Fic: I Will Wait (Dean/Castiel, angst, romance)
Title: I Will Wait
Author: callmecoffee
Genre: Angst, romance
Rating: R, just to be safe. For very brief mention of sexy-times. If you read this fic and have a clearer grasp on which rating best fits this fic, PLEASE do tell. Ratings really confuse me.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Benny Lafitte (Although the last three are not actually appearing in the fic, only mentioned).
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: Season 8
Word Count: 5389
Warnings: Brief reference to Dean's time in Hell, Alastair and rape. Other than that - none, I think? Just, like I said, a very brief mention of sex. Language is no worse than in the show. If you notice something in need of warning please let me know and I'll see to it. :)
Summary: Dean presses his eyes shut, trying to fight off another overwhelming wave of guilt. It’s not fair, he knows, that Castiel has to struggle with this enormous change all by himself while not being allowed to leave the restricted walls of this cabin, short of the tiny yard out back. And Dean is about to make it even worse.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and its characters, and I make no profit from this.
A/N: This was written just after the very first spoilers on season 8 came out, back when we thought Benny would definitely be a bad guy and that Dean would resent owing him. I had no firm grasp on the Purgatory part, and that probably shines through.
This was supposed to be part of a larger story, but I wrote it to also be able to stand on its own (though in a very angsty way) because of my writer's block and not knowing if I'd ever be able to finish it.
It was also the first fic I've published, over on tumblr.
Hope you enjoy, despite the angst! :)
***
If there is one thing Dean hates more than anything in the world, it is lying to his brother. Toss in all the smug demons, dick angels and vengeful spirits as you want, and it still fades in comparison to the twister of agonizing guilt and shame of having to hold back, or worse, form words dripping false despite their long road of experiences of where warping the truth from each other have taken them in the past.
But it is necessary.
Necessary.
Dean scoffs quietly as he raises a double shot of whiskey, pausing it just short of his lips. Despite himself, he can’t shy away from the tiny, but present, feeling of satisfaction clinging to the sharp sting of hurt that came with the realization that his brother had never even tried to find out what happened to him. For an entire year.
Downing the liquid, Dean sighs, the burn of it an embrace of familiarity and comfort. It hurts him more than he will ever admit, that Sam could just stop and create this domestic life, blissful even in some ways, turning away from everything he had been; like he could just as well have grabbed an eraser and wiped out the last eight years of their life. Of Dean.
Of course Dean wants his little brother to be happy, to get to have the things he knows the kid has always wanted, though lately tucked deep down in a box sealed under a neon sign spelled “IMPOSSIBLE”.
But there is a selfishness in there too, the wish that his brother is always going to be by his side, of his own choosing. Riding shotgun in the Impala, having his back. No matter how much the hunting life has taken from them, physically as well as mentally - and oh brother has it done a number there - there is no arguing that it has been rewarding as well. In a screwed up way, obviously, but some things that have come from every decision and situation they have ever faced, have also brought them closer than Dean knows they would ever have otherwise been.
He remembers the reality the djinn had showed him of a life where their mother never died and hence they never were introduced to the world of supernatural evil. He and Sam had hardly even been on speaking terms, practically strangers to each other. Of course that was just an illusion, but Dean has very little doubt that had they never become hunters and having to depend on each other to survive, that would have probably been what their lives would look like. And Dean would never trade what they have now for that. Ever.
He reaches for the bottle and pours another shot.
Of course he has learned his lesson after all these years. At least he’d like to think he has. Bringing each other back from the dead with no thought of the consequences is something they have both agreed is no longer an option. If they die, they die. Period.
But…
Dean downs the second shot and shrugs off the sting.
He hadn’t died. Not properly. And, yeah, bringing him back from Purgatory would probably fall under the category of “don’t go there” for the sake of unforeseen consequences, but that is not what bothers him. Had Sam known he was down there and decided to leave him for the sake of not risking anymore ancient monsters escaping into the world, then that would have been fine. No argument.
But as far as Sam knew, Dean and Cas just disappeared. He didn’t know for sure they had died, didn’t know they were transported to Purgatory courtesy of a godly weapon with one hell of a kick, and despite all this, he didn’t even look.
Didn’t bother to try and find answers, to know for sure if Dean was truly dead and gone. And this, Dean thinks as he raises the bottle to the small glass a third time, this is what hurts. Like a mother-
“I feel very sorry for your liver.”
Dean snorts at the comment delivered by a voice gruff and worn from somewhere behind him. He hadn’t even heard the footsteps, emerged deep in his own mind. “Yeah, well, it drew the short end of the stick, I guess. Wonder what that’s like.” His fingers wrap around the glass as he shoots a glance over his shoulders. Castiels hair is a mess of dripping chunks, having just got out of the shower, and his eyes are slightly bloodshot and heavy-lidded. “Still not sleeping, huh?”
Castiel sighs as he lifts a navy tie already done over his head, lingering for a second around the neck in an angle that makes Dean think of a noose, and maybe Cas has that very same thought, by the way his eyes go heavy before letting it fall and tightening it into place. “It’s uncomfortable enough without my head starting to spin as soon as I lay down.”
“Which is because you don’t sleep”, Dean retorts. He’s all too familiar with the ramifications of sleep deprivation; the headspin, the jitters, the feverish eyes and the strange lack of focus. Almost like being drunk, just not in a pleasant way. Dean turns around on the chair to face him. “Come on, man, you’re exhausted.”
“I am not used to the need of it, Dean.”
“Still doesn’t mean you can escape it. Whether you like it or not, it’s a fundamental part of being - -“ Dean stops, can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. By the looks of it, Cas is relieved by that.
Saying something out loud just makes it too real, sometimes.
Probably the same reason that Castiel still stubbornly wears the suit and trenchcoat, despite the fact that Dean has left him half a wardrobe of choices. It’s like he’s clinging desperately to every little piece of what he used to be.
In a small corner of his mind, Dean does the same. The outfit is almost like a part of who Cas is, like another limb. Seeing him without it has always been an otherworldly strange feeling he doesn’t much care for. Not that he would ever admit that.
Dean’s gaze lingers for a moment on Cas’s face, taking in the red-rimmed, hazy eyes and the thick stubble Cas can’t be bothered to shave. A cold, unpleasant sting spreads throughout his chest as his mind for a second takes him back to Zachariah’s showing of the future and his friend a broken, beat down mess of drugs and heavy alcohol. It is eerie how much his exhausted features resemble that future version. What if - -
No.
Castiel still wears the trenchcoat. As long as he does that, Dean tells himself, everything will be fine. Denial always has been his strong suit.
“So you’re still struggling with keeping this from Sam?” Cas asks, sitting down on a chair opposite him at the kitchen table.
“Yeah.” Dean absently taps a finger rhythmically against a side of the liquor bottle. “Among other things.”
Castiel nods, a frown forming on his weary face. ”Perhaps you should just tell him.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I’m sure he already suspects something.” It’s a statement, but it’s wrapped around a question, an opening to a discussion that Dean just feels way too tired to get into right now. Still, it is why he came here, after all. Why he snuck out of the motel room while Sam was fast asleep and drove off into the night. He’d taken the chance because they are working a job in a town nearby, and he knows he can make it back before Sam wakes up. If not, he can just say he went for a drive. It’s worked before.
But then again, probably not this time.
Cas is right, Sam knows Dean is holding something back. Dean has no illusions of his little brother being a fool; he knows the kid is damn smart and that it only took him a couple of days upon their reunion to know that, despite the significant changes they’d both gone through since they last saw each other, Sam could tell Dean was not spilling the whole can of beans onto the plate.
Dean runs a slow hand through his hair. “Yeah, he does.” He answers, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees in an exasperated sigh, fingers still tight around the whiskey bottle, as if it’s an anchor, the only thing keeping him from spewing irritation and guilt all over the floor. “Kid was always too damn perceptive for his own good.”
Castiel eyes him warily for a moment. “It’s not a good thing, Dean, lying to him like this”, he says hesitantly, a stubborn softness in his voice. “It’s going to put a strain on your relationship, even more so than it’s doing right now. You know this, we’ve been down this road before.”
“Cas, please. Just drop it.” Dean’s body has gone rigid in his seat, jaw clenching on and off.
“You don’t think he’ll notice you sneaking off on him in the middle of the night? Don’t forget, he used to do the same with Ruby.” Cas pauses for a moment, noticing the twitches of fury just beneath Dean’s freckled skin. Still, he pushes on. “I don’t understand why you insist on doing the same - “
“Are you friggin’ serious?!” Dean snaps, fighting the urge of having his fist denting the table. “I’m trying to keep you safe!”
“Right.” Castiel’s deep exhale is like the deflating of a balloon as he leans forward and snatches the glass from the table and the whiskey bottle from Dean’s unexpecting hand.
“Hey!” Dean reacts as his friend lifts the glass, a few drops of its contents having spilled over to his hand as he grabbed it. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Cas stops, glass halfway to his mouth, and he shoots Dean an irritated glance that is not without a shred of amusement. “What does it look like I’m doing, Dean?”
“It looks like you’re having a drink,” Dean says on a slight nod, ignoring the obvious rhetorical aspect of the question. “One drink. And that is all.”
“Actually”, Cas corrects, a moment after having raised a brow at Dean’s weak attempt at self-reassurance, “I’m having two.”
“Cas, come on, man”, Dean tries, exhaling a ragged breath as Castiel lifts the bottle a second time. “You don’t need to be doing that. One is enough.”
Castiel actually laughs, a small, hoarse noise working its way up from the base of his stubbled throat. “That’s rich. You treat alcohol as if it’s nearly as important to your being as air is to your lungs, yet one is enough for me?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve seen firsthand what happens to you in this… state… if you’re allowed too much of the good stuff, Cas. Trust me, it’s gonna lead to a path you don’t want to go down. And I’m sure as hell not gonna let you.”
Castiel snorts. “That future ended when Sam threw Lucifer in the cage, Dean”, He says, knitting his brows. “And you’re not around nearly enough to dictate what I do with my time here.”
Dean presses his eyes shut, trying to fight off another overwhelming wave of guilt. It’s not fair, he knows, that Castiel has to struggle with this enormous change all by himself while not being allowed to leave the restricted walls of this cabin, short of the tiny yard out back. And Dean is about to make it even worse.
“I’m sorry, man”, he croaks. And he knows this is the opening to tell him, but for the moment he can’t, just can’t bear the thought of making Castiel even more miserable.
Cas doesn’t respond, just resumes to fill the glass with another shot. This time Dean practically lunges off the chair at him, trying to separate him from the bottle, but more so, separate him from his future self.
Castiels eyes narrow as he pins Dean down with a glare that promises smiting if he’s not careful, and dammit if he doesn’t pull off scary as hell, despite having barely a fracture of his powers left, smiting not being one of them. ”Dean”, he warns, voice deeper and more threatening than Dean has heard it in a long time. “I would lay down my life for you if it meant you having the burger you crave, but believe me when I tell you that you would do wise to sit back down.”
Dean freezes mid-movement, unable to stop himself from swallowing nervously at this immediate change in his friend’s countenance, exhausted and worn not two seconds ago, now all soldiered up and downright terrifying. Sometimes it’s just all too easy forgetting that the man in front of him, though fallen and nearly powerless, is still a celestial being and something that will never be fully human, but always something more, something impressive.
Dean wets his lips as he ponders the sincerity and the sarcasm tangled in that very sentence. It’s very true that the angel has, and will, do anything in his power to keep Dean alive, and happy, or at least safe and content. The outcome of these attempts has varied, but the intent behind it has always been the same. And even Dean knows that he has not responded very gratefully, treated Cas all too often like he’s a weapon rather than a friend, and yeah, he feels friggin’ terrible about it, but come on, when has he ever been good at expressing how he really feels? Besides, this was before Purgatory, before they were shut off from the world and alone in a place of unimaginable terrors, forced to work out all the crap that had been growing between them, if only at first for the sake of surviving. Before they became… closer.
Dean shrugs as he makes a decision, to hell with it, and grins, “Well, when have I ever been known to be the wise one, huh?”
For a fraction of a second, his fingers clutch the whiskey bottle, and before he even has time to react, the bottle is smashed to pieces on the wooden floor, precious drops of liquor spraying over his shoes and the bottom of his jeans. Castiel has heaved him in by grabbing a fistful of his flannel shirt, so close to his face he can feel the warmth of the angels furious breath against his lips.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, Deans surprisingly calm gaze locked with frigid blue orbs, as he tries to fight the sudden urge to close the distance. Because he is not turned on by this. He’s not.
When Castiel finally does speak, his words are taut and vibrating with pent-up rage. “You”, he whispers and draws a breath before finishing the sentence. “You are surely the most hypocritical human being on this entire planet.”
Dean doesn’t buckle, his eyes still relentlessly attached to the angel. “Probably true”, he admits, arching his lips in a shrug. “But I’m not backing down on this one, Cas. No matter what. For once you’re the one in need of protection, and I’ll be damned if I’m not - -“ He chokes on the words, clears his throat, and sighs. “Look, this sucks, okay? And I am completely aware of how screwed up this whole Benny-situation is, man, I am, and it’s not fair.” As he speaks, he notices the narrow of Castiels eyes growing a tad, and the slightest relieve of his hand around his shirt. “I know it’s hypocritical, Cas, and I don’t blame you for hating me for it. You can hate me all you want, and hey, if beating me to a pulp will make you feel better, then go ahead. But it will not stop me. I am going to keep you safe if it’s the last goddamn thing I do. So deal with it.”
Castiel regards him for a moment, and Dean is breathlessly waiting for that capable right hook to smash into his face, but instead the grip of his shirt is let go as the angels eyes, tired and washed-up again, turns to the mess on the floor. “I should get that cleaned up”, he remarks on a jaded sigh.
As he starts to move, Dean places a soft hand on his shoulder. “Cas, wait. Look - “
“I know, Dean”, Castiel says before Dean has a chance to finish the sentence. “Your regret is practically tangible.” He raises that blue gaze of his slowly back to meet Deans green ones resting underneath a frown. “You’re not coming back.”
Dean swallows and shuts his eyes for a second, gathering himself. “It’s not safe. Sooner or later I’m bound to be followed, if not by Sam, then by something… else. I just can’t keep risking it, Cas.”
Castiel nods, but remains silent. Dean doesn’t need him to speak, or even look at him, to suspect that Cas probably knows that this is hardly the only reason.
And Dean knows the angel well enough by now to know the curtains of indifference that are draped over his gaze are only for show, and he searches for the truth behind it.
He may not have celestial powers like Castiel does, or at least used to, but he reckons he’s just as good at reading and translating The Book of Cas by now as the angel is at seeing him a little too close for comfort.
Besides, Dean has always had a sneaking suspicion that Cas never really needed the angel mojo to be able to see deeper into his soul, his very core, than any being ever had.
Maybe it is not as much a result of powers, as it is a result of the power, the bond formed between them in the depths of the Pit as Castiel embraced Dean’s mutilated, transforming soul inside his Grace and cradled them together all the way back up to Earth, where he set about to healing every little atom of Dean’s shredded body before finally letting go of his soul, urging it back in to fit his newly restored skin.
Upon his return from the grave Dean had struggled with the very confusing swirl of contradictive emotions crashing together inside of him, the feelings of being fully healed and complete, every last little scar and bruise since the day he was born now a thing of the past, and yet still aching over a gaping hole of emptiness, of cold, as if something important was missing. A vital piece, of sorts.
It wasn’t until that day in the barn where, as far as he knew then, they met for the very first time as glass shattered and sparks flew, and he felt the angels presence, his Grace, wrapped around and bleeding through the vessel like electrical currents in thick, stormy air that he noted, though would have died before admitting it, that he felt almost immediately as if he was put together all over again. As if the skin wrapped around his torn psyche was less confining and more comforting.
Maybe that is why in the beginning he could just about always tell the angel was beside or behind him even before he announced himself. It was like a basic instinct, the constant search for home, coming together and making sense in the presence of the angel and his piercing gaze that seemed to relish in the small moments of just studying the entirety of the man he put together with his own hands. Those intense blue eyes that were nearly impossible to turn away from, that drew him in and held him close, drowned out the surroundings and made focusing on anything outside of the pair of them a struggle that required every ounce of his human strength.
He masked it with humor, sarcasm and a surly attitude, as always, while underneath it scared him like nothing else, not even the prospect of going to Hell, had before. Because this thing was something raw, completely unexpected, a fundamental power much like the elements of the earth one could never truly outrun. And Dean didn’t have the first clue as how the hell he was supposed to deal with that.
It had taken him quite some time upon his return to notice that he didn’t find himself longing for companions of the flesh much like he used to, for nights spent mapping smooth curves and exploring lush lips before trailing off the path and tossing them aside, noticing his eyes didn’t catch on to every other attractive woman that passed them by, like they had with varying enthusiasm before his sacrifice.
At first he had credited the lack of interest to Hell, to Alastair, but it didn’t seem to make sense, because it wasn’t something that he felt was attached to fear, not up here in the sea of beautiful human beings as opposed to the Pit of monstrous abominations, and the libido wasn’t entirely gone, just severely dampened. Like he hadn’t so much avoided it as somehow risen above it.
And then one night, as he was reluctantly giving himself over to the service of God and his angels in order to spare his little brother, despite seething and wanting to punch the remorse out of Castiels relentless features, he found himself more unable than ever to pull away from the bottomless depths of the angels borrowed eyes, and realized with a mixture of horror and utter contentment that the reason he hardly craved random sex lately was because he had experienced intimacy on a level incomprehensible even to himself. As much as intimacy on any level freaked him out - and, holy crap, did it ever - there was something about it reeling him in and he couldn’t fight it, not all of it. And as they ran out of words to be spoken, they remained in the same spot, close enough to feel each other’s breaths puffed against skin in the chill of the night, the lonely spotlight casting a faint light over the graveyard of metal, home of cars smashed beyond recognition, much like Deans soul before this trenchcoated miracle had swiped him away. For a long moment the anger dissipated with the rest of the surroundings, all that remained being the two of them, and Dean found himself recognizing he was drawn not only to Castiels Grace, but to his physical body as well. And wasn’t that nine levels of completely screwed up?!
Still, despite the fear this notion was spreading inside him, that was working up to sheer terror, and despite doing his very best to go about it the Dean Winchester Way and deny it, repress it, choke it, until he was practically blue in the face, he could not escape the pull of Castiel, of his Grace, his eyes, and his lips.
And come the Apocalypse, Castiel at first refused to help him stop it, and the anger in which Dean told him “We’re done” (which was not at all a break-up line. It wasn’t), ultimately made Castiel change his mind. He threw out centuries of everything he had ever known, rebelled against his father and his entire family, died, was resurrected and became the most hunted angel since Anna and Lucifer himself, all admittedly for Dean, and all this did not do much of helping the poor man’s inner turmoil.
And as Dean struggled to understand the meaning of this, he found himself craving more. More of Castiels presence, his devotion, more of the “profound bond” that the angel himself confessed was shared between him and Dean. Craving more, to the point that whenever it was snatched away for too long, he became testy and unreasonable, like an addict jonesing for the next fix, and it scared him to no end, but no matter how much he fought it, tooth and nails, there was no escaping the fact that Castiel had left a part of himself, his essence, within Dean, as well as keeping a part of Deans soul within himself.
Whether this was something that occurred naturally when a celestial being snatched a damned human soul from perdition or if it was because of a mutual choice upon parting just before Castiel cradled him back to his human flesh, Dean hadn’t known. For a long time he relentlessly argued that it was the natural order of things, something that just happened and couldn’t be controlled, and thereby sparing himself any responsibility in this profound bond of theirs - but that argument was jumped by the previously shy little whisper of the second option the moment he realized that Castiel was also the one who had raised Sam from the Cage. And Sam didn’t bare the mark. Nowhere on his body had the print of Castiels hand burned into the flesh, as it had onto Dean’s shoulder. And yet again, the rug was swept out from under him, scaring him half to death.
He had heard of soulmates, of course he had, but he didn’t actually believe in them, an obstinate, jaded cynic at best - so what the hell were you supposed to call a soul and the Grace of a friggin’ angel of the Lord merging together and not freak out?!
Hell, Dean was prone to panic at the prospect of having to share a word more than the pick-up line needed to seal a one night stand, and suddenly he’d found himself wrapped up in this screwed up sort of union that human words would always be way too inefficient and downright lame to be able to explain. Not to mention that this being that had planted a mark on him also happened to be in a male vessel, a fact that surely hindered his progress in realizing what he truly felt for the angel, as Dean had always fancied himself a ladies man and nothing else.
To screw the situation even more, the stubbornly faltering communication skills between himself and Castiel had led them down a path that had involved death and leviathan and a bonus trip to Purgatory. But at least that had proven to have a silver lining, he thinks solemnly to himself as he drifts slowly back to the surroundings and his friend in front of him. He blinks, after all this time still somewhat startled with how easy it is to be completely lost in the vast sea of the angel’s eyes.
Castiel is still considering him quietly, the closed off drapes of his gaze revealing more than anyone other than Dean would be able detect. Despite the lack of the better part of his powers, Dean senses Castiel even now somehow trails Deans thoughts to all the times he’s let the prospect of visiting the angel distract him during research, slowed him down in calculating how far off he is from the cabin and if he can distract Sam or sneak out when he’s sleeping, let his yearning cross his mind for a second too long on a hunt and nearly risk the asses of himself and his brother in the process.
Having his mind pre-occupied like this is way too dangerous, and if he’s ever going to figure out a way to solve this stupid mess, to rip Crowley’s head off and shoving it up Benny’s ass (and vice versa, he thinks through gritted teeth), then he needs his mind sharp, clear and focused. And that is just not going to happen as long as he’s still having to wrestle with the possibility of visiting the angel and the new layers of lies he has to come up with for his brother to stop poking. And none of this is fair to Sam, to have his big brother distracted by something but not even getting the privilege to know what. He’s been on the other end of that far too many times, and it ain’t pretty.
“It’s not forever, okay? I won’t let it be”, Dean continues, attempting a reassuring smile that fails epically. But his voice, though rueful in its tone, is steady and firm. “I will find a way to fix this, but for now… This is just the best I can think of to do.”
“I understand.”
These two words, though not said in the slightest defiant way, cuts through Dean like a thousand little razors. To his surprise, it comes out a laugh. An exasperated, weary sound of a situation far from amusing. “We just cannot catch a break, can we?” his voice carries out on the wave of it, while rubbing a jagged palm over his face.
Castiel just answers with a corner of his mouth arching in a tragic halfass attempt at a smile, and it’s too much. Dean hisses a low curse as he draws Castiel in to meet his lips. The warmth of his tongue tangled with his own is like coming home, and Dean finds himself wondering how he even gets through one day without this.
“You better not be a drug addicted hippie next time I see you, Cas”, he murmurs in between kisses, feeling Cas smile in response against him. Castiels hands have already started in on unbuttoning his shirt, and Dean is tugging his tie. “We’ve been through Heaven, Hell and Purgatory - “ He stops to make way for a heavy gasp as Castiels lips have found their way to his neck. “ - and you can damn well bet we’ll get through this too.”
“I believe you”, Castiel breathes as he starts guiding Dean towards the bed. And suddenly words become obsolete.
***
Cas is finally sleeping, and Dean thanks the absent dick of a God that the angel doesn’t wake up even as he struggles himself free from their tangled bodies. Every fiber of him screams in protest as he does, longing to stay wrapped around Cas forever and not give a flying crap about the outside world, but he’s already stayed way too long. It’ll be dawn soon, and he needs to get back to Sammy.
It’s a dick move, he knows, sneaking out like this without saying goodbye. It’s not like Cas is just another one in the row of one-night-stands of his. For one thing because this was hardly their first time together, and secondly because… it’s Cas. Even though it didn’t physically manifest before Purgatory, Cas has always meant more to Dean than he ever thought he’d let anyone new get close enough to do.
But it’s better this way, he tells himself. It’s better to leave things as they are, with the image of his exhausted friend finally getting some rest after a sweaty night of thick gasps, burning moans and blasphemous cries than having to awkwardly search for fitting parting words. Dean is not good with the emotional part, he’s definitely not good with goodbyes, and this one… If he has to leave with those blue eyes trailing his exit, it might break him.
He grabs his jacket from the floor as he reaches for the door handle, and gathers himself to throw one last glance back. Castiel is sleeping on his side, a blanket curled around his legs and half his torso. He looks peaceful, Dean notes with a ghost of a smile, and moonlight bleeding through one of the smaller windows covers his tanned body in a glow that really makes him resemble a marble statue, like Anna once spoke of, and the dark mess of his hair, in its imperfection, is the very thing that completes the perfection of his being.
Surprised as he still is that he could ever feel this way about a dude, it is more clear now than ever that Castiel is so much more, beyond, that. An angel, maybe not all powerful, but more so than ever glorious. With a hand on the door knob, Dean swallows as a knot twists painfully in his stomach. Knowing that if he stays even one more second he will throw logic out the window and return to the bed, to Cas, he opens the door as quietly as he can, and he doesn’t breathe again until he reaches the car.
***
-FIN-
Author: callmecoffee
Genre: Angst, romance
Rating: R, just to be safe. For very brief mention of sexy-times. If you read this fic and have a clearer grasp on which rating best fits this fic, PLEASE do tell. Ratings really confuse me.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Benny Lafitte (Although the last three are not actually appearing in the fic, only mentioned).
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: Season 8
Word Count: 5389
Warnings: Brief reference to Dean's time in Hell, Alastair and rape. Other than that - none, I think? Just, like I said, a very brief mention of sex. Language is no worse than in the show. If you notice something in need of warning please let me know and I'll see to it. :)
Summary: Dean presses his eyes shut, trying to fight off another overwhelming wave of guilt. It’s not fair, he knows, that Castiel has to struggle with this enormous change all by himself while not being allowed to leave the restricted walls of this cabin, short of the tiny yard out back. And Dean is about to make it even worse.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and its characters, and I make no profit from this.
A/N: This was written just after the very first spoilers on season 8 came out, back when we thought Benny would definitely be a bad guy and that Dean would resent owing him. I had no firm grasp on the Purgatory part, and that probably shines through.
This was supposed to be part of a larger story, but I wrote it to also be able to stand on its own (though in a very angsty way) because of my writer's block and not knowing if I'd ever be able to finish it.
It was also the first fic I've published, over on tumblr.
Hope you enjoy, despite the angst! :)
***
If there is one thing Dean hates more than anything in the world, it is lying to his brother. Toss in all the smug demons, dick angels and vengeful spirits as you want, and it still fades in comparison to the twister of agonizing guilt and shame of having to hold back, or worse, form words dripping false despite their long road of experiences of where warping the truth from each other have taken them in the past.
But it is necessary.
Necessary.
Dean scoffs quietly as he raises a double shot of whiskey, pausing it just short of his lips. Despite himself, he can’t shy away from the tiny, but present, feeling of satisfaction clinging to the sharp sting of hurt that came with the realization that his brother had never even tried to find out what happened to him. For an entire year.
Downing the liquid, Dean sighs, the burn of it an embrace of familiarity and comfort. It hurts him more than he will ever admit, that Sam could just stop and create this domestic life, blissful even in some ways, turning away from everything he had been; like he could just as well have grabbed an eraser and wiped out the last eight years of their life. Of Dean.
Of course Dean wants his little brother to be happy, to get to have the things he knows the kid has always wanted, though lately tucked deep down in a box sealed under a neon sign spelled “IMPOSSIBLE”.
But there is a selfishness in there too, the wish that his brother is always going to be by his side, of his own choosing. Riding shotgun in the Impala, having his back. No matter how much the hunting life has taken from them, physically as well as mentally - and oh brother has it done a number there - there is no arguing that it has been rewarding as well. In a screwed up way, obviously, but some things that have come from every decision and situation they have ever faced, have also brought them closer than Dean knows they would ever have otherwise been.
He remembers the reality the djinn had showed him of a life where their mother never died and hence they never were introduced to the world of supernatural evil. He and Sam had hardly even been on speaking terms, practically strangers to each other. Of course that was just an illusion, but Dean has very little doubt that had they never become hunters and having to depend on each other to survive, that would have probably been what their lives would look like. And Dean would never trade what they have now for that. Ever.
He reaches for the bottle and pours another shot.
Of course he has learned his lesson after all these years. At least he’d like to think he has. Bringing each other back from the dead with no thought of the consequences is something they have both agreed is no longer an option. If they die, they die. Period.
But…
Dean downs the second shot and shrugs off the sting.
He hadn’t died. Not properly. And, yeah, bringing him back from Purgatory would probably fall under the category of “don’t go there” for the sake of unforeseen consequences, but that is not what bothers him. Had Sam known he was down there and decided to leave him for the sake of not risking anymore ancient monsters escaping into the world, then that would have been fine. No argument.
But as far as Sam knew, Dean and Cas just disappeared. He didn’t know for sure they had died, didn’t know they were transported to Purgatory courtesy of a godly weapon with one hell of a kick, and despite all this, he didn’t even look.
Didn’t bother to try and find answers, to know for sure if Dean was truly dead and gone. And this, Dean thinks as he raises the bottle to the small glass a third time, this is what hurts. Like a mother-
“I feel very sorry for your liver.”
Dean snorts at the comment delivered by a voice gruff and worn from somewhere behind him. He hadn’t even heard the footsteps, emerged deep in his own mind. “Yeah, well, it drew the short end of the stick, I guess. Wonder what that’s like.” His fingers wrap around the glass as he shoots a glance over his shoulders. Castiels hair is a mess of dripping chunks, having just got out of the shower, and his eyes are slightly bloodshot and heavy-lidded. “Still not sleeping, huh?”
Castiel sighs as he lifts a navy tie already done over his head, lingering for a second around the neck in an angle that makes Dean think of a noose, and maybe Cas has that very same thought, by the way his eyes go heavy before letting it fall and tightening it into place. “It’s uncomfortable enough without my head starting to spin as soon as I lay down.”
“Which is because you don’t sleep”, Dean retorts. He’s all too familiar with the ramifications of sleep deprivation; the headspin, the jitters, the feverish eyes and the strange lack of focus. Almost like being drunk, just not in a pleasant way. Dean turns around on the chair to face him. “Come on, man, you’re exhausted.”
“I am not used to the need of it, Dean.”
“Still doesn’t mean you can escape it. Whether you like it or not, it’s a fundamental part of being - -“ Dean stops, can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. By the looks of it, Cas is relieved by that.
Saying something out loud just makes it too real, sometimes.
Probably the same reason that Castiel still stubbornly wears the suit and trenchcoat, despite the fact that Dean has left him half a wardrobe of choices. It’s like he’s clinging desperately to every little piece of what he used to be.
In a small corner of his mind, Dean does the same. The outfit is almost like a part of who Cas is, like another limb. Seeing him without it has always been an otherworldly strange feeling he doesn’t much care for. Not that he would ever admit that.
Dean’s gaze lingers for a moment on Cas’s face, taking in the red-rimmed, hazy eyes and the thick stubble Cas can’t be bothered to shave. A cold, unpleasant sting spreads throughout his chest as his mind for a second takes him back to Zachariah’s showing of the future and his friend a broken, beat down mess of drugs and heavy alcohol. It is eerie how much his exhausted features resemble that future version. What if - -
No.
Castiel still wears the trenchcoat. As long as he does that, Dean tells himself, everything will be fine. Denial always has been his strong suit.
“So you’re still struggling with keeping this from Sam?” Cas asks, sitting down on a chair opposite him at the kitchen table.
“Yeah.” Dean absently taps a finger rhythmically against a side of the liquor bottle. “Among other things.”
Castiel nods, a frown forming on his weary face. ”Perhaps you should just tell him.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I’m sure he already suspects something.” It’s a statement, but it’s wrapped around a question, an opening to a discussion that Dean just feels way too tired to get into right now. Still, it is why he came here, after all. Why he snuck out of the motel room while Sam was fast asleep and drove off into the night. He’d taken the chance because they are working a job in a town nearby, and he knows he can make it back before Sam wakes up. If not, he can just say he went for a drive. It’s worked before.
But then again, probably not this time.
Cas is right, Sam knows Dean is holding something back. Dean has no illusions of his little brother being a fool; he knows the kid is damn smart and that it only took him a couple of days upon their reunion to know that, despite the significant changes they’d both gone through since they last saw each other, Sam could tell Dean was not spilling the whole can of beans onto the plate.
Dean runs a slow hand through his hair. “Yeah, he does.” He answers, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees in an exasperated sigh, fingers still tight around the whiskey bottle, as if it’s an anchor, the only thing keeping him from spewing irritation and guilt all over the floor. “Kid was always too damn perceptive for his own good.”
Castiel eyes him warily for a moment. “It’s not a good thing, Dean, lying to him like this”, he says hesitantly, a stubborn softness in his voice. “It’s going to put a strain on your relationship, even more so than it’s doing right now. You know this, we’ve been down this road before.”
“Cas, please. Just drop it.” Dean’s body has gone rigid in his seat, jaw clenching on and off.
“You don’t think he’ll notice you sneaking off on him in the middle of the night? Don’t forget, he used to do the same with Ruby.” Cas pauses for a moment, noticing the twitches of fury just beneath Dean’s freckled skin. Still, he pushes on. “I don’t understand why you insist on doing the same - “
“Are you friggin’ serious?!” Dean snaps, fighting the urge of having his fist denting the table. “I’m trying to keep you safe!”
“Right.” Castiel’s deep exhale is like the deflating of a balloon as he leans forward and snatches the glass from the table and the whiskey bottle from Dean’s unexpecting hand.
“Hey!” Dean reacts as his friend lifts the glass, a few drops of its contents having spilled over to his hand as he grabbed it. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Cas stops, glass halfway to his mouth, and he shoots Dean an irritated glance that is not without a shred of amusement. “What does it look like I’m doing, Dean?”
“It looks like you’re having a drink,” Dean says on a slight nod, ignoring the obvious rhetorical aspect of the question. “One drink. And that is all.”
“Actually”, Cas corrects, a moment after having raised a brow at Dean’s weak attempt at self-reassurance, “I’m having two.”
“Cas, come on, man”, Dean tries, exhaling a ragged breath as Castiel lifts the bottle a second time. “You don’t need to be doing that. One is enough.”
Castiel actually laughs, a small, hoarse noise working its way up from the base of his stubbled throat. “That’s rich. You treat alcohol as if it’s nearly as important to your being as air is to your lungs, yet one is enough for me?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve seen firsthand what happens to you in this… state… if you’re allowed too much of the good stuff, Cas. Trust me, it’s gonna lead to a path you don’t want to go down. And I’m sure as hell not gonna let you.”
Castiel snorts. “That future ended when Sam threw Lucifer in the cage, Dean”, He says, knitting his brows. “And you’re not around nearly enough to dictate what I do with my time here.”
Dean presses his eyes shut, trying to fight off another overwhelming wave of guilt. It’s not fair, he knows, that Castiel has to struggle with this enormous change all by himself while not being allowed to leave the restricted walls of this cabin, short of the tiny yard out back. And Dean is about to make it even worse.
“I’m sorry, man”, he croaks. And he knows this is the opening to tell him, but for the moment he can’t, just can’t bear the thought of making Castiel even more miserable.
Cas doesn’t respond, just resumes to fill the glass with another shot. This time Dean practically lunges off the chair at him, trying to separate him from the bottle, but more so, separate him from his future self.
Castiels eyes narrow as he pins Dean down with a glare that promises smiting if he’s not careful, and dammit if he doesn’t pull off scary as hell, despite having barely a fracture of his powers left, smiting not being one of them. ”Dean”, he warns, voice deeper and more threatening than Dean has heard it in a long time. “I would lay down my life for you if it meant you having the burger you crave, but believe me when I tell you that you would do wise to sit back down.”
Dean freezes mid-movement, unable to stop himself from swallowing nervously at this immediate change in his friend’s countenance, exhausted and worn not two seconds ago, now all soldiered up and downright terrifying. Sometimes it’s just all too easy forgetting that the man in front of him, though fallen and nearly powerless, is still a celestial being and something that will never be fully human, but always something more, something impressive.
Dean wets his lips as he ponders the sincerity and the sarcasm tangled in that very sentence. It’s very true that the angel has, and will, do anything in his power to keep Dean alive, and happy, or at least safe and content. The outcome of these attempts has varied, but the intent behind it has always been the same. And even Dean knows that he has not responded very gratefully, treated Cas all too often like he’s a weapon rather than a friend, and yeah, he feels friggin’ terrible about it, but come on, when has he ever been good at expressing how he really feels? Besides, this was before Purgatory, before they were shut off from the world and alone in a place of unimaginable terrors, forced to work out all the crap that had been growing between them, if only at first for the sake of surviving. Before they became… closer.
Dean shrugs as he makes a decision, to hell with it, and grins, “Well, when have I ever been known to be the wise one, huh?”
For a fraction of a second, his fingers clutch the whiskey bottle, and before he even has time to react, the bottle is smashed to pieces on the wooden floor, precious drops of liquor spraying over his shoes and the bottom of his jeans. Castiel has heaved him in by grabbing a fistful of his flannel shirt, so close to his face he can feel the warmth of the angels furious breath against his lips.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, Deans surprisingly calm gaze locked with frigid blue orbs, as he tries to fight the sudden urge to close the distance. Because he is not turned on by this. He’s not.
When Castiel finally does speak, his words are taut and vibrating with pent-up rage. “You”, he whispers and draws a breath before finishing the sentence. “You are surely the most hypocritical human being on this entire planet.”
Dean doesn’t buckle, his eyes still relentlessly attached to the angel. “Probably true”, he admits, arching his lips in a shrug. “But I’m not backing down on this one, Cas. No matter what. For once you’re the one in need of protection, and I’ll be damned if I’m not - -“ He chokes on the words, clears his throat, and sighs. “Look, this sucks, okay? And I am completely aware of how screwed up this whole Benny-situation is, man, I am, and it’s not fair.” As he speaks, he notices the narrow of Castiels eyes growing a tad, and the slightest relieve of his hand around his shirt. “I know it’s hypocritical, Cas, and I don’t blame you for hating me for it. You can hate me all you want, and hey, if beating me to a pulp will make you feel better, then go ahead. But it will not stop me. I am going to keep you safe if it’s the last goddamn thing I do. So deal with it.”
Castiel regards him for a moment, and Dean is breathlessly waiting for that capable right hook to smash into his face, but instead the grip of his shirt is let go as the angels eyes, tired and washed-up again, turns to the mess on the floor. “I should get that cleaned up”, he remarks on a jaded sigh.
As he starts to move, Dean places a soft hand on his shoulder. “Cas, wait. Look - “
“I know, Dean”, Castiel says before Dean has a chance to finish the sentence. “Your regret is practically tangible.” He raises that blue gaze of his slowly back to meet Deans green ones resting underneath a frown. “You’re not coming back.”
Dean swallows and shuts his eyes for a second, gathering himself. “It’s not safe. Sooner or later I’m bound to be followed, if not by Sam, then by something… else. I just can’t keep risking it, Cas.”
Castiel nods, but remains silent. Dean doesn’t need him to speak, or even look at him, to suspect that Cas probably knows that this is hardly the only reason.
And Dean knows the angel well enough by now to know the curtains of indifference that are draped over his gaze are only for show, and he searches for the truth behind it.
He may not have celestial powers like Castiel does, or at least used to, but he reckons he’s just as good at reading and translating The Book of Cas by now as the angel is at seeing him a little too close for comfort.
Besides, Dean has always had a sneaking suspicion that Cas never really needed the angel mojo to be able to see deeper into his soul, his very core, than any being ever had.
Maybe it is not as much a result of powers, as it is a result of the power, the bond formed between them in the depths of the Pit as Castiel embraced Dean’s mutilated, transforming soul inside his Grace and cradled them together all the way back up to Earth, where he set about to healing every little atom of Dean’s shredded body before finally letting go of his soul, urging it back in to fit his newly restored skin.
Upon his return from the grave Dean had struggled with the very confusing swirl of contradictive emotions crashing together inside of him, the feelings of being fully healed and complete, every last little scar and bruise since the day he was born now a thing of the past, and yet still aching over a gaping hole of emptiness, of cold, as if something important was missing. A vital piece, of sorts.
It wasn’t until that day in the barn where, as far as he knew then, they met for the very first time as glass shattered and sparks flew, and he felt the angels presence, his Grace, wrapped around and bleeding through the vessel like electrical currents in thick, stormy air that he noted, though would have died before admitting it, that he felt almost immediately as if he was put together all over again. As if the skin wrapped around his torn psyche was less confining and more comforting.
Maybe that is why in the beginning he could just about always tell the angel was beside or behind him even before he announced himself. It was like a basic instinct, the constant search for home, coming together and making sense in the presence of the angel and his piercing gaze that seemed to relish in the small moments of just studying the entirety of the man he put together with his own hands. Those intense blue eyes that were nearly impossible to turn away from, that drew him in and held him close, drowned out the surroundings and made focusing on anything outside of the pair of them a struggle that required every ounce of his human strength.
He masked it with humor, sarcasm and a surly attitude, as always, while underneath it scared him like nothing else, not even the prospect of going to Hell, had before. Because this thing was something raw, completely unexpected, a fundamental power much like the elements of the earth one could never truly outrun. And Dean didn’t have the first clue as how the hell he was supposed to deal with that.
It had taken him quite some time upon his return to notice that he didn’t find himself longing for companions of the flesh much like he used to, for nights spent mapping smooth curves and exploring lush lips before trailing off the path and tossing them aside, noticing his eyes didn’t catch on to every other attractive woman that passed them by, like they had with varying enthusiasm before his sacrifice.
At first he had credited the lack of interest to Hell, to Alastair, but it didn’t seem to make sense, because it wasn’t something that he felt was attached to fear, not up here in the sea of beautiful human beings as opposed to the Pit of monstrous abominations, and the libido wasn’t entirely gone, just severely dampened. Like he hadn’t so much avoided it as somehow risen above it.
And then one night, as he was reluctantly giving himself over to the service of God and his angels in order to spare his little brother, despite seething and wanting to punch the remorse out of Castiels relentless features, he found himself more unable than ever to pull away from the bottomless depths of the angels borrowed eyes, and realized with a mixture of horror and utter contentment that the reason he hardly craved random sex lately was because he had experienced intimacy on a level incomprehensible even to himself. As much as intimacy on any level freaked him out - and, holy crap, did it ever - there was something about it reeling him in and he couldn’t fight it, not all of it. And as they ran out of words to be spoken, they remained in the same spot, close enough to feel each other’s breaths puffed against skin in the chill of the night, the lonely spotlight casting a faint light over the graveyard of metal, home of cars smashed beyond recognition, much like Deans soul before this trenchcoated miracle had swiped him away. For a long moment the anger dissipated with the rest of the surroundings, all that remained being the two of them, and Dean found himself recognizing he was drawn not only to Castiels Grace, but to his physical body as well. And wasn’t that nine levels of completely screwed up?!
Still, despite the fear this notion was spreading inside him, that was working up to sheer terror, and despite doing his very best to go about it the Dean Winchester Way and deny it, repress it, choke it, until he was practically blue in the face, he could not escape the pull of Castiel, of his Grace, his eyes, and his lips.
And come the Apocalypse, Castiel at first refused to help him stop it, and the anger in which Dean told him “We’re done” (which was not at all a break-up line. It wasn’t), ultimately made Castiel change his mind. He threw out centuries of everything he had ever known, rebelled against his father and his entire family, died, was resurrected and became the most hunted angel since Anna and Lucifer himself, all admittedly for Dean, and all this did not do much of helping the poor man’s inner turmoil.
And as Dean struggled to understand the meaning of this, he found himself craving more. More of Castiels presence, his devotion, more of the “profound bond” that the angel himself confessed was shared between him and Dean. Craving more, to the point that whenever it was snatched away for too long, he became testy and unreasonable, like an addict jonesing for the next fix, and it scared him to no end, but no matter how much he fought it, tooth and nails, there was no escaping the fact that Castiel had left a part of himself, his essence, within Dean, as well as keeping a part of Deans soul within himself.
Whether this was something that occurred naturally when a celestial being snatched a damned human soul from perdition or if it was because of a mutual choice upon parting just before Castiel cradled him back to his human flesh, Dean hadn’t known. For a long time he relentlessly argued that it was the natural order of things, something that just happened and couldn’t be controlled, and thereby sparing himself any responsibility in this profound bond of theirs - but that argument was jumped by the previously shy little whisper of the second option the moment he realized that Castiel was also the one who had raised Sam from the Cage. And Sam didn’t bare the mark. Nowhere on his body had the print of Castiels hand burned into the flesh, as it had onto Dean’s shoulder. And yet again, the rug was swept out from under him, scaring him half to death.
He had heard of soulmates, of course he had, but he didn’t actually believe in them, an obstinate, jaded cynic at best - so what the hell were you supposed to call a soul and the Grace of a friggin’ angel of the Lord merging together and not freak out?!
Hell, Dean was prone to panic at the prospect of having to share a word more than the pick-up line needed to seal a one night stand, and suddenly he’d found himself wrapped up in this screwed up sort of union that human words would always be way too inefficient and downright lame to be able to explain. Not to mention that this being that had planted a mark on him also happened to be in a male vessel, a fact that surely hindered his progress in realizing what he truly felt for the angel, as Dean had always fancied himself a ladies man and nothing else.
To screw the situation even more, the stubbornly faltering communication skills between himself and Castiel had led them down a path that had involved death and leviathan and a bonus trip to Purgatory. But at least that had proven to have a silver lining, he thinks solemnly to himself as he drifts slowly back to the surroundings and his friend in front of him. He blinks, after all this time still somewhat startled with how easy it is to be completely lost in the vast sea of the angel’s eyes.
Castiel is still considering him quietly, the closed off drapes of his gaze revealing more than anyone other than Dean would be able detect. Despite the lack of the better part of his powers, Dean senses Castiel even now somehow trails Deans thoughts to all the times he’s let the prospect of visiting the angel distract him during research, slowed him down in calculating how far off he is from the cabin and if he can distract Sam or sneak out when he’s sleeping, let his yearning cross his mind for a second too long on a hunt and nearly risk the asses of himself and his brother in the process.
Having his mind pre-occupied like this is way too dangerous, and if he’s ever going to figure out a way to solve this stupid mess, to rip Crowley’s head off and shoving it up Benny’s ass (and vice versa, he thinks through gritted teeth), then he needs his mind sharp, clear and focused. And that is just not going to happen as long as he’s still having to wrestle with the possibility of visiting the angel and the new layers of lies he has to come up with for his brother to stop poking. And none of this is fair to Sam, to have his big brother distracted by something but not even getting the privilege to know what. He’s been on the other end of that far too many times, and it ain’t pretty.
“It’s not forever, okay? I won’t let it be”, Dean continues, attempting a reassuring smile that fails epically. But his voice, though rueful in its tone, is steady and firm. “I will find a way to fix this, but for now… This is just the best I can think of to do.”
“I understand.”
These two words, though not said in the slightest defiant way, cuts through Dean like a thousand little razors. To his surprise, it comes out a laugh. An exasperated, weary sound of a situation far from amusing. “We just cannot catch a break, can we?” his voice carries out on the wave of it, while rubbing a jagged palm over his face.
Castiel just answers with a corner of his mouth arching in a tragic halfass attempt at a smile, and it’s too much. Dean hisses a low curse as he draws Castiel in to meet his lips. The warmth of his tongue tangled with his own is like coming home, and Dean finds himself wondering how he even gets through one day without this.
“You better not be a drug addicted hippie next time I see you, Cas”, he murmurs in between kisses, feeling Cas smile in response against him. Castiels hands have already started in on unbuttoning his shirt, and Dean is tugging his tie. “We’ve been through Heaven, Hell and Purgatory - “ He stops to make way for a heavy gasp as Castiels lips have found their way to his neck. “ - and you can damn well bet we’ll get through this too.”
“I believe you”, Castiel breathes as he starts guiding Dean towards the bed. And suddenly words become obsolete.
***
Cas is finally sleeping, and Dean thanks the absent dick of a God that the angel doesn’t wake up even as he struggles himself free from their tangled bodies. Every fiber of him screams in protest as he does, longing to stay wrapped around Cas forever and not give a flying crap about the outside world, but he’s already stayed way too long. It’ll be dawn soon, and he needs to get back to Sammy.
It’s a dick move, he knows, sneaking out like this without saying goodbye. It’s not like Cas is just another one in the row of one-night-stands of his. For one thing because this was hardly their first time together, and secondly because… it’s Cas. Even though it didn’t physically manifest before Purgatory, Cas has always meant more to Dean than he ever thought he’d let anyone new get close enough to do.
But it’s better this way, he tells himself. It’s better to leave things as they are, with the image of his exhausted friend finally getting some rest after a sweaty night of thick gasps, burning moans and blasphemous cries than having to awkwardly search for fitting parting words. Dean is not good with the emotional part, he’s definitely not good with goodbyes, and this one… If he has to leave with those blue eyes trailing his exit, it might break him.
He grabs his jacket from the floor as he reaches for the door handle, and gathers himself to throw one last glance back. Castiel is sleeping on his side, a blanket curled around his legs and half his torso. He looks peaceful, Dean notes with a ghost of a smile, and moonlight bleeding through one of the smaller windows covers his tanned body in a glow that really makes him resemble a marble statue, like Anna once spoke of, and the dark mess of his hair, in its imperfection, is the very thing that completes the perfection of his being.
Surprised as he still is that he could ever feel this way about a dude, it is more clear now than ever that Castiel is so much more, beyond, that. An angel, maybe not all powerful, but more so than ever glorious. With a hand on the door knob, Dean swallows as a knot twists painfully in his stomach. Knowing that if he stays even one more second he will throw logic out the window and return to the bed, to Cas, he opens the door as quietly as he can, and he doesn’t breathe again until he reaches the car.
***
-FIN-