. There’s no fledgling. Castiel, our sister may have committed suicide, but there is no fledgling.”

   “I have seen worse acts committed for false beliefs.”

   Actually, it doesn’t surprise him when Kerubiel, his followers with him, corner him and Harut in a young forest. The leader of this band folds his arms and squares his shoulders. He and Castiel are evenly matched in strength and power, but Kerubiel has always needed to be bigger than anyone else, and his six-foot-six vessel – a well-trained army soldier with a buzz of dark hair – provides that illusion. Mebehiah, Nithael, and Nuriel, two male vessels of African descent and one female of Japanese, respectively, spread out in a half circle like obedient dogs.

   “I hear you’ve been following us, brother,” Kerubiel says. “You think we mean harm.”

   “Let us pass, Kerubiel. You have no quarrel with us.”

   “I don’t appreciate being the subject of such whispers. We do not intend to murder our kin.”

   “Then what are your intentions?”

   “We mean to serve justice. A sacred law has been broken, and punishment must be given. We would kill only to make things right.”

   “You mean to hunt down an innocent angel and an infant and slaughter them both. Broken laws or not, in what world is that not murder?” As he speaks, Castiel draws slowly closer to his taller brother until he is mere inches away, close enough to stare him down in an attempt to assert dominance.

   “But you believe there is no infant, do you not?” Kerubiel replies calmly. “There is no reason to defend something that doesn’t exist.”

   “What happens when your search fails? Will you falsely accuse one of our brothers and kill them to avoid looking the fool? I for one will not allow you to bring harm to any of us. Take your followers and leave the matter alone.”

   Kerubiel narrows his eyes, saying slowly, “Do you have something to hide, brother?” Then he snaps his fingers, and all four angels vanish.

   Castiel relaxes, shoulders sagging, and glances back at his sister. Harut is watching him with a mix of awe and fear.

   Shaking her head, she mutters, “Sometimes I question your sanity, Castiel.”

PART SIX

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