Fic: Keep Your Eyes on the Road Ahead
Title: Keep Your Eyes on the Road Ahead
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: 4170
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Castiel is falling and Dean doesn't know how to stop it.
AN: sgrio challenged me to a blind!Jimmy AU-off. For the 'loss of limb/body function' square for angst_bingo
Dean's clearing out their motel room, pushing stuff into his bag or into the trash, when Castiel shows up in the doorway. His coat's dusty and his hair looks like a windswept wreck. Dean has to wonder if flying all across the world is tougher now that he's losing his powers. Or maybe Castiel has to put himself back together every time and the hair's just too much damn trouble.
"Dean, I need to talk to you."
Dean nods. "No problem, Cas, can you talk while I pack?"
"Of course." Castiel drifts to one side, out of the way. Dean unplugs Sam's laptop and slides it back into its bag.
"What's on your mind?"
Castiel sighs and that's definitely something he's picked up from humanity in general. "We need to discuss my hunting with you when my powers are finally gone. It may be more complicated that you think."
Dean turns around long enough to smack a hand against Castiel's shoulder. "Cas, don't worry about it. Humans do just fine, and I told you I'd teach you anything you're confused about. You'll be great once we knock the rust off of you."
Castiel shifts, frown going deeper. The expression he's wearing is familiar, that quiet uncertainty, as if there's something important, something he's not sharing.
"It might be more difficult for me than that. I confess I'm not sure how much use I'll be to you until I learn how to compensate for the loss of my abilities."
"Dude, you'll be just like the rest of us. I know it'll be pretty freakin' hard for you at first, but we manage. We'll all manage, don't worry about it."
"Jimmy is blind," Castiel says quietly.
Dean's bag hits the edge of the bed, listing to one side. One of his boots tumbles free and he reaches to catch it without thinking. It hangs in his hand, laces swaying gently.
"What?" Because he had to have heard that wrong. There's no way he could have heard that right.
"Jimmy, my vessel, is blind." Castiel offers it like it's some sort of food allergy. Something that doesn't really matter, something that isn't important.
Dean lets the bag drop, it hits the cheap carpet and half spills everywhere.
"Jesus," he says, it's all he can say for a long stunned minute. He turns around, "You don't think maybe we needed to know this before. You didn't think this was important information. Damn it, Cas."
"It was irrelevant until now."
Dean's more angry about that than the not telling. "Being blind is never irrelevant, fuck." He shakes his head, gestures, some awkward sort of thrusting movement that even he doesn't entirely understand. "So, do something, fix it."
Castiel's mouth goes tight and unhappy, head turning just a fraction. "It's already too late for that."
Which is fantastic. Dean lets himself drop back onto the bed, elbows balanced on his knees. He rubs a hand over his face and then looks up, looks at Castiel's face and wonders how the hell he'd never known something this important. Why he's finding out about it now.
"How are you even seeing now?" he demands.
"There are many ways the world can be perceived, in many dimensions. I'm still capable of many of them."
"But not for long?" Dean guesses. It comes out angry, but he thinks Castiel deserves that.
Castiel nods. "I'm gradually losing the abilities."
"Then what, you won't be able to see at all?"
"No," Castiel admits.
"What are you going to do?"
Castiel's hands, normally loose at his sides, are twitching against the material of his coat, fingertips curling and relaxing.
"I'll do as you said, I'll learn to live without this method of perception."
Dean shakes his head. "That's not - most people can see, Cas."
"And some people can't," Castiel counters. Which is unfair. Because, yes, sure, some people are blind. But those people tend not to drive across the country hunting monsters for a living. If there's a blind guy out there that can do that then Dean might as well hang up his guns right now. Castiel isn't people either, not really, and everything is pretty much new for him. The idea of taking Castiel out when he can't see is insane. But Dean knows if he says that it's going to come out wrong. It's going to leave Castiel angry and defensive and stubborn. Though judging by Castiel's expression he already knows what Dean wants to say.
"I'm well aware that you believe I may become more of a hindrance than anything else. Though I'm still more than capable of sharing my knowledge with you."
"Cas -" Dean stops, decides not to push at that right now. He needs time to think, god, to think about what this means. "I really wish you'd told me this before."
"It was -"
"It wasn't fucking irrelevant." Dean shuts his mouth because this is really not a time to be shouting. This isn't Castiel's fault, not really. It's his fault for not telling him. But Dean's not going to blame him for falling.
If that's anyone's fault -
"Look, it's ok, we'll deal with it when it happens, it'll be ok."
*****
It's not sudden, Castiel doesn’t just show up one day missing abilities. They fade, weaken, sputter out of existence in a way that looks grating and painful. The last echoes of them leave him bleeding from the nose, eyes rolling in his head, gasping like he's run a marathon - it's like he's not losing them but having them taken from him, forcibly and Dean wants to hurt someone for that. Dean hates watching it happen, but forces himself to anyway. Though he honestly doesn't know who he's punishing more, Castiel, or himself. He thinks only one of them deserves it. Sam wears his quiet frown in the background, though he can't seem to make himself say anything, reduced to awkwardly standing by Castiel when Dean can't, when he doesn't know how to. Dean sometimes wishes Sam would say something, but Dean knows it would only end in a fight and he's strung too tight for that, worn too thin.
But they all know what's happening. They're all waiting for it. But Dean can't say it - is afraid to say it because there's a mess of feeling under there that's some screwed up mixture of guilt and horror and disbelief. Something helpless, and Dean hates feeling helpless.
Castiel's powers fade to nothing, until he can't will himself anywhere, can't exorcise demons. He can no longer tell what people are thinking, or where they've gone. Human weaknesses, exhaustion, hunger, thirst - they stop being weaknesses and become necessities.
Until Dean finds Castiel on Bobby's porch one early morning, staring off through the wrecks of metal and glass, head tipped up into the low slant of sunlight. Dean can see it on his face, can see it flare over his throat and the collar of his coat. The hands Castiel has thrown over his knees are dusty.
"I'm human," he says simply.
Something inside Dean feels like it's falling.
*****
They can't stop hunting, and Castiel refuses to be left behind. He refuses to be left, like something that has no use any more, and Dean doesn't have a hope in hell of trying to convince him to stay with Bobby. He rides in the back, hand pressed to the window, absorbing the cold and the vibration of the rain. Dean watches him in the rear-view and Sam watches Dean, quiet and wordless, and maybe Dean's just imagining that he can feel the judgement. But he feels it anyway. Something that's just pure Sam. He can't even hate that.
Dean knows it's going to be hard, in a purely practical sense. Hunting is hard, hard enough when you had all your senses and your wits about you, and an extra helping of dumb luck to get you through it. He'll admit to himself, if no one else, that he's scared.
*****
Castiel stays at the motel. Dean's not exactly happy about it. He knows how many times monsters have followed them back there. He knows that it isn't exactly safe there, they're too easy to find. Much as he loves his baby she's recognisable from half a state away, and motel parking lots aren't exactly the most secluded places in the world. But he's dealing with it. They're all dealing with it.
It takes a while for Cas to work out how to use his phone without being able to see it. For Sam to teach him how to use a headset so he doesn't look like a complete dork. Because he hasn't lost any of his knowledge and sometimes its easier for Dean to know exactly where Castiel is, to be able to hear him while there's a Wendigo trying to chew his damn face of. It makes it easier somehow.
Until Sam and Dean get back to the room after a hunt to find a dead body on the floor, throat slashed messily, blood plastering its clothes to its body and spattered outwards on the carpet where it had fallen. Castiel's standing by the far wall, one bloody hand pressed into the peeling wallpaper. His left sleeve is bright red all the way down, knife a shine of crimson and bright silver on the end of the bed.
"Cas." Dean drops his bag and goes straight to him, catches his shoulders.
"Dean." The tension goes out of Castiel, hand falling free of the wall. He leaves a red print there which runs, slow, fine lines of blood.
"God damn it, Cas." Dean's sliding hands down his sleeve, checking for slices, gashes, making sure none of the blood is his, that the tear in the left side of his coat goes no deeper than the material.
"Dean, I'm not injured." It's a murmur of words Dean doesn't quite believe, he's forced to check, forced to make sure. Laying both hands on Castiel's face and tilting it up and Castiel isn't strong enough any more to just pull away. Dean's leaving bloody smears from his thumbs on Castiel's jaw and cheekbone. Castiel lifts his hands, curls them round Dean's wrists, and they're cold, they're impossibly cold, though Dean thinks it's from the air outside and not for any other reason. "Dean, please," Castiel says firmly. They're so close Dean can feel his voice against his skin.
Dean lets him go, rubs his thumbs on the material of his jeans. "Sorry," he says quietly. "I just - I fucking hate this." It’s the first time he's admitted it, words nothing like steady. They're gritty underneath where they hurt coming out, too fast, like they're trying to match the speed of his pulse.
Sam picks the knife up off the bed, goes down on his knees beside the corpse. "Demon," he says quietly. "Could be the one who was following us earlier."
"I'm more than capable of dealing with one demon," Castiel says firmly.
Dean tries not to look at the tear in his coat, or the amount of blood thrown about the room.
"I'm not fragile, Dean. I may not be as strong as I used to be but you don't have to treat me like I'll break. I won't break." Castiel's eyes fix unerringly on his face, and the blue may be darker and more human than it was before, but it's still Cas. It's still him underneath, that mixture of controlled anger and endless patience. Even if he's something different now, something human and strange. Someone Dean feels compelled to protect, and yet sometimes he still doesn't even know how. Especially when Castiel clearly doesn't want to be protected.
He doesn't fucking understand how easily people break.
Dean does a shitty, half-assed job of trying to wash the blood out of Castiel's coat while Castiel stamps about outside in one of Sam's spare ones. There's a reason hunters tend to wear dark colours. What the hell was Castiel thinking, walking around in a tan coat for Christ’s sake? There are so many stupid, little things that Castiel doesn't know, that he's going to have to learn. Stupid little things that could get him killed. He should be worried about all of those. But there's something about Dean's complete inability to get his coat even close to clean that leaves him feeling like a failure, like more of a failure. Stuffing it in the trash feels like an ending - feels like the end of something. He shoves burger wrappers on top of it until he can't see it any more. It doesn't help.
Sam's bent over a book when he leaves the bathroom. Dean sits on the bed and fumes quietly, stares at the mud on his boots.
"You're being over-protective." Sam's voice is soft but pointed.
Dean tugs angrily at his shoelace, doesn't even care if the damn thing snaps.
"He's blind," he says flatly.
"He's also millions of years old, and an angel, I think he's doing pretty well."
Dean wants to say that he isn't, that he isn't an angel any more. But he can't get the words out. He refuses to put them out there - cold and hard like they're the truth.
*****
The next town, the next hunt - Dean leaves Castiel in the room while they take stock of the area. He leaves him there when they talk to witnesses and trawl through the local library for clues. Sam maintains a wary distance like he knows a storm's coming. But Castiel stays furiously silent, drawing in cold air and anger like a force of nature. Dean remembers what it was like to be afraid of him and that almost makes it worth it. He truly is fucked up beyond all belief.
On the third night they find a nest of ghouls that have taken over the local graveyard. Dean gets hurled into a gravestone and then slammed into the flooded ground, face going underwater in the struggle. He comes far too close to drowning out there in the darkness, and he's hurting all the way through long before they put them all down.
They don't return until after dark, Sam taking the books they'd borrowed from the local library back to his room, to copy up as many notations as possible before taking them back tomorrow.
Dean's still too keyed up to sleep. He showers the filth off of him and then shoves their laundry into a bag. Because he might as well get that done tomorrow before they leave town. Castiel's already wandering round in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt Sam had Incredible Hulk-ed his way out of. Dean can hear him taking slow, measured, careful steps behind him.
"We'll get on the road early, find a place to stop and go through the papers -"
Something pulls sharply at his sleeve, tugging him all the way round. Castiel's hand lifts, finds his jaw, fingers pinching tight on the skin.
"I refuse to stay shut away forever while you risk yourselves." His voice is a low burn of anger, eyes bright and focused on nothing at all. "I have lived for millions of years and I will not be coddled like a child."
"Cas - " Dean starts, because he's explained this. They've gone over this, and he hates it every time.
"Be quiet." Castiel reaches out, finds Dean's shirt, tightens his fingers until Dean can feet the material pulling at his back. "I'm aware of what I'm capable of and what I'm not. Your feelings on the matter don't change that. I won't accept it. I do not require your guilt."
"I'm not," Dean grates out. "Damn it, I'm not." It's a lie but it's one he forces himself to keep telling.
"You are," Castiel says simply and for a second he's looking straight at him. "You are feeling guilty, but you don't have to. Not for this, not for any of it. It wasn't your fault."
Castiel's hands are on his face, palms cold where they hold him, tipping his head and it doesn't take him a moment to find Dean's mouth.
Dean tenses up. Because this is insane, this is the last thing, the very last thing they should be doing. But he doesn't resist, he doesn’t push him back, or tug away. He stays in that awful space between pretending he doesn't want it and wanting it so badly it hurts. He lets Castiel kiss him, lets him breathe against his mouth and then finally relaxes into it. He doesn't have a fucking choice, can't not - and his hand wants to reach out and grab and pull Castiel in but he doesn’t - instead it's Castiel who draws back, hands falling away.
"You need to decide if you love me, or what I used to be."
Dean's inhale burns all the way down, shocked and angry and wounded all at the same time.
"Jesus, Cas," Dean snaps. "You don't just fucking blurt that out."
"One of us had to say something," Castiel says stiffly, though Dean watches him swallow, nervous under the anger.
Dean's had enough, more than enough. He can't do this, he can't.
"Do you have any idea how fucking hard this is -" Dean grabs Castiel arms and pulls him forward. "Do you have any idea what this is doing to me, that I can't have you out there, with me, with us. That I can't shake off the fact that I need you." He's an inch away from shaking him and shaking him hard. "I hate that you had everything taken away. I hate that you're like this and I can't fucking do anything."
Dean swallows and shakes his head, lets Castiel go. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to drag every word back because that's not what he meant. He didn't mean to say any of that, to leave it out there.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, horrified at everything, at himself, at how he can't stop fucking things up every time he cracks even a little bit.
Castiel rests his hand, awkwardly over Dean's mouth.
"I need you," he says simply, it's honest and confused in a way that Dean barely knows how to answer. Castiel moves his hand and kisses him again, slides his arm round Dean's neck and shoulder in a way that feels like so much more than it should be, than Dean knows how to be.
"I am so fucking bad for you," Dean says hoarsely, and he wants so badly he doesn't even tell him to stop.
"You have no idea what you are to me," Castiel counters.
"Cas, I'm no good at this."
"Touch me," Castiel says - demands.
Dean swears and catches him with his hands, draws him in.
Castiel tugs at his hair and kisses him, eyelashes soft against Dean's face, mouth open and wet and hungry. Castiel knows how to do this and Dean doesn't know how, or who, or when, and he doesn't care. He has his hands on Castiel's neck, in his hair, shoved under the collar of his t-shirt. Castiel's own hands have found their way under the hem of Dean's shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his spine in mute demand.
Dean pulls back, swears and buries his face in Castiel's neck.
"I'm old enough to make my own decisions," Castiel tells him.
Dean turns his head, and Castiel smells warm and human, like the stupid shampoo Sam keeps leaving in the bathroom and leather and the oil Dean uses on his guns. He has a smell of his own now, something real. Dean's whispering quiet words into Castiel's ear, not all of them polite, voice shaky and breathless. Because he needs to know if this is ok, if they can do this and come out ok. Castiel's nodding and pulling him in, eyes closed, hands tight where they hold him.
"Yes, all of that," he growls out.
They end up on the bed, a tumble of arms and knees, and Dean has to put his hand out to stop Castiel from smacking his head on the wall. He pulls at the loose waistband of the jeans Castiel's wearing, and they belong to Dean and the thought shouldn't be so intimate, but somehow it is, his clothes on the angel - not-angel, god, he doesn’t even know any more. His nails catch on the skin of Castiel's hip and thigh when he slides his hands inside, and that shouldn't be ok, because it's Castiel and he shouldn't treat him like this. As if he's something human, something Dean can just take like this. But Castiel's too busy shoving at the back of Dean's jeans to care, palms warm on the curve of his ass, sliding and then gripping. Dean grunts when he's pulled up, Castiel finding the corner of his mouth and then correcting with a growl of irritation.
Dean's half tempted to tell him to slow down, but he's not exactly falling behind himself, one hand pushing Castiel's t-shirt up, finding the warmth of his skin and the curve of every rib. The subtle peak of a nipple when his thumb strays higher and it's all new and strange and leaves Dean desperate in a way he didn't know he could be; desperate to get closer, desperate to touch, to press down and thrust against him, desperate not to break this. Castiel stops kissing him long enough for Dean to pull his t-shirt over his hair, dragging his hair all the wrong way and he looks so stupidly young like that. It should be wrong but he doesn't have time to think about it. Castiel tugs at his neck in demand.
"Wait, fuck, wait." Dean kicks his jeans all the way off, strips Castiel's down his legs, and there's a greediness in the way Castiel pulls him down again, pulls him in, fingertips dug hard into his skin, mouth open under Dean's. Castiel's hard too, a line of heat pressed tight into the curve of Dean's stomach and pelvis, and that's so fucking new he kind of wants to touch it. But Castiel's pulling at him again, breath shivering out and Dean can't help pushing down into him, sensation right there, raw and untidy but more than good enough.
They're pressed together so tightly it shivers back and forth over the line of discomfort. Castiel turns his head, hands lifting to hold Dean against his mouth. The kiss is rough, almost violent, and Dean's trying not to make the rest of it feel the same. But it's a battle he's losing, losing badly. They break apart and shift every so often to find the perfect angle, the perfect pressure for the hard pushes they both need. Leaving sticky-wet lines against each other's skin. It feels rushed, messy, there's a part of Dean that always thought there would be something special about this - but he can't deny that the too-hard grip of Castiel's fingers and the gritty, harsh urgency of the words that fall free makes him want this, right now, just this. It makes him need it, in a way he can't remember feeling for a long time.
Castiel comes first, with a hard dig of fingers and a groan and the half-murmured sound of Dean's name. Dean can't hold back under that. The way Castiel tenses and gasps and shivers underneath him, eyelashes fluttering. Dean follows him over, pushes down into him and comes too. He can't stop saying Castiel's name, forehead pressed against his. Castiel eyes are soft and drunk and Dean wants to keep touching, wants to fucking keep him.
Dean's shirt is close enough to clean up with - though he's probably going to regret that later. Castiel is soft and awkward, laid naked against the sheets, staring upwards. Dean slides down beside him, pokes at Castiel's leg until he moves it and rolls towards Dean's warmth. The curl of heavy, male weight against him should be stranger than it is. He should feel weird about curling his fingers round skin and drawing Castiel in closer - and he does, a little, but he doesn't care.
It's dark enough that Dean can't see much of anything, just the barest, blurred outlines of the furniture. Castiel is a strange weight against his chest and Dean's half certain he's asleep - until he speaks.
"I can't hear anything," Castiel whispers against his throat. "There's nothing but silence where heaven used to be, and I miss that more than I miss anything else."
Dean fists a hand in Castiel's hair, tips his head down until they're breathing against each other. Castiel's fingers are warm where they curl round the back of Dean's neck, grip tight on the skin.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: 4170
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Castiel is falling and Dean doesn't know how to stop it.
AN: sgrio challenged me to a blind!Jimmy AU-off. For the 'loss of limb/body function' square for angst_bingo
Dean's clearing out their motel room, pushing stuff into his bag or into the trash, when Castiel shows up in the doorway. His coat's dusty and his hair looks like a windswept wreck. Dean has to wonder if flying all across the world is tougher now that he's losing his powers. Or maybe Castiel has to put himself back together every time and the hair's just too much damn trouble.
"Dean, I need to talk to you."
Dean nods. "No problem, Cas, can you talk while I pack?"
"Of course." Castiel drifts to one side, out of the way. Dean unplugs Sam's laptop and slides it back into its bag.
"What's on your mind?"
Castiel sighs and that's definitely something he's picked up from humanity in general. "We need to discuss my hunting with you when my powers are finally gone. It may be more complicated that you think."
Dean turns around long enough to smack a hand against Castiel's shoulder. "Cas, don't worry about it. Humans do just fine, and I told you I'd teach you anything you're confused about. You'll be great once we knock the rust off of you."
Castiel shifts, frown going deeper. The expression he's wearing is familiar, that quiet uncertainty, as if there's something important, something he's not sharing.
"It might be more difficult for me than that. I confess I'm not sure how much use I'll be to you until I learn how to compensate for the loss of my abilities."
"Dude, you'll be just like the rest of us. I know it'll be pretty freakin' hard for you at first, but we manage. We'll all manage, don't worry about it."
"Jimmy is blind," Castiel says quietly.
Dean's bag hits the edge of the bed, listing to one side. One of his boots tumbles free and he reaches to catch it without thinking. It hangs in his hand, laces swaying gently.
"What?" Because he had to have heard that wrong. There's no way he could have heard that right.
"Jimmy, my vessel, is blind." Castiel offers it like it's some sort of food allergy. Something that doesn't really matter, something that isn't important.
Dean lets the bag drop, it hits the cheap carpet and half spills everywhere.
"Jesus," he says, it's all he can say for a long stunned minute. He turns around, "You don't think maybe we needed to know this before. You didn't think this was important information. Damn it, Cas."
"It was irrelevant until now."
Dean's more angry about that than the not telling. "Being blind is never irrelevant, fuck." He shakes his head, gestures, some awkward sort of thrusting movement that even he doesn't entirely understand. "So, do something, fix it."
Castiel's mouth goes tight and unhappy, head turning just a fraction. "It's already too late for that."
Which is fantastic. Dean lets himself drop back onto the bed, elbows balanced on his knees. He rubs a hand over his face and then looks up, looks at Castiel's face and wonders how the hell he'd never known something this important. Why he's finding out about it now.
"How are you even seeing now?" he demands.
"There are many ways the world can be perceived, in many dimensions. I'm still capable of many of them."
"But not for long?" Dean guesses. It comes out angry, but he thinks Castiel deserves that.
Castiel nods. "I'm gradually losing the abilities."
"Then what, you won't be able to see at all?"
"No," Castiel admits.
"What are you going to do?"
Castiel's hands, normally loose at his sides, are twitching against the material of his coat, fingertips curling and relaxing.
"I'll do as you said, I'll learn to live without this method of perception."
Dean shakes his head. "That's not - most people can see, Cas."
"And some people can't," Castiel counters. Which is unfair. Because, yes, sure, some people are blind. But those people tend not to drive across the country hunting monsters for a living. If there's a blind guy out there that can do that then Dean might as well hang up his guns right now. Castiel isn't people either, not really, and everything is pretty much new for him. The idea of taking Castiel out when he can't see is insane. But Dean knows if he says that it's going to come out wrong. It's going to leave Castiel angry and defensive and stubborn. Though judging by Castiel's expression he already knows what Dean wants to say.
"I'm well aware that you believe I may become more of a hindrance than anything else. Though I'm still more than capable of sharing my knowledge with you."
"Cas -" Dean stops, decides not to push at that right now. He needs time to think, god, to think about what this means. "I really wish you'd told me this before."
"It was -"
"It wasn't fucking irrelevant." Dean shuts his mouth because this is really not a time to be shouting. This isn't Castiel's fault, not really. It's his fault for not telling him. But Dean's not going to blame him for falling.
If that's anyone's fault -
"Look, it's ok, we'll deal with it when it happens, it'll be ok."
*****
It's not sudden, Castiel doesn’t just show up one day missing abilities. They fade, weaken, sputter out of existence in a way that looks grating and painful. The last echoes of them leave him bleeding from the nose, eyes rolling in his head, gasping like he's run a marathon - it's like he's not losing them but having them taken from him, forcibly and Dean wants to hurt someone for that. Dean hates watching it happen, but forces himself to anyway. Though he honestly doesn't know who he's punishing more, Castiel, or himself. He thinks only one of them deserves it. Sam wears his quiet frown in the background, though he can't seem to make himself say anything, reduced to awkwardly standing by Castiel when Dean can't, when he doesn't know how to. Dean sometimes wishes Sam would say something, but Dean knows it would only end in a fight and he's strung too tight for that, worn too thin.
But they all know what's happening. They're all waiting for it. But Dean can't say it - is afraid to say it because there's a mess of feeling under there that's some screwed up mixture of guilt and horror and disbelief. Something helpless, and Dean hates feeling helpless.
Castiel's powers fade to nothing, until he can't will himself anywhere, can't exorcise demons. He can no longer tell what people are thinking, or where they've gone. Human weaknesses, exhaustion, hunger, thirst - they stop being weaknesses and become necessities.
Until Dean finds Castiel on Bobby's porch one early morning, staring off through the wrecks of metal and glass, head tipped up into the low slant of sunlight. Dean can see it on his face, can see it flare over his throat and the collar of his coat. The hands Castiel has thrown over his knees are dusty.
"I'm human," he says simply.
Something inside Dean feels like it's falling.
*****
They can't stop hunting, and Castiel refuses to be left behind. He refuses to be left, like something that has no use any more, and Dean doesn't have a hope in hell of trying to convince him to stay with Bobby. He rides in the back, hand pressed to the window, absorbing the cold and the vibration of the rain. Dean watches him in the rear-view and Sam watches Dean, quiet and wordless, and maybe Dean's just imagining that he can feel the judgement. But he feels it anyway. Something that's just pure Sam. He can't even hate that.
Dean knows it's going to be hard, in a purely practical sense. Hunting is hard, hard enough when you had all your senses and your wits about you, and an extra helping of dumb luck to get you through it. He'll admit to himself, if no one else, that he's scared.
*****
Castiel stays at the motel. Dean's not exactly happy about it. He knows how many times monsters have followed them back there. He knows that it isn't exactly safe there, they're too easy to find. Much as he loves his baby she's recognisable from half a state away, and motel parking lots aren't exactly the most secluded places in the world. But he's dealing with it. They're all dealing with it.
It takes a while for Cas to work out how to use his phone without being able to see it. For Sam to teach him how to use a headset so he doesn't look like a complete dork. Because he hasn't lost any of his knowledge and sometimes its easier for Dean to know exactly where Castiel is, to be able to hear him while there's a Wendigo trying to chew his damn face of. It makes it easier somehow.
Until Sam and Dean get back to the room after a hunt to find a dead body on the floor, throat slashed messily, blood plastering its clothes to its body and spattered outwards on the carpet where it had fallen. Castiel's standing by the far wall, one bloody hand pressed into the peeling wallpaper. His left sleeve is bright red all the way down, knife a shine of crimson and bright silver on the end of the bed.
"Cas." Dean drops his bag and goes straight to him, catches his shoulders.
"Dean." The tension goes out of Castiel, hand falling free of the wall. He leaves a red print there which runs, slow, fine lines of blood.
"God damn it, Cas." Dean's sliding hands down his sleeve, checking for slices, gashes, making sure none of the blood is his, that the tear in the left side of his coat goes no deeper than the material.
"Dean, I'm not injured." It's a murmur of words Dean doesn't quite believe, he's forced to check, forced to make sure. Laying both hands on Castiel's face and tilting it up and Castiel isn't strong enough any more to just pull away. Dean's leaving bloody smears from his thumbs on Castiel's jaw and cheekbone. Castiel lifts his hands, curls them round Dean's wrists, and they're cold, they're impossibly cold, though Dean thinks it's from the air outside and not for any other reason. "Dean, please," Castiel says firmly. They're so close Dean can feel his voice against his skin.
Dean lets him go, rubs his thumbs on the material of his jeans. "Sorry," he says quietly. "I just - I fucking hate this." It’s the first time he's admitted it, words nothing like steady. They're gritty underneath where they hurt coming out, too fast, like they're trying to match the speed of his pulse.
Sam picks the knife up off the bed, goes down on his knees beside the corpse. "Demon," he says quietly. "Could be the one who was following us earlier."
"I'm more than capable of dealing with one demon," Castiel says firmly.
Dean tries not to look at the tear in his coat, or the amount of blood thrown about the room.
"I'm not fragile, Dean. I may not be as strong as I used to be but you don't have to treat me like I'll break. I won't break." Castiel's eyes fix unerringly on his face, and the blue may be darker and more human than it was before, but it's still Cas. It's still him underneath, that mixture of controlled anger and endless patience. Even if he's something different now, something human and strange. Someone Dean feels compelled to protect, and yet sometimes he still doesn't even know how. Especially when Castiel clearly doesn't want to be protected.
He doesn't fucking understand how easily people break.
Dean does a shitty, half-assed job of trying to wash the blood out of Castiel's coat while Castiel stamps about outside in one of Sam's spare ones. There's a reason hunters tend to wear dark colours. What the hell was Castiel thinking, walking around in a tan coat for Christ’s sake? There are so many stupid, little things that Castiel doesn't know, that he's going to have to learn. Stupid little things that could get him killed. He should be worried about all of those. But there's something about Dean's complete inability to get his coat even close to clean that leaves him feeling like a failure, like more of a failure. Stuffing it in the trash feels like an ending - feels like the end of something. He shoves burger wrappers on top of it until he can't see it any more. It doesn't help.
Sam's bent over a book when he leaves the bathroom. Dean sits on the bed and fumes quietly, stares at the mud on his boots.
"You're being over-protective." Sam's voice is soft but pointed.
Dean tugs angrily at his shoelace, doesn't even care if the damn thing snaps.
"He's blind," he says flatly.
"He's also millions of years old, and an angel, I think he's doing pretty well."
Dean wants to say that he isn't, that he isn't an angel any more. But he can't get the words out. He refuses to put them out there - cold and hard like they're the truth.
*****
The next town, the next hunt - Dean leaves Castiel in the room while they take stock of the area. He leaves him there when they talk to witnesses and trawl through the local library for clues. Sam maintains a wary distance like he knows a storm's coming. But Castiel stays furiously silent, drawing in cold air and anger like a force of nature. Dean remembers what it was like to be afraid of him and that almost makes it worth it. He truly is fucked up beyond all belief.
On the third night they find a nest of ghouls that have taken over the local graveyard. Dean gets hurled into a gravestone and then slammed into the flooded ground, face going underwater in the struggle. He comes far too close to drowning out there in the darkness, and he's hurting all the way through long before they put them all down.
They don't return until after dark, Sam taking the books they'd borrowed from the local library back to his room, to copy up as many notations as possible before taking them back tomorrow.
Dean's still too keyed up to sleep. He showers the filth off of him and then shoves their laundry into a bag. Because he might as well get that done tomorrow before they leave town. Castiel's already wandering round in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt Sam had Incredible Hulk-ed his way out of. Dean can hear him taking slow, measured, careful steps behind him.
"We'll get on the road early, find a place to stop and go through the papers -"
Something pulls sharply at his sleeve, tugging him all the way round. Castiel's hand lifts, finds his jaw, fingers pinching tight on the skin.
"I refuse to stay shut away forever while you risk yourselves." His voice is a low burn of anger, eyes bright and focused on nothing at all. "I have lived for millions of years and I will not be coddled like a child."
"Cas - " Dean starts, because he's explained this. They've gone over this, and he hates it every time.
"Be quiet." Castiel reaches out, finds Dean's shirt, tightens his fingers until Dean can feet the material pulling at his back. "I'm aware of what I'm capable of and what I'm not. Your feelings on the matter don't change that. I won't accept it. I do not require your guilt."
"I'm not," Dean grates out. "Damn it, I'm not." It's a lie but it's one he forces himself to keep telling.
"You are," Castiel says simply and for a second he's looking straight at him. "You are feeling guilty, but you don't have to. Not for this, not for any of it. It wasn't your fault."
Castiel's hands are on his face, palms cold where they hold him, tipping his head and it doesn't take him a moment to find Dean's mouth.
Dean tenses up. Because this is insane, this is the last thing, the very last thing they should be doing. But he doesn't resist, he doesn’t push him back, or tug away. He stays in that awful space between pretending he doesn't want it and wanting it so badly it hurts. He lets Castiel kiss him, lets him breathe against his mouth and then finally relaxes into it. He doesn't have a fucking choice, can't not - and his hand wants to reach out and grab and pull Castiel in but he doesn’t - instead it's Castiel who draws back, hands falling away.
"You need to decide if you love me, or what I used to be."
Dean's inhale burns all the way down, shocked and angry and wounded all at the same time.
"Jesus, Cas," Dean snaps. "You don't just fucking blurt that out."
"One of us had to say something," Castiel says stiffly, though Dean watches him swallow, nervous under the anger.
Dean's had enough, more than enough. He can't do this, he can't.
"Do you have any idea how fucking hard this is -" Dean grabs Castiel arms and pulls him forward. "Do you have any idea what this is doing to me, that I can't have you out there, with me, with us. That I can't shake off the fact that I need you." He's an inch away from shaking him and shaking him hard. "I hate that you had everything taken away. I hate that you're like this and I can't fucking do anything."
Dean swallows and shakes his head, lets Castiel go. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to drag every word back because that's not what he meant. He didn't mean to say any of that, to leave it out there.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, horrified at everything, at himself, at how he can't stop fucking things up every time he cracks even a little bit.
Castiel rests his hand, awkwardly over Dean's mouth.
"I need you," he says simply, it's honest and confused in a way that Dean barely knows how to answer. Castiel moves his hand and kisses him again, slides his arm round Dean's neck and shoulder in a way that feels like so much more than it should be, than Dean knows how to be.
"I am so fucking bad for you," Dean says hoarsely, and he wants so badly he doesn't even tell him to stop.
"You have no idea what you are to me," Castiel counters.
"Cas, I'm no good at this."
"Touch me," Castiel says - demands.
Dean swears and catches him with his hands, draws him in.
Castiel tugs at his hair and kisses him, eyelashes soft against Dean's face, mouth open and wet and hungry. Castiel knows how to do this and Dean doesn't know how, or who, or when, and he doesn't care. He has his hands on Castiel's neck, in his hair, shoved under the collar of his t-shirt. Castiel's own hands have found their way under the hem of Dean's shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his spine in mute demand.
Dean pulls back, swears and buries his face in Castiel's neck.
"I'm old enough to make my own decisions," Castiel tells him.
Dean turns his head, and Castiel smells warm and human, like the stupid shampoo Sam keeps leaving in the bathroom and leather and the oil Dean uses on his guns. He has a smell of his own now, something real. Dean's whispering quiet words into Castiel's ear, not all of them polite, voice shaky and breathless. Because he needs to know if this is ok, if they can do this and come out ok. Castiel's nodding and pulling him in, eyes closed, hands tight where they hold him.
"Yes, all of that," he growls out.
They end up on the bed, a tumble of arms and knees, and Dean has to put his hand out to stop Castiel from smacking his head on the wall. He pulls at the loose waistband of the jeans Castiel's wearing, and they belong to Dean and the thought shouldn't be so intimate, but somehow it is, his clothes on the angel - not-angel, god, he doesn’t even know any more. His nails catch on the skin of Castiel's hip and thigh when he slides his hands inside, and that shouldn't be ok, because it's Castiel and he shouldn't treat him like this. As if he's something human, something Dean can just take like this. But Castiel's too busy shoving at the back of Dean's jeans to care, palms warm on the curve of his ass, sliding and then gripping. Dean grunts when he's pulled up, Castiel finding the corner of his mouth and then correcting with a growl of irritation.
Dean's half tempted to tell him to slow down, but he's not exactly falling behind himself, one hand pushing Castiel's t-shirt up, finding the warmth of his skin and the curve of every rib. The subtle peak of a nipple when his thumb strays higher and it's all new and strange and leaves Dean desperate in a way he didn't know he could be; desperate to get closer, desperate to touch, to press down and thrust against him, desperate not to break this. Castiel stops kissing him long enough for Dean to pull his t-shirt over his hair, dragging his hair all the wrong way and he looks so stupidly young like that. It should be wrong but he doesn't have time to think about it. Castiel tugs at his neck in demand.
"Wait, fuck, wait." Dean kicks his jeans all the way off, strips Castiel's down his legs, and there's a greediness in the way Castiel pulls him down again, pulls him in, fingertips dug hard into his skin, mouth open under Dean's. Castiel's hard too, a line of heat pressed tight into the curve of Dean's stomach and pelvis, and that's so fucking new he kind of wants to touch it. But Castiel's pulling at him again, breath shivering out and Dean can't help pushing down into him, sensation right there, raw and untidy but more than good enough.
They're pressed together so tightly it shivers back and forth over the line of discomfort. Castiel turns his head, hands lifting to hold Dean against his mouth. The kiss is rough, almost violent, and Dean's trying not to make the rest of it feel the same. But it's a battle he's losing, losing badly. They break apart and shift every so often to find the perfect angle, the perfect pressure for the hard pushes they both need. Leaving sticky-wet lines against each other's skin. It feels rushed, messy, there's a part of Dean that always thought there would be something special about this - but he can't deny that the too-hard grip of Castiel's fingers and the gritty, harsh urgency of the words that fall free makes him want this, right now, just this. It makes him need it, in a way he can't remember feeling for a long time.
Castiel comes first, with a hard dig of fingers and a groan and the half-murmured sound of Dean's name. Dean can't hold back under that. The way Castiel tenses and gasps and shivers underneath him, eyelashes fluttering. Dean follows him over, pushes down into him and comes too. He can't stop saying Castiel's name, forehead pressed against his. Castiel eyes are soft and drunk and Dean wants to keep touching, wants to fucking keep him.
Dean's shirt is close enough to clean up with - though he's probably going to regret that later. Castiel is soft and awkward, laid naked against the sheets, staring upwards. Dean slides down beside him, pokes at Castiel's leg until he moves it and rolls towards Dean's warmth. The curl of heavy, male weight against him should be stranger than it is. He should feel weird about curling his fingers round skin and drawing Castiel in closer - and he does, a little, but he doesn't care.
It's dark enough that Dean can't see much of anything, just the barest, blurred outlines of the furniture. Castiel is a strange weight against his chest and Dean's half certain he's asleep - until he speaks.
"I can't hear anything," Castiel whispers against his throat. "There's nothing but silence where heaven used to be, and I miss that more than I miss anything else."
Dean fists a hand in Castiel's hair, tips his head down until they're breathing against each other. Castiel's fingers are warm where they curl round the back of Dean's neck, grip tight on the skin.