fic, Supernatural: The Indifference Of Heaven (Castiel, Dean), PG, for rsfeathers
Title: The Indifference Of Heaven
Characters: Castiel, Dean
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3730
Disclaimer: most definitely NOT mine. Hey, even the title isn't.
Spoilers: up until 5x10, Abandon All Hope.
Summary: It’s amusing, seeing how Dean tries not to say Raphael’s name out loud, but it’s also making Castiel feel strangely touched and he wonders why did he ever think he shouldn’t have knocked on the motel's door. While Heaven’s is probably closed, he should have known that Dean’s would have stayed open. (Or, how among the rest, Castiel had a revelation and Dean introduced him to The Godfather.)
A/N: written for the 100 watchers celebratory challenge at rsfeathers, where I had to go choose the Warren Zevon song. Why, yes, I'm predictable. This surprisingly turned out gen, but you can see all the subtext you want in it, it's there for a reason. Also, very very minor spoilers for the first Godfather movie. Also using for sacred_20 #3, sinner.
Town burned down
Nothing left, but the sound
Of the front door closing forever
Gentle rain falls on me
All life folds back into the sea
We contemplate eternity
Beneath the vast indifference of heaven
The Indifference Of Heaven, Warren Zevon
***
It’s foolish, what he’s doing.
Not so much walking all the way over to Dean and Sam’s motel, since luckily he hadn’t been that far from it in the first place, but the fact that now he’s standing outside the door failing to decide his course of action.
Just as soon as he was turning the corner, he had noticed Sam taking the car and leaving; it was half an hour ago and he still doesn’t know why. He hopes that it’s nothing important, maybe just a grocery run or a trip to the library, but that’s not really the point. The point is that after three fruitless hours spent in a small homeless shelter a bit outside Carlyle, Illinois, he was checking newspapers and had meant to follow a lead that would have brought him to New York City. When he tried to teleport there, he just couldn’t. And it has been barely three months since Carthage.
Castiel doesn’t really feel like sugarcoating himself the bitter, bitter pill he has to swallow: his Grace is barely there at this point and while he might be still able to accomplish smaller tasks, with such an ability gone he’s as good as a human and that’s the truth. The other point is that the first thing he did, after he realized what situation he was in, was turning around and walk twenty-six miles until he reached the motel in Carlyle where he knew Dean and Sam were currently located (Dean had texted him earlier with their whereabouts). By all means, now he should have knocked on the door already, but he’s outside, standing still, a gentle, steady rain falling over his shoulders and unable to do a single thing.
He looks at his hands as water washes them clean from all the dirt his feet kicked up along the road he walked; he sighs as he remembers how much blood he had to shed in the last couple of months because he couldn’t exorcise demons anymore. While everything, from the red he still sees staining his skin to his own steady sauntering downwards, screams that he became a sinner, that he’s sinning and that he really should have never allowed things to reach this point, he can’t find it in himself to regret what he has done.
Right now, he only wishes for his Father to tell him that all those sins can be forgiven, will be forgiven, but at the moment it’s wishful thinking and he just sighs, asking himself if the real reason he’s here is that since his Father is not anywhere to be found, he hopes to hear what he wants from Dean.
He sighs again, shaking his head; rain drops down still and he wonders why it isn’t painful or why is it that he hasn’t seen another angel in three months. It’s like they don’t even count him as an enemy anymore, it’s like there’s just indifference coming from above, and it might be what hurts most.
Maybe he should go. He doesn’t really want to burden Dean with something he doesn’t even know how to cope with, and if he has to live with the turmoil inside him maybe he should just try to deal instead of losing himself in false hopes, and then he realizes that it’s all wishful thinking again because if now he’s as good as a human he needs money and a place to stay (and maybe food, there has to be a reason why his stomach has been sort of hurting for the last two days) and he doesn’t have either.
He doesn’t have the time to think about that particular development, though, because after he barely hears the sound of a curtain rustling around the window the door unlocks and he’s face to face with Dean, who doesn’t look too impressed with him.
“How…” Castiel starts, surprised by how rough his voice sounds; Dean raises a hand and stops him.
“If you really didn’t think that I was never gonna take a look out of the window, then I’ll have to start wondering whether you really have feathers for brains or not. What the fuck, Cas? How long have you been out here?”
“Since Sam left,” he answers, not really feeling up for any kind of discussion.
“Crap. And wait a second, your goddamn shoes are falling apart! You…”
“I walked here. I was in this smaller town some twenty miles from here and I realized that… I could not teleport anymore. I just…”
“Came here, right, and why the hell are you standing fucking outside?”
“I… I did not wish to disturb…”
“Oh, Jesus. Get the hell in already, Cas.”
Castiel opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, then nods and gets into the room; as soon as he does, water pools up on the floor around him and he winces as he realizes that he’s unable to stop even that.
“Cas. Explanations later. You look like a goddamn wet baby bird and whatever’s going on with you that won’t help. I’d suggest getting rid of that stuff, taking a hot shower and while you do I’ll find some dry clothes. You think you can manage?”
“Oh… yes. Thank you. I do.”
“Good. Then go,” Dean concludes as he starts to open his duffel bag, and Castiel gets into the bathroom. He carefully, slowly strips out of his trench coat, which is literally soaked; then he sits on the edge of the tub and attempts to unlace his shoes, except that as soon as his hands touch the soft, black leather his left shoe falls apart between his fingers. The right one meets the same destiny and he’s left in his wet socks, which are so uncomfortable that he wonders how he didn’t notice before; he sighs and takes them off before doing the same with his trousers. Trying to repair them would be useless; he tried it with his shirt yesterday and he couldn’t do that anymore, either. It’s fairly easy to remove the belt; he figures it out in a short while and then he ends up stuck on the tie, which just seems so useless that he can’t help a dreadful feeling from creeping up under his skin. Then he notices a pair of small scissors on the sink and, sighing again, he just brings it up to his neck and cuts it off. After that, he lets his shirt fall to the floor, leaving the underwear for last, and then he steps into the shower. He has watched humans enough to know how it’s supposed to work and after a short while he manages to get the hang of it. It seems like the time for showering has arrived.
Dean was right, he thinks as hot water soothes his skin and his sore muscles; but then again, Dean is the expert here. He closes his eyes and lets the water run over his neck, the heat such a pleasant sensation; after a bit he decides to be daring and reaches for some cheap liquid soap in the shower stall. He pours a bit of it in the palm of his hand, then slowly rubs it on his hip, where his shirt got torn and where he can still see a stain of mixed grime and dry blood. It washes away, leaving his skin more or less clean, and again, it feels good. Really good.
He needs to thank Dean again, and profusely, after he gets out.
He does after about twenty minutes and he can’t help gasping in surprise when, after he opens the curtain, he notices that there’s a folded towel on the toilet seat next to the tub and folded clothes on the only chair that was in the room. His other clothing is gone. He hadn’t even noticed Dean getting into the room and then leaving: it should worry him, but he chooses to ignore it for now. He dries himself off, then searches the clothes; there’s some black underwear that has to be Dean’s, but then again also the jeans and blue flannel have to be. And the white socks too. He carefully dresses, then gets out of the bathroom to find Dean sitting on his bed and the tv turned off (he’s fairly sure that it was on, when he got in); his bare feet touch the motel’s worn out carpet and Dean looks at him for a second before shaking his head.
“Well, you still don’t look that great but still better than before. So, what about that?”
“What about what?”
“What about you walking twenty-something miles and then standing outside the door for forty freaking minutes. And don’t worry ‘bout Sam, for once he found himself a date and if he wants to go get laid before the world ends I’ll hardly be the one stopping him.”
“I… I fear that my abilities are mostly gone.”
“You what?”
Castiel breathes, deep and long; he really hadn’t wished to tell flat-out to Dean all the reasons why he’s practically useless by now, angelic abilities speaking, but it seems like he won’t be able to dance around it much more and he can’t even disappear conveniently anymore.
“I didn’t tell you in order not to worry you but… since Carthage, I was unable to exorcise demons with my bare hands. And from then my abilities just diminished steadily until today I was about to teleport and couldn’t anymore. And… well, I knew you were still here and I walked, but after I did reach the motel I just… I couldn’t bring myself to… I mean, now I really am barely of use if…”
Dean looks at him with an expression that is so much that Castiel can’t even try to read it. Instead, he looks down, at his bare feet pale against the red carpet.
“I just… I realized that… Heaven’s front door is probably closed forever for me at this point,” he whispers, as quietly as possible, hoping that Dean doesn’t hear it, but he isn’t so sure of it; not when Dean’s stare becomes even more focused before he shakes his head and nods towards the empty spot next to him on the mattress. Castiel swallows and sits, wondering if he’s too close and whether he’s invading Dean’s personal space or not, but then a hand grips his shoulder and he’s forced to meet green eyes who manage to express sympathy, frustration and something else Castiel still doesn’t get all at once.
“Cas, dammit,” Dean whispers, obviously trying not to shout, “I thought we were sorta past the of use point. I might not exactly be the best person that ever was, but do I look like someone who ditches people just ‘cause they aren’t of use? Please. Also, what about telling me and Sam about it?”
Castiel can’t find anything to say at that; saying the truth would mean implying that Dean is that kind of person and Castiel knows he isn’t. He just can’t never be sure of anything these days, not when everything seems to be slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t even know how to phrase it.
“I’m… sorry, I just… I’m… I don’t even know. This is happening too fast and too soon and I…” he takes another breath, deep and long like before, because the truth he’s just about to admit is something he needs to say and he just hopes that Dean has some kind of solution because he surely has not. “I don’t know how to deal with it.”
It’s there, and now he feels something like fear because he isn’t really sure he wants to face Dean, except that the hand’s grip tightens and for some reason it makes him feel so relieved that he can’t help letting out a sigh of relief.
“Then just fucking say it, okay? Or call. Or do something.”
Castiel should point out that Dean is the first one who does not talk about this kind of things, but he just nods and lets it drop. Dean is obviously making an effort here, for someone who could win a prize for keeping things bottled up inside, and Castiel won’t disrespect it.
“Alright. I… I will. I’m sorry if this whole thing…”
“Cas, cut that crap. I’ve got nothing but time anyway and… just… whatever. Nothin’ important. And no one knows how to deal with crap like that anyway. For all that’s worth, I’m sorry it’s happening to you at all. I’d be happier if you were up there contemplating eternity or some crap like that, but…”
“No. Dean, I might not know how to deal with it but… I don’t regret it,” Castiel says, his throat hurting for some reason, but he thinks that he wants Dean to know it in case anything happens.
Dean swallows and nods and even if Castiel can’t see his soul or read his thoughts anymore, he recognizes the expression Dean has when he feels like he isn’t deserving something or like he thinks that something is his fault, even if this one is somewhat similar to the one Castiel remembers from when he teleported Dean from that room where Zachariah was, too. Castiel is still processing too many things at once when a hand slowly reaches around his shoulder and he finds his head dangerously close to Dean’s neck; it’s a hug, alright, even if loose and sort of awkward, and if for a minute or so Castiel decides that it feels nice, and that he could, and can, let his arm rest around Dean’s shoulders, too, Dean doesn’t protest. Dean is blissfully warm and tangible and real against him; it feels like he’s some kind of anchor and that’s exactly what Castiel needs right now.
He lets himself lean against Dean and for a second he thinks that maybe he could live with being far from Heaven if he had this, always, but then his stomach clenches as it produces some kind of strange noise and Dean lets out a small laugh before moving and casting a look down. Then he meets his eyes again.
“Dude, I have this idea that you need to eat something and that you didn’t even know until now.”
“I… I suspected it, but…”
“Oh, cut it off. Alright. Since Sammy’s out having his night with that hottie who worked in the library and who has been making heart-shaped eyes at him since he set foot in there and he won’t be back before tomorrow morning, and since I think you need a crash course in whatever good stuff this world can offer… I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow.
“You didn’t get it, did you?”
“… Not really?” Castiel answers, shaking his head.
“Right,” Dean sighs. “The offer comprehends ordering in some pizza, a couple of beers, a place on that bed, some nice movie on tv and on top of that, it’ll broaden your inexistent pop culture horizons. Are you refusing?”
Dean is obviously forcing an easy and carefree tone and his eyes show that, in truth, he isn’t being casual but worried and possibly is feeling guilty again; Castiel sees through the whole act as clear as rain, but the fact that Dean is doing this just to cheer him up would really be enough to say yes, not counting that he really is hungry and... he really wants to do everything Dean said.
“No, I’m not.”
Dean’s smile is brighter than it usually is lately, when he picks the phone and orders some pizza, and then makes another call after searching for a number in the yellow pages.
--
“Dude, come on. An opinion, here.”
“I think I rather enjoy… Marlon Brando’s performance.”
“That’s all you have to say? Don’t tell me that the violence’s putting you off, man,” Dean says after swallowing a large bite of his pizza (Dean’s is with cheese and sausages, while Castiel opted for a plain, tomato one; he’s rather pleased with his choice, and while Dean is almost over, Castiel is still eating slowly and barely at a half. Then again, he wishes to enjoy his first eating experience to the fullest). Castiel shakes his head and takes a drink from his beer bottle as Al Pacino/Michael heads to Las Vegas.
“No, it doesn’t put me off. You asked for one opinion,” Castiel answers, and well, maybe he’s really getting the hang of that thing humans call humor if Dean snorts and gets back to praising the complexity of Al Pacino’s character, not to mention his a-ma-zing acting; Castiel nods, but he keeps on liking Marlon Brando better anyway. At least his character isn’t named Michael.
Also, at least now he knows what’s the whole deal about offers you can’t refuse.
--
Dean places the rented DVD in the cover (Castiel has this idea that this motel must be more expensive than usual, if it doesn’t just have a television but also a dvd player) and then takes another one and places it in front of Castiel.
“See, there’s a sequel. Well, actually, there are two, but Part III is crap, dude. Pure crap. Part II though, oh, that’s something you don’t wanna miss. If you’re up for another three hours.”
“Marlon Brando’s character is dead, though.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything.
“Jesus, clearly one guy who’s searching for God would get stuck on Marlon Brando. Yeah, but the character’s still there. And De Niro plays him, man, and De Niro’s some great stuff. He’s like, if Marlon Brando is God, De Niro is freaking… nah, Michael would be Al Pacino, Robert would be someone like… no, Gabriel doesn’t really count and the mutant teenage ninja turtle doesn’t either, but…”
Castiel bites his tongue realizing that for the first time he isn’t wishing for Dean to show some respect to his Father or his brothers but just to keep going on. It’s amusing, seeing how Dean tries not to say Raphael’s name out loud, but it’s also making Castiel feel strangely touched and he wonders why did he ever think he shouldn’t have knocked on the motel's door. While Heaven’s is probably closed, he should have known that Dean’s would have stayed open.
He isn’t thinking about his fading Grace anymore, he isn’t feeling weary, he isn’t feeling at odds with his humanity; on the contrary, he’s feeling warm all over and he’s having as much fun as a rogue almost former angel of the Lord can have for the first time in his long, long life, that pizza he ate before was something he can’t wait to try again and he makes sure he remembers this moment because he has an idea he wants to treasure it forever.
“Dean. It’s fine. Let’s watch part II. I will see if… De Niro’s acting is on par.”
“Dude, that’s the spirit.”
Dean pushes the second dvd in and then turns towards Castiel, his expression suddenly stone cold serious.
“Hey, Cas?”
“… yes?”
“Just… before, you said that the front door’s closed forever?”
“I… I believe so,” he answers, unable to keep bitterness from his voice. Then Dean half-smiles at him and sort of seems embarrassed for a split second before he speaks. “Well,” Dean says, facing Castiel, “that don’t seem much of a problem to me. You could always… you know. If the front door’s closed, you could always get in from the back.”
Dean turns back to check the dvd’s settings and for a second Castiel is baffled and stares into nothing; then he thinks about what Dean said and when he gets it he feels the corners of his lips turn up without his control; you could always get in from the back plays on repeat in his head. It’s merely a joke, really, but with a lot more depth than one could imagine barely hearing it (even if he isn’t sure that even Dean completely grasped it); and it’s just so Dean, to suggest getting in from the back if you can’t from the front. And, goes unsaid, it doesn’t matter if it’s the back; you’re still in, and maybe it could mean some unorthodox way instead of a mere second choice, and then Castiel full-on laughs because it might not seem like it but, at least in his case, it feels amazing that Dean, most times, knows what to say. The sound of his own laughter is alien to his ears but it feels good, it feels incredibly good, and he doesn’t even notice that, meanwhile, Dean is watching him like he has just grown a second head.
“Cas…? What…? It wasn’t… was that because of that joke? I, uh, y’know, it wasn’t even one of the best things I could come…”
“Dean,” Castiel manages to interrupt, barely gaining control of himself before the laughing fit starts again, “it was the best thing you could have come up with… in this particular occasion,” he adds before letting his laughter wear off. When it does, his face hurts and he feels still warm, but also alright in a way he hasn’t been since his trip to what Dean called Bible Camp, and he’d thank Dean for that if Dean wasn’t still looking at him completely unconvinced.
“Cas? Is everything fine?”
“Dean. Yes. It is. Really. Just, now I really wish to see what can this… Robert De Niro do,” he whispers, his throat feeling hoarse, and then Dean shrugs and starts the dvd.
Castiel spends the next three hours and something between watching the movie, watching Dean watch the movie, argue that Robert De Niro is definitely better than Al Pacino both character and acting-wise, drinking his beer and generally not thinking about the indifference of Heaven. The more Dean tries to prove his points, the more he feels engaged in the discussion, and it’s really it. For now, this is his place and his home, and if one day he has to get back to Heaven from the back door (preferably because his Father opened it for him), he won’t mind for a second.
And every time Castiel thinks about it, he shakes his head at the still sort of perplexed expression of the person he can safely say is his very favorite human, and he smiles.
End.
Characters: Castiel, Dean
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3730
Disclaimer: most definitely NOT mine. Hey, even the title isn't.
Spoilers: up until 5x10, Abandon All Hope.
Summary: It’s amusing, seeing how Dean tries not to say Raphael’s name out loud, but it’s also making Castiel feel strangely touched and he wonders why did he ever think he shouldn’t have knocked on the motel's door. While Heaven’s is probably closed, he should have known that Dean’s would have stayed open. (Or, how among the rest, Castiel had a revelation and Dean introduced him to The Godfather.)
A/N: written for the 100 watchers celebratory challenge at rsfeathers, where I had to go choose the Warren Zevon song. Why, yes, I'm predictable. This surprisingly turned out gen, but you can see all the subtext you want in it, it's there for a reason. Also, very very minor spoilers for the first Godfather movie. Also using for sacred_20 #3, sinner.
Town burned down
Nothing left, but the sound
Of the front door closing forever
Gentle rain falls on me
All life folds back into the sea
We contemplate eternity
Beneath the vast indifference of heaven
The Indifference Of Heaven, Warren Zevon
***
It’s foolish, what he’s doing.
Not so much walking all the way over to Dean and Sam’s motel, since luckily he hadn’t been that far from it in the first place, but the fact that now he’s standing outside the door failing to decide his course of action.
Just as soon as he was turning the corner, he had noticed Sam taking the car and leaving; it was half an hour ago and he still doesn’t know why. He hopes that it’s nothing important, maybe just a grocery run or a trip to the library, but that’s not really the point. The point is that after three fruitless hours spent in a small homeless shelter a bit outside Carlyle, Illinois, he was checking newspapers and had meant to follow a lead that would have brought him to New York City. When he tried to teleport there, he just couldn’t. And it has been barely three months since Carthage.
Castiel doesn’t really feel like sugarcoating himself the bitter, bitter pill he has to swallow: his Grace is barely there at this point and while he might be still able to accomplish smaller tasks, with such an ability gone he’s as good as a human and that’s the truth. The other point is that the first thing he did, after he realized what situation he was in, was turning around and walk twenty-six miles until he reached the motel in Carlyle where he knew Dean and Sam were currently located (Dean had texted him earlier with their whereabouts). By all means, now he should have knocked on the door already, but he’s outside, standing still, a gentle, steady rain falling over his shoulders and unable to do a single thing.
He looks at his hands as water washes them clean from all the dirt his feet kicked up along the road he walked; he sighs as he remembers how much blood he had to shed in the last couple of months because he couldn’t exorcise demons anymore. While everything, from the red he still sees staining his skin to his own steady sauntering downwards, screams that he became a sinner, that he’s sinning and that he really should have never allowed things to reach this point, he can’t find it in himself to regret what he has done.
Right now, he only wishes for his Father to tell him that all those sins can be forgiven, will be forgiven, but at the moment it’s wishful thinking and he just sighs, asking himself if the real reason he’s here is that since his Father is not anywhere to be found, he hopes to hear what he wants from Dean.
He sighs again, shaking his head; rain drops down still and he wonders why it isn’t painful or why is it that he hasn’t seen another angel in three months. It’s like they don’t even count him as an enemy anymore, it’s like there’s just indifference coming from above, and it might be what hurts most.
Maybe he should go. He doesn’t really want to burden Dean with something he doesn’t even know how to cope with, and if he has to live with the turmoil inside him maybe he should just try to deal instead of losing himself in false hopes, and then he realizes that it’s all wishful thinking again because if now he’s as good as a human he needs money and a place to stay (and maybe food, there has to be a reason why his stomach has been sort of hurting for the last two days) and he doesn’t have either.
He doesn’t have the time to think about that particular development, though, because after he barely hears the sound of a curtain rustling around the window the door unlocks and he’s face to face with Dean, who doesn’t look too impressed with him.
“How…” Castiel starts, surprised by how rough his voice sounds; Dean raises a hand and stops him.
“If you really didn’t think that I was never gonna take a look out of the window, then I’ll have to start wondering whether you really have feathers for brains or not. What the fuck, Cas? How long have you been out here?”
“Since Sam left,” he answers, not really feeling up for any kind of discussion.
“Crap. And wait a second, your goddamn shoes are falling apart! You…”
“I walked here. I was in this smaller town some twenty miles from here and I realized that… I could not teleport anymore. I just…”
“Came here, right, and why the hell are you standing fucking outside?”
“I… I did not wish to disturb…”
“Oh, Jesus. Get the hell in already, Cas.”
Castiel opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, then nods and gets into the room; as soon as he does, water pools up on the floor around him and he winces as he realizes that he’s unable to stop even that.
“Cas. Explanations later. You look like a goddamn wet baby bird and whatever’s going on with you that won’t help. I’d suggest getting rid of that stuff, taking a hot shower and while you do I’ll find some dry clothes. You think you can manage?”
“Oh… yes. Thank you. I do.”
“Good. Then go,” Dean concludes as he starts to open his duffel bag, and Castiel gets into the bathroom. He carefully, slowly strips out of his trench coat, which is literally soaked; then he sits on the edge of the tub and attempts to unlace his shoes, except that as soon as his hands touch the soft, black leather his left shoe falls apart between his fingers. The right one meets the same destiny and he’s left in his wet socks, which are so uncomfortable that he wonders how he didn’t notice before; he sighs and takes them off before doing the same with his trousers. Trying to repair them would be useless; he tried it with his shirt yesterday and he couldn’t do that anymore, either. It’s fairly easy to remove the belt; he figures it out in a short while and then he ends up stuck on the tie, which just seems so useless that he can’t help a dreadful feeling from creeping up under his skin. Then he notices a pair of small scissors on the sink and, sighing again, he just brings it up to his neck and cuts it off. After that, he lets his shirt fall to the floor, leaving the underwear for last, and then he steps into the shower. He has watched humans enough to know how it’s supposed to work and after a short while he manages to get the hang of it. It seems like the time for showering has arrived.
Dean was right, he thinks as hot water soothes his skin and his sore muscles; but then again, Dean is the expert here. He closes his eyes and lets the water run over his neck, the heat such a pleasant sensation; after a bit he decides to be daring and reaches for some cheap liquid soap in the shower stall. He pours a bit of it in the palm of his hand, then slowly rubs it on his hip, where his shirt got torn and where he can still see a stain of mixed grime and dry blood. It washes away, leaving his skin more or less clean, and again, it feels good. Really good.
He needs to thank Dean again, and profusely, after he gets out.
He does after about twenty minutes and he can’t help gasping in surprise when, after he opens the curtain, he notices that there’s a folded towel on the toilet seat next to the tub and folded clothes on the only chair that was in the room. His other clothing is gone. He hadn’t even noticed Dean getting into the room and then leaving: it should worry him, but he chooses to ignore it for now. He dries himself off, then searches the clothes; there’s some black underwear that has to be Dean’s, but then again also the jeans and blue flannel have to be. And the white socks too. He carefully dresses, then gets out of the bathroom to find Dean sitting on his bed and the tv turned off (he’s fairly sure that it was on, when he got in); his bare feet touch the motel’s worn out carpet and Dean looks at him for a second before shaking his head.
“Well, you still don’t look that great but still better than before. So, what about that?”
“What about what?”
“What about you walking twenty-something miles and then standing outside the door for forty freaking minutes. And don’t worry ‘bout Sam, for once he found himself a date and if he wants to go get laid before the world ends I’ll hardly be the one stopping him.”
“I… I fear that my abilities are mostly gone.”
“You what?”
Castiel breathes, deep and long; he really hadn’t wished to tell flat-out to Dean all the reasons why he’s practically useless by now, angelic abilities speaking, but it seems like he won’t be able to dance around it much more and he can’t even disappear conveniently anymore.
“I didn’t tell you in order not to worry you but… since Carthage, I was unable to exorcise demons with my bare hands. And from then my abilities just diminished steadily until today I was about to teleport and couldn’t anymore. And… well, I knew you were still here and I walked, but after I did reach the motel I just… I couldn’t bring myself to… I mean, now I really am barely of use if…”
Dean looks at him with an expression that is so much that Castiel can’t even try to read it. Instead, he looks down, at his bare feet pale against the red carpet.
“I just… I realized that… Heaven’s front door is probably closed forever for me at this point,” he whispers, as quietly as possible, hoping that Dean doesn’t hear it, but he isn’t so sure of it; not when Dean’s stare becomes even more focused before he shakes his head and nods towards the empty spot next to him on the mattress. Castiel swallows and sits, wondering if he’s too close and whether he’s invading Dean’s personal space or not, but then a hand grips his shoulder and he’s forced to meet green eyes who manage to express sympathy, frustration and something else Castiel still doesn’t get all at once.
“Cas, dammit,” Dean whispers, obviously trying not to shout, “I thought we were sorta past the of use point. I might not exactly be the best person that ever was, but do I look like someone who ditches people just ‘cause they aren’t of use? Please. Also, what about telling me and Sam about it?”
Castiel can’t find anything to say at that; saying the truth would mean implying that Dean is that kind of person and Castiel knows he isn’t. He just can’t never be sure of anything these days, not when everything seems to be slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t even know how to phrase it.
“I’m… sorry, I just… I’m… I don’t even know. This is happening too fast and too soon and I…” he takes another breath, deep and long like before, because the truth he’s just about to admit is something he needs to say and he just hopes that Dean has some kind of solution because he surely has not. “I don’t know how to deal with it.”
It’s there, and now he feels something like fear because he isn’t really sure he wants to face Dean, except that the hand’s grip tightens and for some reason it makes him feel so relieved that he can’t help letting out a sigh of relief.
“Then just fucking say it, okay? Or call. Or do something.”
Castiel should point out that Dean is the first one who does not talk about this kind of things, but he just nods and lets it drop. Dean is obviously making an effort here, for someone who could win a prize for keeping things bottled up inside, and Castiel won’t disrespect it.
“Alright. I… I will. I’m sorry if this whole thing…”
“Cas, cut that crap. I’ve got nothing but time anyway and… just… whatever. Nothin’ important. And no one knows how to deal with crap like that anyway. For all that’s worth, I’m sorry it’s happening to you at all. I’d be happier if you were up there contemplating eternity or some crap like that, but…”
“No. Dean, I might not know how to deal with it but… I don’t regret it,” Castiel says, his throat hurting for some reason, but he thinks that he wants Dean to know it in case anything happens.
Dean swallows and nods and even if Castiel can’t see his soul or read his thoughts anymore, he recognizes the expression Dean has when he feels like he isn’t deserving something or like he thinks that something is his fault, even if this one is somewhat similar to the one Castiel remembers from when he teleported Dean from that room where Zachariah was, too. Castiel is still processing too many things at once when a hand slowly reaches around his shoulder and he finds his head dangerously close to Dean’s neck; it’s a hug, alright, even if loose and sort of awkward, and if for a minute or so Castiel decides that it feels nice, and that he could, and can, let his arm rest around Dean’s shoulders, too, Dean doesn’t protest. Dean is blissfully warm and tangible and real against him; it feels like he’s some kind of anchor and that’s exactly what Castiel needs right now.
He lets himself lean against Dean and for a second he thinks that maybe he could live with being far from Heaven if he had this, always, but then his stomach clenches as it produces some kind of strange noise and Dean lets out a small laugh before moving and casting a look down. Then he meets his eyes again.
“Dude, I have this idea that you need to eat something and that you didn’t even know until now.”
“I… I suspected it, but…”
“Oh, cut it off. Alright. Since Sammy’s out having his night with that hottie who worked in the library and who has been making heart-shaped eyes at him since he set foot in there and he won’t be back before tomorrow morning, and since I think you need a crash course in whatever good stuff this world can offer… I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow.
“You didn’t get it, did you?”
“… Not really?” Castiel answers, shaking his head.
“Right,” Dean sighs. “The offer comprehends ordering in some pizza, a couple of beers, a place on that bed, some nice movie on tv and on top of that, it’ll broaden your inexistent pop culture horizons. Are you refusing?”
Dean is obviously forcing an easy and carefree tone and his eyes show that, in truth, he isn’t being casual but worried and possibly is feeling guilty again; Castiel sees through the whole act as clear as rain, but the fact that Dean is doing this just to cheer him up would really be enough to say yes, not counting that he really is hungry and... he really wants to do everything Dean said.
“No, I’m not.”
Dean’s smile is brighter than it usually is lately, when he picks the phone and orders some pizza, and then makes another call after searching for a number in the yellow pages.
--
“Dude, come on. An opinion, here.”
“I think I rather enjoy… Marlon Brando’s performance.”
“That’s all you have to say? Don’t tell me that the violence’s putting you off, man,” Dean says after swallowing a large bite of his pizza (Dean’s is with cheese and sausages, while Castiel opted for a plain, tomato one; he’s rather pleased with his choice, and while Dean is almost over, Castiel is still eating slowly and barely at a half. Then again, he wishes to enjoy his first eating experience to the fullest). Castiel shakes his head and takes a drink from his beer bottle as Al Pacino/Michael heads to Las Vegas.
“No, it doesn’t put me off. You asked for one opinion,” Castiel answers, and well, maybe he’s really getting the hang of that thing humans call humor if Dean snorts and gets back to praising the complexity of Al Pacino’s character, not to mention his a-ma-zing acting; Castiel nods, but he keeps on liking Marlon Brando better anyway. At least his character isn’t named Michael.
Also, at least now he knows what’s the whole deal about offers you can’t refuse.
--
Dean places the rented DVD in the cover (Castiel has this idea that this motel must be more expensive than usual, if it doesn’t just have a television but also a dvd player) and then takes another one and places it in front of Castiel.
“See, there’s a sequel. Well, actually, there are two, but Part III is crap, dude. Pure crap. Part II though, oh, that’s something you don’t wanna miss. If you’re up for another three hours.”
“Marlon Brando’s character is dead, though.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything.
“Jesus, clearly one guy who’s searching for God would get stuck on Marlon Brando. Yeah, but the character’s still there. And De Niro plays him, man, and De Niro’s some great stuff. He’s like, if Marlon Brando is God, De Niro is freaking… nah, Michael would be Al Pacino, Robert would be someone like… no, Gabriel doesn’t really count and the mutant teenage ninja turtle doesn’t either, but…”
Castiel bites his tongue realizing that for the first time he isn’t wishing for Dean to show some respect to his Father or his brothers but just to keep going on. It’s amusing, seeing how Dean tries not to say Raphael’s name out loud, but it’s also making Castiel feel strangely touched and he wonders why did he ever think he shouldn’t have knocked on the motel's door. While Heaven’s is probably closed, he should have known that Dean’s would have stayed open.
He isn’t thinking about his fading Grace anymore, he isn’t feeling weary, he isn’t feeling at odds with his humanity; on the contrary, he’s feeling warm all over and he’s having as much fun as a rogue almost former angel of the Lord can have for the first time in his long, long life, that pizza he ate before was something he can’t wait to try again and he makes sure he remembers this moment because he has an idea he wants to treasure it forever.
“Dean. It’s fine. Let’s watch part II. I will see if… De Niro’s acting is on par.”
“Dude, that’s the spirit.”
Dean pushes the second dvd in and then turns towards Castiel, his expression suddenly stone cold serious.
“Hey, Cas?”
“… yes?”
“Just… before, you said that the front door’s closed forever?”
“I… I believe so,” he answers, unable to keep bitterness from his voice. Then Dean half-smiles at him and sort of seems embarrassed for a split second before he speaks. “Well,” Dean says, facing Castiel, “that don’t seem much of a problem to me. You could always… you know. If the front door’s closed, you could always get in from the back.”
Dean turns back to check the dvd’s settings and for a second Castiel is baffled and stares into nothing; then he thinks about what Dean said and when he gets it he feels the corners of his lips turn up without his control; you could always get in from the back plays on repeat in his head. It’s merely a joke, really, but with a lot more depth than one could imagine barely hearing it (even if he isn’t sure that even Dean completely grasped it); and it’s just so Dean, to suggest getting in from the back if you can’t from the front. And, goes unsaid, it doesn’t matter if it’s the back; you’re still in, and maybe it could mean some unorthodox way instead of a mere second choice, and then Castiel full-on laughs because it might not seem like it but, at least in his case, it feels amazing that Dean, most times, knows what to say. The sound of his own laughter is alien to his ears but it feels good, it feels incredibly good, and he doesn’t even notice that, meanwhile, Dean is watching him like he has just grown a second head.
“Cas…? What…? It wasn’t… was that because of that joke? I, uh, y’know, it wasn’t even one of the best things I could come…”
“Dean,” Castiel manages to interrupt, barely gaining control of himself before the laughing fit starts again, “it was the best thing you could have come up with… in this particular occasion,” he adds before letting his laughter wear off. When it does, his face hurts and he feels still warm, but also alright in a way he hasn’t been since his trip to what Dean called Bible Camp, and he’d thank Dean for that if Dean wasn’t still looking at him completely unconvinced.
“Cas? Is everything fine?”
“Dean. Yes. It is. Really. Just, now I really wish to see what can this… Robert De Niro do,” he whispers, his throat feeling hoarse, and then Dean shrugs and starts the dvd.
Castiel spends the next three hours and something between watching the movie, watching Dean watch the movie, argue that Robert De Niro is definitely better than Al Pacino both character and acting-wise, drinking his beer and generally not thinking about the indifference of Heaven. The more Dean tries to prove his points, the more he feels engaged in the discussion, and it’s really it. For now, this is his place and his home, and if one day he has to get back to Heaven from the back door (preferably because his Father opened it for him), he won’t mind for a second.
And every time Castiel thinks about it, he shakes his head at the still sort of perplexed expression of the person he can safely say is his very favorite human, and he smiles.
End.