fic: Wait For You 1/2
Title: Wait For You
Author: lies_unfurl
Rating/warnings: PG-13/themes of depression, PTSD, alcoholism
Characters/pairings: Dean, Castiel, Sam, Bobby; none (this part)
Word Count: ~4000 {this part}
Summary: Follows Something I Don't Know. Dean tries to find a balance between his anger and his sympathy as he deals with Castiel.
Notes: I really wanted to post this before it gets epically Kripke'd (or maybe Gambled would be more accurate?) by a certain upcoming episode. Unfortunately, my zeal to write has been...not too intense, although I have a lot of writing that I want to do including a now-overdue fic for hoodie_time; fml. But I knew already that this would be two parts, and splitting it here makes sense, so. Yeah. Uh, the title is from the Lindsey Buckingham song of the same name.
"Dean," Sam says, four mornings after Castiel has been awake from his coma, "Dean, we need to figure out what we're going to do with Cas."
Dean glances up from his morning coffee and raises an eyebrow at his brother, who's leaning against the entrance to the bathroom. "That gonna be an issue soon? I thought that they wanted to keep him in until Sunday, at least. For observation, and all that."
"Sunday is five days away. We can't just not talk about him, Dean. That's not going to solve anything." Sam crosses the room to pick up his own coffee. The owners of the small shop down the street made it just how he liked it; didn't even need to hear Dean's order first. It's been a long time since they've stayed anywhere long enough to become regulars, and yeah, Dean is starting to get kind of antsy.
"Well, what do you want to do?" He leans back against his familiar headboard and watches Sam. He honestly doesn't know what the fuck they're supposed to be doing with Cas. There's really no precedent here; Miss Manners probably doesn't have any advice on how to treat a once-angel, now-mortal being that fucked your brother over and used to be your best friend.
Hell; Dean hasn't even seen Cas since that first time, even though Sam's been every day. It's hard to explain why exactly-or at least, it's hard to explain why without coming off as a total asshole. He should know; Sam has asked him often enough.
Mostly, he can't stand to see Castiel just lying there in bed, looking as pathetic as is possible. He can't stand to be reminded of how far Castiel has fallen, how he's already being punished by the universe or whatever. And the reason for that is because Dean knows logically that Cas is suffering, but he still can't bring himself to forgive him for everything that he did to Sam and to him. He knows that Castiel is paying for his mistakes, but he's paying the punishment doled out to him by Fate, or whoever is in charge of the behind-the-scenes crap these days. And Dean doesn't run by Fate's decisions.
"Me? I think that we should take him with us to wherever Bobby is holed up and train him." Sam shrugs, like this should be obvious-and okay, it kind of is. Dean really wasn't expecting him to say something else. "I mean, I don't think that Cas really wants to go out and make something else of himself. We're all that he knows."
"Sad as that is," Dean mutters.
"Still. I mean, I'll talk to him today, but I think that's what he'll say." Sam pauses, and then says what Dean was expecting: "I think you should come with me."
Dean sighs, swinging his legs off of the worn mattress and stretching as he stands, trying to calm the nervous energy that's going through him right now. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Oh, come on." Sam frowns at him, shaking his head. "What, you're going to go to the Laundromat again? Bobby needs you to relay something to him, since we've got internet and he doesn't?" Bobby is somewhere in Montana right now, in a place that doesn't have electricity, much less Wi-Fi. He left three evenings ago, and only calls at night, when he can go into the city and get a signal. Makes things… interesting, to say the least. "Stop making excuses, Dean. He asks for you, you know."
That last words hurt, even though they shouldn't, and by the way that Sam raised an eyebrow, Dean is pretty sure that he cringed. "Cas knows how things are."
"And? Look, could you at least wait until he's out of the hospital to guilt trip him?"
"I haven't been guilt-tripping him," Dean snaps back, although he probably kind of has. "Sam, I'm telling you now: if you expect everything to just be all hunky-dory between us right now, then you've got one hell of a reality dosing that's about to come down on you. Things aren't just going to be okay with us. You've got every right to do what you want, but I can't forgive him for spending a whole frigging year lying to our faces. And for hurting you like he did? He's lucky that I didn't just kill him then." His anger strengthens within him. "I'm not going out of my way to make life harder for him, Sam, but there's no way that I'm just forgiving him. I can't."
Sam stares back, a frustrated look in his eyes. "Fine. You've said time and time again that you're not going to forgive him, and if that's the way things are? Then I'm not going to try to change your mind, Dean, because I know that you're not going to listen to any reason. But at least try to, you know, be decent. You said it yourself, you're glad that he's not dead. Act like it."
Dean starts, because hold up a minute, he's pretty damn sure that he said that to Castiel, and Castiel alone. "You listening in on my private conversations now, Sammy?"
Sam cringes slightly, but he doesn't look overly guilty. "It was in the middle of a hospital room, Dean. Not really private. And you know that you're just evading my point."
"Still private." He sighs, throwing his empty coffee cup into the motel's tiny trash bin. This isn't an argument that he's going to win, is it? "I'll come today, but just so we can talk to him."
"Of course." Sam grins, like he's just made some great breakthrough in his fool's quest to get Dean to just forgive and forget. "Awesome. We'll head out when you're ready, okay?"
*
Sam grabs a newspaper on the way in. Dean raises his eyebrow at him as he hands the cheerful candy striper behind the gift store counter a medley of coins, and he shrugs defensively. "Come on, Dean. We both know how much it sucks to be laid up in a hospital for days on end."
"Fair enough. I just don't peg him for the type to care about what's happening in local news."
"You think he'd rather sit around watching television?" And okay, Sam probably has a point with that. Dean lets it go, even though they really don't have the cash to be wasting on reading material. They're pretty much broke these days, but all things considered? That's probably pretty low on their list of worries.
It doesn't take long at all for them to get to Castiel's room. When they do, Dean's first impression is that he looks much, much better. Although he's lying with his eyes closed, as if in sleep, his skin isn't as wan as it was last time. He looks less scraggly, too, like some kindhearted nurse finally taught him how to shave.
Cas opens his eyes as they walk into the hospital room. For a moment he smiles slightly at Sam, looking exhausted but more alert than last time. When he sees Dean, though, he tenses. His face goes on lockdown, and Dean is left with no clue as to what he's thinking.
Before he can be bothered to contemplate it, though, Sam is speaking smoothly, as if he's not aware of the tension in the room. "Morning, Cas. I brought you the paper again." He hands it over to Castiel, who lays it down on top of the stark white hospital sheets.
"Thank you, Sam. I appreciate it." Castiel glances at Dean, wary and perhaps even a bit fearful. He seems to be about to say something, but then he looks away, out the window that stares onto the parking lot. "The doctors have said I might be able to be released sooner than they had planned. They're saying the day after tomorrow, if I'm ready."
"That's great." Sam heads to the right of Castiel's bed, to where a set of blue plastic chairs wait. He sits in one of them like it's the most natural thing in the world, and nods as Dean to join him. He does, with no small amount of reluctance. It occurs to him that he knows very little about what Sam has been doing with Castiel during the visits; what, exactly, they've been discussing. The thought makes him more uncomfortable than he cares to admit. "Actually, that's why Dean came today. I figured that it'd be a good idea to figure out what you want to do when you're released."
"You did?" Castiel looks way more surprised than is appropriate. "I hadn't thought…" he trails off, looking away.
Sam leans forward. That look is on his face, the gentle, trustworthy one that he gets when he's talking to the victims of whatever their monster-of-the-day is. It's still hard for Dean to consider it being applied to Cas. "What? What did you think?"
"Nothing," Castiel says quickly and firmly, and Dean gets the strong impression that the unsaid words were, I didn't think you would stick around that long. He pushes down the irrational anger that rises up in his chest at how Castiel refuses to listen to he and Sam, and all of their reassurances. "I-I suppose that I didn't consider that far in advance. What did you have in mind?"
"Well, I thought that you might want to come with us." Sam glances at Dean, like he's looking for his approval, and so Dean nods for him to go on. "Bobby's hanging out in Montana right now, some old lodge that used to belong to a hunter who owed him. We could go there for a while. You're not going to be in good shape for some time yet, so it would make sense to have somewhere where you could get your bearings back."
"I see." There's a momentary pause, and then Castiel says to both of them-but with his gaze focused on Dean in a way that's pretty damn unsettling-"And what after that?"
Sam shrugs. "That's your choice. I mean, the world could always use more hunters. We'd be happy to train you-actually, it'd be best to have a basic idea of what you can do, anyway. I doubt that the Leviathans are going to let you go easily, and there are still demons and everything out there. But anyway, if you want to go off and make your own way in the world, that's cool too. It's your choice."
Castiel nods. His fingers are absentmindedly playing with the thin edges of the newspaper that Sam brought him. "And what's your opinion? What choice should I make?"
Sam looks surprised at the question. He doesn't need to think before he answers, though; he goes straight ahead and says, "I'd like it if you stayed with us for a while. I consider you my friend, Cas, and I know that you'd make a good hunter."
"Very well." He nods again, his brow furrowing. The amount of thoughtfulness to his expression tells Dean that he's probably not assenting to sticking around and hunting. "It's something to consider, I suppose… Sam, would you be kind enough to bring me some water?" he asks suddenly. "Just from the cooler down the hall. If you don't mind."
"No, not at all." Sam stands up quickly, almost knocking over his comically-undersized chair as he does. "I'll be back in a few."
Subtlety has never been Castiel's strong suit, and so they both recognize this as a means to get to speak with Dean alone. Sam glances at him as he heads out, raises his eyebrows and flashes him a quick frown. The message is a clear Don't fuck this up.
Dean raises one eyebrow in reply. Trust me.
He and Castiel wait a beat, until Sam is (supposedly) out of hearing range. During this time, Castiel actually looks at Dean, for practically the first time since he and Sam got here; staring at him in a throwback to the way that he did when he was angel-powered. His eyes are dark, and his scrutinizing expression is more or less unreadable. Dean resists the urge to stare back.
Finally, when it's assured that Sam is a safe distance away (assuming that he isn't just listening in, like he apparently was the last time that they talked) Castiel says bluntly, "If you want me to leave, I will."
Dean does meet his eyes now, which suddenly look as tired as he did that day when he first came back, more than a week ago. "I don't."
Castiel's words are said in a flat, apathetic tone, not an accusing one. Dean doesn't know which one is worse. "Your actions say otherwise."
The urge to stand up and pace the room grows strong. Dean clenches his hands into fists and forces himself to stay put. "You mean how I haven't been back here?"
Castiel nods. It looks like he's about to say something more, but he doesn't, so Dean goes on. "Yeah, I know that I… that I'm not the greatest when it comes to hanging around your bedside, and all that sort of stuff. It doesn't mean that I don't want you to stay with us though, okay?"
"Dean, give me some credit. I know that the reason you haven't been by has nothing to do with your bedside manner." Castiel's breath quickens, and he stares down at the sheets that cover his body. "I'm not faulting you for your anger. My actions have earned it. And if you honestly find it unbearable to be around me; if all that I do is remind you of the damage that was done to your brother, how the Leviathans were released, how I worked with Crowley-if that's what you see when you're around me, then it's best for both of our sakes, but especially for yours, if we go our separate ways."
And fuck it, he can't take this sitting down. Dean stands up, carefully makes his way around the two now-unoccupied chairs, and goes to stand by the window. He stares down at the crowded parking lot, where a steady stream of people enters and exits the building. It's bright and sunny out; it has been every day since Castiel came back. "Cas, when I said that I was happy you weren't dead, and that I was glad to have you back, did you believe me?"
Castiel is quiet for longer than he should be. Dean waits, watching a man dragging two small children who are each armed with a balloon out of the hospital. Finally, he answers in a low voice. "I thought I did, at the time. It occurred to me that you might have just been saying such things to alleviate the comment that I had made before, though. About regretting that I lived."
Dean tears himself away from the parking lot scene below. Castiel is watching him nervously; he shrinks back into the bed when Dean faces him, like for some bizarre reason he's afraid. "I meant it. I did then, and I do now. I know that I haven't come by since, until now, but that doesn't just erase the fact that I was telling the truth. I can't just forgive you for what you did, okay? It doesn't work like that. I know that it probably doesn't make sense, but even though I'm not about to just forget what you did, I don't want you to leave."
"Why not?"
"Because you were my friend," Dean snaps. For some reason, the simple, two-word question pissed him off more than anything else that Castiel has said today. "Or maybe because you once gave a shit about me, and I once gave one about you. Or maybe because I'm not a total asshole." He pauses. Castiel's expression is indecipherable, but the way that he's pulled the blankets up so that he's covered practically to his chin isn't, and Dean doesn't get why Castiel is scared of him, but the unconscious gesture is as clear a shield as any that he's ever seen.
His anger is gone, and he's suddenly exhausted. Dean walks back to where he was sitting before and drops back down. Castiel doesn't flinch, but Dean gets the idea that he had to make an effort not to.
Quietly, Dean says, "It's complicated, Cas. I can't say that it's not. But I missed you when you were gone, even if I was pissed at you. And even if I'm still pissed, I still don't want to go through that again. Okay? Just… just believe me. Trust me."
It's what he asked out of Castiel before, and Castiel denied him, which is kind of how they ended up here in the first place. But this time Castiel has apparently learned from his mistakes, because he says in a voice as low as Dean's was, "Okay. If that's what you ask for, then I'll trust you."
Dean pushes down the frustration that's rising up in him; this is probably partially his fault in the first place. "Cas, I don't just want you to trust me. That's not what I meant. I want you to believe me when I say that I'm glad you're not dead, and that I want you to stay around."
"But you haven't forgiven me," Castiel points out. He doesn't sound accusing, just confused. "I don't understand how you can at once be glad for my return and furious with me for my actions."
And he laughs at that even though it isn't really funny, because that right there? That's Castiel. He didn't understand humans before, and even though he is one now, he still doesn't get them. Dean isn't sure why he would have expected that to change. "Because. Just…because. That's humanity, okay? I'm pissed at you, and I'm fucking thankful to God or whoever that you're back, and I don't want you to leave. Those are all true, all at once, and that's just kind of the way it is."
Castiel tilts his head. His grasp on the sheet relaxes, and it falls down some to rest against his chest. "It's complicated."
Dean allows himself to smile at that, because who says that he can't be pissed at Cas and still smile at what he says? Dean's dealing with this on his own, and he knows that not wanting Cas to go doesn't somehow invalidate his anger. He doesn't need to prove that to anyone. "Yeah, it is."
"I would prefer it if… if you just forgave me," Castiel admits, going back to working at a loose thread on the hospital sheets. "It would make things easier. But forgiveness requires penance, and I have not yet paid mine appropriately." He pauses, and then asks tentatively, "If I do find something, anything to do that could possibly make amends for how I acted before, is there any chance at all that you could forgive me?"
Dean hesitates at that, and Castiel must pick that up, because he quickly says, "If you can't, I understand-"
"No," Dean shakes his head, passes a hand down his face (and how long has it been since he shaved? These days he loses track far more often than he should). "I don't know, Cas. It's complicated right now; I'm not going to act like it isn't-but in the future? Maybe. Let's just take it one day at a time, okay?"
"Okay," Castiel agrees. Some of the tension seems to have melted from his eyes, and although he still isn't the Castiel that Dean knew-though there's still tension in his body and still an odd shadow of fear in his eyes-he looks so much better than he did when he appeared in the motel room, and for the first time in a long time, Dean allows himself to believe that maybe he will be able to forgive Castiel one day. Maybe things will still turn out right in the end.
And maybe he's just a naïve fool, but he supposes that only time will tell.
*
Castiel is released from the hospital two days later. The doctor gives them a month's worth of the good painkillers, advice about changing the dressings for the stomach wounds, and a speech about what a miracle it was that Cas made it at all.
Dean and Sam smile and nod, acting like it's completely normal for two feds to be escorting a patient home (and okay, these hospital guys are total pushovers; Dean is half-tempted to tell them that he needs to take their wallets for "federal business" just to build up their nonexistent cash reserves). Castiel sits in the wheelchair they stick all outgoing patients in. He listens to the speech with a detached look. What little enthusiasm that he showed when he said that he would work to become a hunter is gone now. Of course, he might just be tired, but Dean somehow doubts that.
The Impala is waiting outside for them, sleek and polished in the sun. The orderly pushing Castiel's wheelchair whistles when he sees it. "Nice car."
"Thanks." Dean allows himself a moment to grin at that, before he turns and focuses on Castiel. "You mind taking the backseat?"
There's a slight glaze over Castiel's eyes as he stares at the Impala; his hands are fists around the arms of the wheelchair, white-knuckled and painful to look at. To Castiel's right, Sam quickly says, "You can take the front if you want, it's no big deal-"
"No," Castiel interrupts. His jaw hardens, and he shakes his head. Clarity returns to his eyes, if only for a moment. "The back is fine. Thank you."
They help him into the rear bench, which Dean spent several days scouring with chemicals that could probably kill a Leviathan in desperate attempts to get the blood out of the seats. Most of it is gone now-the Impala has been through more than most cars in terms of the gore that's been stained into her leather, and she always gets through it-but there remains an underlying sense of wrongness, like the memory of Castiel bleeding out has seeped in deeper than the strongest cleaning agent can reach.
It's clear that Castiel remembers that night. His hands shake as he reaches up and clips in the seatbelt, and his jaw doesn't leave that tightly-clenched position as he adjusts on the seat. Dean almost speaks up, almost insists that Castiel lets Sam take the back, but Sam glances at him and shakes his head; there's no question that they're thinking about the same thing.
Dean closes the door. He and Sam thank the orderly, and then, just like that, they're ready to leave. It's a crisp, clear day out, not a cloud in the sky despite how the freezing temperatures seem to portend snow, and Dean thinks that a more superstitious man than him would probably take it as a good omen.
He's about to open up the door to the driver's seat, about to get in and get them far, far away from the hospital where they've been for so long, when Sam says quietly, "Dean, don't push it."
"Huh?" He stops, his hand lingering on the handle. "What do you mean?"
"With Cas. Just… I think he feels lousy enough as it is, with the whole being human thing." Sam shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "And I don't know, I'm getting the idea that there's a lot that he hasn't told us. Try not to push him, okay?"
"Okay." Dean raises his hands in a gesture of feigned surrender. "Not like I was setting out to be Mr. Touchy-Feely anyway."
"I know." Sam nods, and then rolls his eyes as the stupidity of Dean's comment hits him. Dean grins. "Let's get going."
Dean snorts, and finally opens his door to return to the familiar leather of his car. "Sam, we can't get out of here fast enough."
Author: lies_unfurl
Rating/warnings: PG-13/themes of depression, PTSD, alcoholism
Characters/pairings: Dean, Castiel, Sam, Bobby; none (this part)
Word Count: ~4000 {this part}
Summary: Follows Something I Don't Know. Dean tries to find a balance between his anger and his sympathy as he deals with Castiel.
Notes: I really wanted to post this before it gets epically Kripke'd (or maybe Gambled would be more accurate?) by a certain upcoming episode. Unfortunately, my zeal to write has been...not too intense, although I have a lot of writing that I want to do including a now-overdue fic for hoodie_time; fml. But I knew already that this would be two parts, and splitting it here makes sense, so. Yeah. Uh, the title is from the Lindsey Buckingham song of the same name.
"Dean," Sam says, four mornings after Castiel has been awake from his coma, "Dean, we need to figure out what we're going to do with Cas."
Dean glances up from his morning coffee and raises an eyebrow at his brother, who's leaning against the entrance to the bathroom. "That gonna be an issue soon? I thought that they wanted to keep him in until Sunday, at least. For observation, and all that."
"Sunday is five days away. We can't just not talk about him, Dean. That's not going to solve anything." Sam crosses the room to pick up his own coffee. The owners of the small shop down the street made it just how he liked it; didn't even need to hear Dean's order first. It's been a long time since they've stayed anywhere long enough to become regulars, and yeah, Dean is starting to get kind of antsy.
"Well, what do you want to do?" He leans back against his familiar headboard and watches Sam. He honestly doesn't know what the fuck they're supposed to be doing with Cas. There's really no precedent here; Miss Manners probably doesn't have any advice on how to treat a once-angel, now-mortal being that fucked your brother over and used to be your best friend.
Hell; Dean hasn't even seen Cas since that first time, even though Sam's been every day. It's hard to explain why exactly-or at least, it's hard to explain why without coming off as a total asshole. He should know; Sam has asked him often enough.
Mostly, he can't stand to see Castiel just lying there in bed, looking as pathetic as is possible. He can't stand to be reminded of how far Castiel has fallen, how he's already being punished by the universe or whatever. And the reason for that is because Dean knows logically that Cas is suffering, but he still can't bring himself to forgive him for everything that he did to Sam and to him. He knows that Castiel is paying for his mistakes, but he's paying the punishment doled out to him by Fate, or whoever is in charge of the behind-the-scenes crap these days. And Dean doesn't run by Fate's decisions.
"Me? I think that we should take him with us to wherever Bobby is holed up and train him." Sam shrugs, like this should be obvious-and okay, it kind of is. Dean really wasn't expecting him to say something else. "I mean, I don't think that Cas really wants to go out and make something else of himself. We're all that he knows."
"Sad as that is," Dean mutters.
"Still. I mean, I'll talk to him today, but I think that's what he'll say." Sam pauses, and then says what Dean was expecting: "I think you should come with me."
Dean sighs, swinging his legs off of the worn mattress and stretching as he stands, trying to calm the nervous energy that's going through him right now. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Oh, come on." Sam frowns at him, shaking his head. "What, you're going to go to the Laundromat again? Bobby needs you to relay something to him, since we've got internet and he doesn't?" Bobby is somewhere in Montana right now, in a place that doesn't have electricity, much less Wi-Fi. He left three evenings ago, and only calls at night, when he can go into the city and get a signal. Makes things… interesting, to say the least. "Stop making excuses, Dean. He asks for you, you know."
That last words hurt, even though they shouldn't, and by the way that Sam raised an eyebrow, Dean is pretty sure that he cringed. "Cas knows how things are."
"And? Look, could you at least wait until he's out of the hospital to guilt trip him?"
"I haven't been guilt-tripping him," Dean snaps back, although he probably kind of has. "Sam, I'm telling you now: if you expect everything to just be all hunky-dory between us right now, then you've got one hell of a reality dosing that's about to come down on you. Things aren't just going to be okay with us. You've got every right to do what you want, but I can't forgive him for spending a whole frigging year lying to our faces. And for hurting you like he did? He's lucky that I didn't just kill him then." His anger strengthens within him. "I'm not going out of my way to make life harder for him, Sam, but there's no way that I'm just forgiving him. I can't."
Sam stares back, a frustrated look in his eyes. "Fine. You've said time and time again that you're not going to forgive him, and if that's the way things are? Then I'm not going to try to change your mind, Dean, because I know that you're not going to listen to any reason. But at least try to, you know, be decent. You said it yourself, you're glad that he's not dead. Act like it."
Dean starts, because hold up a minute, he's pretty damn sure that he said that to Castiel, and Castiel alone. "You listening in on my private conversations now, Sammy?"
Sam cringes slightly, but he doesn't look overly guilty. "It was in the middle of a hospital room, Dean. Not really private. And you know that you're just evading my point."
"Still private." He sighs, throwing his empty coffee cup into the motel's tiny trash bin. This isn't an argument that he's going to win, is it? "I'll come today, but just so we can talk to him."
"Of course." Sam grins, like he's just made some great breakthrough in his fool's quest to get Dean to just forgive and forget. "Awesome. We'll head out when you're ready, okay?"
*
Sam grabs a newspaper on the way in. Dean raises his eyebrow at him as he hands the cheerful candy striper behind the gift store counter a medley of coins, and he shrugs defensively. "Come on, Dean. We both know how much it sucks to be laid up in a hospital for days on end."
"Fair enough. I just don't peg him for the type to care about what's happening in local news."
"You think he'd rather sit around watching television?" And okay, Sam probably has a point with that. Dean lets it go, even though they really don't have the cash to be wasting on reading material. They're pretty much broke these days, but all things considered? That's probably pretty low on their list of worries.
It doesn't take long at all for them to get to Castiel's room. When they do, Dean's first impression is that he looks much, much better. Although he's lying with his eyes closed, as if in sleep, his skin isn't as wan as it was last time. He looks less scraggly, too, like some kindhearted nurse finally taught him how to shave.
Cas opens his eyes as they walk into the hospital room. For a moment he smiles slightly at Sam, looking exhausted but more alert than last time. When he sees Dean, though, he tenses. His face goes on lockdown, and Dean is left with no clue as to what he's thinking.
Before he can be bothered to contemplate it, though, Sam is speaking smoothly, as if he's not aware of the tension in the room. "Morning, Cas. I brought you the paper again." He hands it over to Castiel, who lays it down on top of the stark white hospital sheets.
"Thank you, Sam. I appreciate it." Castiel glances at Dean, wary and perhaps even a bit fearful. He seems to be about to say something, but then he looks away, out the window that stares onto the parking lot. "The doctors have said I might be able to be released sooner than they had planned. They're saying the day after tomorrow, if I'm ready."
"That's great." Sam heads to the right of Castiel's bed, to where a set of blue plastic chairs wait. He sits in one of them like it's the most natural thing in the world, and nods as Dean to join him. He does, with no small amount of reluctance. It occurs to him that he knows very little about what Sam has been doing with Castiel during the visits; what, exactly, they've been discussing. The thought makes him more uncomfortable than he cares to admit. "Actually, that's why Dean came today. I figured that it'd be a good idea to figure out what you want to do when you're released."
"You did?" Castiel looks way more surprised than is appropriate. "I hadn't thought…" he trails off, looking away.
Sam leans forward. That look is on his face, the gentle, trustworthy one that he gets when he's talking to the victims of whatever their monster-of-the-day is. It's still hard for Dean to consider it being applied to Cas. "What? What did you think?"
"Nothing," Castiel says quickly and firmly, and Dean gets the strong impression that the unsaid words were, I didn't think you would stick around that long. He pushes down the irrational anger that rises up in his chest at how Castiel refuses to listen to he and Sam, and all of their reassurances. "I-I suppose that I didn't consider that far in advance. What did you have in mind?"
"Well, I thought that you might want to come with us." Sam glances at Dean, like he's looking for his approval, and so Dean nods for him to go on. "Bobby's hanging out in Montana right now, some old lodge that used to belong to a hunter who owed him. We could go there for a while. You're not going to be in good shape for some time yet, so it would make sense to have somewhere where you could get your bearings back."
"I see." There's a momentary pause, and then Castiel says to both of them-but with his gaze focused on Dean in a way that's pretty damn unsettling-"And what after that?"
Sam shrugs. "That's your choice. I mean, the world could always use more hunters. We'd be happy to train you-actually, it'd be best to have a basic idea of what you can do, anyway. I doubt that the Leviathans are going to let you go easily, and there are still demons and everything out there. But anyway, if you want to go off and make your own way in the world, that's cool too. It's your choice."
Castiel nods. His fingers are absentmindedly playing with the thin edges of the newspaper that Sam brought him. "And what's your opinion? What choice should I make?"
Sam looks surprised at the question. He doesn't need to think before he answers, though; he goes straight ahead and says, "I'd like it if you stayed with us for a while. I consider you my friend, Cas, and I know that you'd make a good hunter."
"Very well." He nods again, his brow furrowing. The amount of thoughtfulness to his expression tells Dean that he's probably not assenting to sticking around and hunting. "It's something to consider, I suppose… Sam, would you be kind enough to bring me some water?" he asks suddenly. "Just from the cooler down the hall. If you don't mind."
"No, not at all." Sam stands up quickly, almost knocking over his comically-undersized chair as he does. "I'll be back in a few."
Subtlety has never been Castiel's strong suit, and so they both recognize this as a means to get to speak with Dean alone. Sam glances at him as he heads out, raises his eyebrows and flashes him a quick frown. The message is a clear Don't fuck this up.
Dean raises one eyebrow in reply. Trust me.
He and Castiel wait a beat, until Sam is (supposedly) out of hearing range. During this time, Castiel actually looks at Dean, for practically the first time since he and Sam got here; staring at him in a throwback to the way that he did when he was angel-powered. His eyes are dark, and his scrutinizing expression is more or less unreadable. Dean resists the urge to stare back.
Finally, when it's assured that Sam is a safe distance away (assuming that he isn't just listening in, like he apparently was the last time that they talked) Castiel says bluntly, "If you want me to leave, I will."
Dean does meet his eyes now, which suddenly look as tired as he did that day when he first came back, more than a week ago. "I don't."
Castiel's words are said in a flat, apathetic tone, not an accusing one. Dean doesn't know which one is worse. "Your actions say otherwise."
The urge to stand up and pace the room grows strong. Dean clenches his hands into fists and forces himself to stay put. "You mean how I haven't been back here?"
Castiel nods. It looks like he's about to say something more, but he doesn't, so Dean goes on. "Yeah, I know that I… that I'm not the greatest when it comes to hanging around your bedside, and all that sort of stuff. It doesn't mean that I don't want you to stay with us though, okay?"
"Dean, give me some credit. I know that the reason you haven't been by has nothing to do with your bedside manner." Castiel's breath quickens, and he stares down at the sheets that cover his body. "I'm not faulting you for your anger. My actions have earned it. And if you honestly find it unbearable to be around me; if all that I do is remind you of the damage that was done to your brother, how the Leviathans were released, how I worked with Crowley-if that's what you see when you're around me, then it's best for both of our sakes, but especially for yours, if we go our separate ways."
And fuck it, he can't take this sitting down. Dean stands up, carefully makes his way around the two now-unoccupied chairs, and goes to stand by the window. He stares down at the crowded parking lot, where a steady stream of people enters and exits the building. It's bright and sunny out; it has been every day since Castiel came back. "Cas, when I said that I was happy you weren't dead, and that I was glad to have you back, did you believe me?"
Castiel is quiet for longer than he should be. Dean waits, watching a man dragging two small children who are each armed with a balloon out of the hospital. Finally, he answers in a low voice. "I thought I did, at the time. It occurred to me that you might have just been saying such things to alleviate the comment that I had made before, though. About regretting that I lived."
Dean tears himself away from the parking lot scene below. Castiel is watching him nervously; he shrinks back into the bed when Dean faces him, like for some bizarre reason he's afraid. "I meant it. I did then, and I do now. I know that I haven't come by since, until now, but that doesn't just erase the fact that I was telling the truth. I can't just forgive you for what you did, okay? It doesn't work like that. I know that it probably doesn't make sense, but even though I'm not about to just forget what you did, I don't want you to leave."
"Why not?"
"Because you were my friend," Dean snaps. For some reason, the simple, two-word question pissed him off more than anything else that Castiel has said today. "Or maybe because you once gave a shit about me, and I once gave one about you. Or maybe because I'm not a total asshole." He pauses. Castiel's expression is indecipherable, but the way that he's pulled the blankets up so that he's covered practically to his chin isn't, and Dean doesn't get why Castiel is scared of him, but the unconscious gesture is as clear a shield as any that he's ever seen.
His anger is gone, and he's suddenly exhausted. Dean walks back to where he was sitting before and drops back down. Castiel doesn't flinch, but Dean gets the idea that he had to make an effort not to.
Quietly, Dean says, "It's complicated, Cas. I can't say that it's not. But I missed you when you were gone, even if I was pissed at you. And even if I'm still pissed, I still don't want to go through that again. Okay? Just… just believe me. Trust me."
It's what he asked out of Castiel before, and Castiel denied him, which is kind of how they ended up here in the first place. But this time Castiel has apparently learned from his mistakes, because he says in a voice as low as Dean's was, "Okay. If that's what you ask for, then I'll trust you."
Dean pushes down the frustration that's rising up in him; this is probably partially his fault in the first place. "Cas, I don't just want you to trust me. That's not what I meant. I want you to believe me when I say that I'm glad you're not dead, and that I want you to stay around."
"But you haven't forgiven me," Castiel points out. He doesn't sound accusing, just confused. "I don't understand how you can at once be glad for my return and furious with me for my actions."
And he laughs at that even though it isn't really funny, because that right there? That's Castiel. He didn't understand humans before, and even though he is one now, he still doesn't get them. Dean isn't sure why he would have expected that to change. "Because. Just…because. That's humanity, okay? I'm pissed at you, and I'm fucking thankful to God or whoever that you're back, and I don't want you to leave. Those are all true, all at once, and that's just kind of the way it is."
Castiel tilts his head. His grasp on the sheet relaxes, and it falls down some to rest against his chest. "It's complicated."
Dean allows himself to smile at that, because who says that he can't be pissed at Cas and still smile at what he says? Dean's dealing with this on his own, and he knows that not wanting Cas to go doesn't somehow invalidate his anger. He doesn't need to prove that to anyone. "Yeah, it is."
"I would prefer it if… if you just forgave me," Castiel admits, going back to working at a loose thread on the hospital sheets. "It would make things easier. But forgiveness requires penance, and I have not yet paid mine appropriately." He pauses, and then asks tentatively, "If I do find something, anything to do that could possibly make amends for how I acted before, is there any chance at all that you could forgive me?"
Dean hesitates at that, and Castiel must pick that up, because he quickly says, "If you can't, I understand-"
"No," Dean shakes his head, passes a hand down his face (and how long has it been since he shaved? These days he loses track far more often than he should). "I don't know, Cas. It's complicated right now; I'm not going to act like it isn't-but in the future? Maybe. Let's just take it one day at a time, okay?"
"Okay," Castiel agrees. Some of the tension seems to have melted from his eyes, and although he still isn't the Castiel that Dean knew-though there's still tension in his body and still an odd shadow of fear in his eyes-he looks so much better than he did when he appeared in the motel room, and for the first time in a long time, Dean allows himself to believe that maybe he will be able to forgive Castiel one day. Maybe things will still turn out right in the end.
And maybe he's just a naïve fool, but he supposes that only time will tell.
*
Castiel is released from the hospital two days later. The doctor gives them a month's worth of the good painkillers, advice about changing the dressings for the stomach wounds, and a speech about what a miracle it was that Cas made it at all.
Dean and Sam smile and nod, acting like it's completely normal for two feds to be escorting a patient home (and okay, these hospital guys are total pushovers; Dean is half-tempted to tell them that he needs to take their wallets for "federal business" just to build up their nonexistent cash reserves). Castiel sits in the wheelchair they stick all outgoing patients in. He listens to the speech with a detached look. What little enthusiasm that he showed when he said that he would work to become a hunter is gone now. Of course, he might just be tired, but Dean somehow doubts that.
The Impala is waiting outside for them, sleek and polished in the sun. The orderly pushing Castiel's wheelchair whistles when he sees it. "Nice car."
"Thanks." Dean allows himself a moment to grin at that, before he turns and focuses on Castiel. "You mind taking the backseat?"
There's a slight glaze over Castiel's eyes as he stares at the Impala; his hands are fists around the arms of the wheelchair, white-knuckled and painful to look at. To Castiel's right, Sam quickly says, "You can take the front if you want, it's no big deal-"
"No," Castiel interrupts. His jaw hardens, and he shakes his head. Clarity returns to his eyes, if only for a moment. "The back is fine. Thank you."
They help him into the rear bench, which Dean spent several days scouring with chemicals that could probably kill a Leviathan in desperate attempts to get the blood out of the seats. Most of it is gone now-the Impala has been through more than most cars in terms of the gore that's been stained into her leather, and she always gets through it-but there remains an underlying sense of wrongness, like the memory of Castiel bleeding out has seeped in deeper than the strongest cleaning agent can reach.
It's clear that Castiel remembers that night. His hands shake as he reaches up and clips in the seatbelt, and his jaw doesn't leave that tightly-clenched position as he adjusts on the seat. Dean almost speaks up, almost insists that Castiel lets Sam take the back, but Sam glances at him and shakes his head; there's no question that they're thinking about the same thing.
Dean closes the door. He and Sam thank the orderly, and then, just like that, they're ready to leave. It's a crisp, clear day out, not a cloud in the sky despite how the freezing temperatures seem to portend snow, and Dean thinks that a more superstitious man than him would probably take it as a good omen.
He's about to open up the door to the driver's seat, about to get in and get them far, far away from the hospital where they've been for so long, when Sam says quietly, "Dean, don't push it."
"Huh?" He stops, his hand lingering on the handle. "What do you mean?"
"With Cas. Just… I think he feels lousy enough as it is, with the whole being human thing." Sam shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "And I don't know, I'm getting the idea that there's a lot that he hasn't told us. Try not to push him, okay?"
"Okay." Dean raises his hands in a gesture of feigned surrender. "Not like I was setting out to be Mr. Touchy-Feely anyway."
"I know." Sam nods, and then rolls his eyes as the stupidity of Dean's comment hits him. Dean grins. "Let's get going."
Dean snorts, and finally opens his door to return to the familiar leather of his car. "Sam, we can't get out of here fast enough."