Symmetry, of a Sort 9/?
Title: Symmetry, of a Sort 9/?
Characters/Pairings: Castiel/Dean, Sam, Gabriel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9,732
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to CW.
Notes: Sort of an AR, follows the show through season 5.
Summary: Dean has no idea how things got so backasswards, how he's the angel now while Cas is the broken soul in need of saving, but he can't dwell on it. Whatever sent Cas to Hell may be after him still, and they've got to find it and stop it before it can happen again.
SO MANY THANKS to my amazing beta Laurie-ky, without whom this would not be comprehensible.
Dean misses Heaven every goddamn second. It’s not like he’s pining for it, or anything, looking longingly up at the sky with dewy eyes and cursing the day he left, but this feeling is there.
It’s a distant thing; a low-grade fever burning just below the skin, an itch he manages to forget until he thoughtlessly scratches it with his nail. As pissed as he still is there’s a compulsive kind of yearning to return, to surround himself with his brethren. To go home. He doesn’t know if it’s more an “absence makes the heart grow fonder” deal or more of a strictly angel thing, and that, more than anything, pisses him off.
Actually missing the place would be understandable - Dean’s got family there, and a few friends. But if the majority of this feeling stems from purely celestial roots like he suspects? It’s been pretty well established in Dean’s experience that if he can’t control something he generally doesn’t like it, and he sure as shit won’t stand for something controlling him. He doesn’t like the idea, even after all these years, that being an angel has changed him. He can’t stand the thought that it might affect him at all, and especially not when the last damn thing he needs is a distraction.
He’s got better things to do, more important issues to attend to, and the notion that this fucking angel thing might have a hold over him now is infuriating. He doesn’t want to lose himself, like he did up there. He doesn’t want to get so caught up in this crap that he misses what’s happening right in front of him.
It’s not healthy, God knows it’s not healthy at this point, but Dean can’t help but cling to a notion of himself as a human. He doesn’t want to let go of that guy, doesn’t want to lose anything that made him him. And yeah, maybe he could afford to gain a few angelic attributes (he never claimed to be without flaw), but he’d rather not. Being back with Sam and Cas reminds him of who he’d been, and he misses it.
He feels cleaved in two, stretched in different directions. He feels lost. He feels like he has no idea who the fuck he is, anymore. But he’s got things to do.
He’s got things to do.
*****
Dean estimates he’s spent about a third of his life crammed in the Impala, more often than not beside a freakishly large certain someone of freakishly large proportions, so claustrophobia’s never really been an issue for him. Even having gotten used to the expansiveness of Heaven, the endlessness of it, he’s sure he’d still feel every bit as comfortable holed up in a hotel room as he would out in the wide open. He doesn’t need much space, never has. He is not claustrophobic. Having spent a few days inside Gabriel’s tiny-ass house with four other people, though… he’s getting there.
Though, if he’s gonna be honest, it’s not so much the lack of space as it is the lack of damn oxygen. He appreciates that Sam and Nora had felt the need to stay at the house, to take metaphorical arms while Cas took some time to recover. He’s glad for the familiar faces, and he could sure as hell use the backup. But he can’t breathe. Dean’s an angel now, so he’s not sure it’s even really a necessity, but the air is so damn thick with tension he can feel it clamp around his chest like a vise. They’re on edge, every one of them, and the source of their anxiety is clear enough; they’re waiting for the break.
One week since he was pulled out of Hell, and Cas is still on autopilot. No worse, but he’s definitely not any better, and at this point Dean would take either just to see a little progress. Not like he wants the guy to break down, he doesn’t, but anything’s got to be better than this impassive shit. Dean doesn’t know if it has more to do with the fact that Cas is surrounded by family or more to do with this maddening friggin standstill they’re at, but Castiel is so damn mild. He’ll eat, sleep, do his research and make his calls, but that’s about it; anything else seems almost too much to bear.
It’s an eerily reminiscent echo of a Cas Dean had known a long time ago, so close to the desolate edge but so damn reluctant to give in to any kind of weakness. He’s like a shell-shocked soldier trudging ever freaking onward, like he hasn’t got a choice. Like he’s too damn stubborn to acknowledge that taking a break is even an option, and it’s wearing him thin. It drives Dean crazy for a lot of reasons, but none of them is more frustrating than the knowledge that had it been thirty years earlier, he could have fixed this.
Dean knows Cas, probably more than he ever realized, and thirty years ago he would have known what to do here. He would have known how to help and maybe, after some persistence, Cas would have let him. Hell, if persistence alone didn’t work Dean would have made him accept the damn help, because back then that was something they could do. Push each other around, bitch at each other, whatever, because deep down they’d both known they had one another’s best interests at heart.
They’d been on even ground, then. They’d known each other. It’s something Dean aches for, something he didn’t realize he missed until the absence of it was thrown in his face. It’s fucking staggering, the loss of it. The loss of them.
Cas doesn’t know Dean anymore. He doesn’t know they were best friends, or whatever it was their relationship might have been called. If Cas trusts him at all it’s a tentative thing, and Dean knows that any attempt he might make to approach him now like he would have back then would end in disaster. He may have yanked him out of the pit, but as far as Castiel is concerned Dean is a stranger. He hasn’t earned the right to be worried, to assert himself in Castiel’s business. He hasn’t earned the right to care.
Problem is, he does. For reasons he’d rather not think about Dean cares so damn much, and it kills him just to stand back and watch Castiel suffer. He didn’t think anything could have really felt worse than being stuck in Heaven, unable to intervene, but this takes the fucking cake. It’s a level of helplessness that’s almost too much to stand, and Dean’s never hated the phrase “so close, but so far away” as much as he does now. He’s about as near to losing it as Cas is, in his own way, but at least he’s doing a better job of hiding it.
Of course, Sam sees right through him. Dean loves his brother, and he’s missed him like crazy, but he’s really not so much in the mood for “the talk.” But he knows it’s time. Knows it, specifically, when Sam corners him in the guest room and orders him to sit. And if Dean thought he had trouble with Sam manipulating him with his cute little kid routine, he knows he’s fucked now. Saying no to his eighty year old little brother isn’t really something he has in him.
“God, what?” He doesn’t have to make it easy, though.
“Really?” Sam arches an eyebrow. “You’re gonna go all defensive before I even have the chance to speak? What if I just wanted to say hey? It’s been a long time, Dean, maybe I just want to reconnect.”
“Do you?”
His brother sighs, has the grace to look a little guilty as he settles into a chair. “No. I mean, yeah, but that’s not why I called you in here.”
He pauses, assesses Dean with a thoughtful look, and Dean can just hear him phrasing things out in his head. Debating whether to tread lightly or go in for the kill. It’s not long before Sam makes up his mind, and the chosen method is clear. “What are you going to do about this thing with Cas, Dean? How long do you really think you can keep this up?”
“Dude, keep what up? You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Sam, I got a lot going on.” There are about a million different ways to interpret the questions, about half of which Dean doesn’t really want to think about, let alone answer.
“Everything. All of it. You’re juggling a lot of balls here, Dean, but pretty soon you’re gonna lose your grip.” Concern colors Sam’s words, draws his eyebrows together like fretful wings. “I mean, dying, finding out you’re an angel. Saving Cas. Going through Hell, again. Even just being here now. It’s just a lot, Dean, and I know it can’t be any easier with… you know, the way that you feel about him.”
Dean’s not really sure how to respond to that one, not quite yet equipped with the right answer, and it must show. Sam continues with a knowing little smile. “Dean, come on. Not without reason, but you’ve been hovering over him for the past couple days. If you were any more obvious you’d be scooping him up to your chest like a lost baby bird.”
“Come on, man. Did you try to think of the most disturbing image you could possibly conjure, or does that shit just come naturally?” He’s got a point; Dean could have attempted to be a little more discreet. But still. It’s not like he can just turn his concern off, look the other way while Cas is all hollow smiles and empty reassurances. It’s not like he can make himself not care.
“Look, what I’m saying is… I know this has to suck for you. Having to watch Cas go through all this and pretend like it doesn’t really bother you. Having to act like you don’t even know him.” Sam pauses, levels him with an empathetic look that Dean would be tempted to mock if his brother wasn’t so damn on the mark.
“Lying to him, evading him…I know how it is, Dean. I’ve been doing it his entire life. You can try to pull your tough guy routine all you want, but I know it’s gotta be eating at you. So I just wanted you to know that if you need someone to talk to I’m here, okay?”
“I know, Sammy.” He reaches over, clumsily pats him on the shoulder and tries not to feel the sharp jut of bones beneath the worn flannel. Nearly thirty years later, and Sam is still Sam. Dean’s not sure how he got by without him. “Thanks. And, uh, same goes.”
Somehow he’d never really thought of it until now, but he can’t imagine what it must have been like watching Cas grow up, lying to him the whole time. Dean had been pretty convinced when Castiel had originally come to him about falling that he’d be able to pull off the ruse, but now he’s not so sure.
He’s got a pretty good idea that, in his own uncertain way, Cas must know there’s something off about himself. It’s in his eyes, a quiet kind of something that spells awareness, even if only on a subconscious level. Cas might not realize exactly what it is about himself that’s different, but Dean knows for a fact that he can feel it. The second the kid ever mentioned something to him about not fitting in, or just feeling generally out of place, Dean’s fairly certain he would have cracked. Willpower has never exactly been an iron asset for him.
As far as pretending not to be Dean Winchester goes, well… he’d never been all that great at that, either. He’d spent twenty-odd years after the Almost Apocalypse living as Dean Ulrich, and even though only a select few knew his true identity, he’d still felt weirdly thrown every time someone referred to him by his borrowed name. It had felt like a betrayal of sorts, like hiding, and if it had made him that uncomfortable with strangers, Dean seriously doubts he would have been able to carry on the lie with Castiel. He wasn’t there to help raise the kid, so he can’t say for sure, but right now he just can’t imagine having to have lied to Cas for all those years. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he put Dean back together, that he’d known Dean’s soul and accepted every bit of him, but Dean doesn’t think he could have pretended to be anything but himself with Cas. In any case, he doesn’t want to.
“So why didn’t you guys ever tell him about us? I mean, that was the plan, right?” He knows the basics from Nora, that she’d been reluctant to tell Cas anything once he developed a certain distaste for the angels, but he also knows there’s got to be more. Or at least Dean hopes there is because even if Cas didn’t have his angelic memories back, this would be a million times easier if he knew the truth about everyone’s identities. “Just telling him who we were wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d remember everything. And even if he did, so what? He’s strong enough to get over not liking angels, Sam, you know that.”
His brother seems caught between a cringe and a sigh, and he settles for an awkward combination of both. “I know. I know that. And if it was just that he had beef with the angels, we would have told him by now.”
Dean clings to that “just”, latches onto it with a cautious kind of foreboding. “But?” He does not like the fact that he has to prompt Sam to continue.
“Listen, it’s not my story to tell, but…” Sam shrugs, an apologetic shift. “He’s read the gospels, Dean. It’s not so much that he has a huge issue with all the angels, though he sort of does. It’s more he has an issue with Castiel. Specifically.”
“With himself.” He mulls the implications of that one over, lets it sink in. Dean’s pretty sure there’s a morbid kind of humor about the whole situation, but right about now it’s not particularly funny. “You’re telling me he’s got all these douchebag angels to choose from in the gospels, and the one he has a problem with is himself?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah.” For lack of a better option, Sam shrugs once more. “We haven’t told him anything because we didn’t want to risk him putting two and two together. I mean, could you even imagine what that would be like, realizing you’re someone you hate? And God, Dean, he’s a train wreck right now. He’s barely hanging on. Could you imagine if he realized it now?”
Dean can. It would be awful, he knows it’d be awful, but there are so many awful fucking things about this situation that he can’t even concentrate on just one - or at the very least he can’t bear to. He hates the idea that the guy had unknowingly taken a look at himself and, somehow, found a kind of hatred. He can’t stand the thought of Cas, Cas who’d gotten to be so serenely confident, so self-assured in his own quiet way, looking upon himself with any kind of negativity.
Almost worse than any of it, Dean is horrified at the notion that his Cas had possibly harbored similar feelings all along, which he’d concealed and repressed in an effort not to worry others. He’d always been just a little too protective of Dean in particular, occasionally at his own expense, and the vague possibility that he might have hidden such a detrimental self-image for so long makes Dean feel sick.
A long time ago, Castiel had come to Dean in regards to falling with claims of being weary. He’d needed some small rest, a break. Given this new information, Dean can’t help but wonder what the driving force behind that weariness might have been. He can’t help but wonder what, exactly, Castiel had been trying to escape.
What’s more, he can’t help but think that, despite his efforts, whatever Cas had been running from would find him anyway. Because more than likely, what he’d really been running from was himself.
*****
He spends his time between the house and New York, the house and Bangkok, the house and London. He disappears and reappears in different countries, in cities he’s heard of but never been to. He never stays for any substantial amount of time, but he stays long enough. Sometime he’ll talk to people, but he mainly just watches. He’s got no agenda, not really.
Dean’s just trying to reacquaint himself with the world. But it’s moved on without him.
*****
Dean, while highly skilled and otherwise awesome in some areas, is not exactly a master of angelic trade. Maybe because his holy arsenal had been so unnecessary in the sheltered confines of Heaven, he’s yet to come to a full understanding of every power he’s got in stock. Since his earthly homecoming he hasn’t done much aside from fly and throw around that not-quite-clairvoyance, that knowing that all angels seem to have, and he thinks he gets why: it scares the shit out of him.
Everything that had seemed normal in Heaven makes him feel unbelievably out of place among humans, and he knows it freaks Sam out. An embarrassingly petty part of him feels a little satisfaction that the kid finally understands what Dean had been going through (to some degree, anyway) when Sam had started with all the freaky psychic stuff. But it’s still weird.
He knows his uneasiness stems from bad experiences with the paranormal, even if the paranormal in this situation is himself. Though as a matter of fact it’s almost worse that way; Dean feels a little like a walking nuclear bomb, like he’s behind the wheel of some kind of ancient war machine and he’s got no fucking clue how any of the functions work. He feels dangerous, and not in a good way. Dean’s been an angel for hundreds of years and for a handful of moments, in the scheme of things, and this baby bird is not ready to fly.
He knows, thanks in part to his inexperience, that he’s probably about half as powerful as any of the other angels, and that scares him more. Dean’s got an arsenal with no inventory or directions on how to use it, whereas the Heavenly Brigade had probably toddled out their first few angelic baby steps by smiting the dinosaurs, or some shit.
He wonders if, had he come into existence as an angel instead of just becoming one, these things would be instinctual. Dean’s got some idea of what he can do, but for the most part he’s at a loss.
The one thing he does feel somewhat comfortable with, after getting the hang of the learning curve, is the long distance calling to Heaven - to one person in particular. His initial attempts to make contact had gone a little hinky, and it had taken him a while to figure out why. Conversations with the few angels he’d tried had felt odd, almost exposed, and it hadn’t been until partway through a chat with Joshua that Dean realized his uneasy feeling was one of being listened in on. His celestial line had been tapped, and while Dean couldn’t get a trace on the culprit, he soon recognized the feeling had been present in every conversation but the ones he’d had with Claire.
He doesn’t know for sure why he’s being monitored, but he knows a threat when he feels it. And maybe it’s just paranoia talking, adverse experiences, but as to who the listener might be the first person he instinctively jumps to is Michael. Dean’s got nothing other than his gut to back him up, but his gut has gotten him this far before. Who’s he to question it?
As to why the wiretap doesn’t seem to work when he and Claire speak, Dean’s got a half-assed theory. He can only figure it has something to do with their bond as half-breeds, maybe some kind of singular wavelength the two of them share that might be impervious to others. He doesn’t know. It sounds bat shit crazy even to him when he tries to think it through. But it feels that way.
In any case, it works out. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can trust Claire, both to keep him informed of the goings-on in Heaven and to keep things on the down low as far as he’s concerned. It’s like having a man on the inside, which is good. Except for the increasing, sinking feeling that’s got Dean convinced that he needs one.
Whatever happened to Cas, whatever’s happening to him now, Dean has no clue. But he knows, he knows, someone up there does.
*****
Castiel’s ninth day back with the living also brings the beginning of his breaking point, and Dean should have seen this coming.
He’d known that losing his job had been a definite possibility for Cas, that the rules and regulations for hunters these days deem dealing with a demon an unforgiveable- and unredeemable - indiscretion. He’d known it, and he’d known the evidence of Cas’s deal must have been out there for the experienced eye to find long before Dean even came along, but he’d hoped it would go unnoticed. He’d hoped, God had he hoped, that something would finally go Cas’s way.
Instead, having realized there was a connection between his last case (which had inexplicably been wiped from his memory) and the mysterious deal he’d been forced into, Castiel had called his superiors for information and had been given his marching orders instead. No severance pay, no chance of return in any kind of official capacity.
The case had been priority, and subsequently passed on to another hunter. As a civilian, Cas no longer had access to the classified information. His abandoned truck, as well as any evidence it may have held, had been confiscated until further notice. Were he to check his computer, he’d find all files related to the case deleted.
He’d been well and truly canned, terminated with such cold efficiency that Dean had been surprised not to see ice crystals forming in midair. All those years of dedication, and Castiel had been dismissed like an inconvenience, given a dishonorable discharge in the worst way a hunter can. Just like that, his one lead was gone. His living, gone.
It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, obviously, but Dean can see from the resigned wilt of Cas’s shoulders just how much this dismissal means. That after everything he’d been through, the loss of this job had still been big enough to affect him. Dean’s got a mind to kick some ass and take some names on his behalf, but he knows it’s not what Castiel needs. The guy needs to work things out in his own way, however that might be possible now.
Dean intends to let him have that small grace, that dignity. To let Castiel have some semblance of control over his own damn life.
If, after the local representatives have come to collect Cas’s badge, Dean makes a point to ensure that their car stalls on the way back, it’s not anything he brags about. If he accidentally sends their transmission to some cornfield he vaguely remembers in Pennsylvania, he’s sure the experience will only make them stronger.
He wishes he could do more. He wishes Cas would let him.
The only good thing that comes from the ordeal is that Cas finally begins to talk to him, really talk to him, and whatever the reason Dean doesn’t particularly care. When Cas asks him to come sit at the old picnic table out back, after days of barely noting his presence, Dean all but leaps at the opportunity. It’s what he’s been waiting for, kind of. It’s what he’s needed, and selfish as that is he clings to it.
He accepts the beer that Cas hands him once they’re seated, takes a few sips while his counterpart seems only to contemplate his own. He doubts Castiel even knows for sure why they’re out here, but he knows that being away from the family right now has got to be a welcome break. Dean lets him take his time.
“Thank you.” The graveled utterance, so unexpected after a few moments of quiet, seems to take them both by surprise. Castiel bites at his lower lip, casts his gaze somewhere in the distance before finally looking to Dean. “For saving me.”
It’s another instance where Dean would prefer to pass it off like no big deal, but the weight of Cas’s stare imparts the gravity of his words, so he nods. Says, “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t understand your motives. I don’t understand them now, but…” Any other person would look away while they struggled to find their words, but Cas just keeps those intense blues locked on Dean, unblinking. “I believe you are who you say you are. Perhaps against my better judgment, I also believe your intentions thus far have been good. Or at the very least that you wish me no harm.”
“Shucks, dude. You’re making me blush.” Dean would hate to hear him pay someone an actual compliment.
His friend frowns, tilts his head in a familiar way that lets Dean know he disapproves. “You’re being facetious. This is not a conversation that warrants sarcasm, Dean.”
It’s so much like the old Cas that Dean can’t really help a smile, but he does try to fight it. “Right. Sorry. Continue.”
Apparently satisfied with the apology, Cas nods. He’s pale in the fading light, and there are shadows cast across his frame in such a way that it strikes Dean as tragically symbolic, but somehow not a one manages to reach his eyes. They’re tired, weary beyond belief, but underneath all the hurt Dean can see that old familiar flame. Underneath it all, he can still see Cas.
It gives him hope. His friend is broken, and breaking still, but he isn’t gone. He might be faded, but he isn’t vanished.
“I believe you are who you say you are.” Cas repeats. “But I need to know if I can trust you.”
It’s kind of a tall order, when Dean doesn’t really have anything to back it up besides words. But he wants that trust. He needs it. “Your family, Sam. They all seem to trust me. I don’t see your mom trusting just anyone.”
“You pulled her youngest son from the depths of Hell. Some might say that would occlude one’s common sense.” Cas takes a long sip of his beer, watches for Dean’s reaction with interest.
“True. But somehow I don’t think she’d be that easily swayed. I’m also pretty sure either Gabriel or Sam would have banished me by now if they thought I was a threat.” Dean leans forward, makes sure Cas is looking him in the eye, though of course he never looked away. “But more importantly, Cas? You could have banished me, too.”
He lets that sink in for a moment, sees it register that Cas knows exactly what he’s driving at. “I’ve been there, man. Hell? I know what it’s like when you first get back. Your nerves are shot, everything is a threat just waiting to happen. You get so fucked up sometimes, you don’t even know if you can trust yourself. All you have, all you can trust after all that shit, is your instinct. It kept you sane down there, and it’ll save your ass up here, too.” Dean shrugs. “I’ve been here for the past five days, Castiel, and you haven’t tried to get rid of me yet. What’s your instinct telling you?”
A long beat passes between them, and Dean can see his friend work toward some resolve. When he inclines his head, almost in concession, Dean feels himself let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“I suppose you have a point there. I’ve been distracted.” Cas frowns, looks down at the table as his features suddenly struggle for a neutral expression, but Dean had seen the flash of distress. This is hard for Cas. All of it, every bit of it, has been hard for him. “I’ve been… not myself. But I’m certain my faculties are still intact, at least to that degree. I’m certain I would have recognized if you were a threat, by now.”
Dean shrugs halfheartedly, tries not to let it show how much that damn look on Cas’s face is affecting him. That desperate need, like his friend has to believe he’s not that far gone. That he has to know his mind’s not so fucked up he can’t even recognize a danger when he sees it. “I told you from the beginning, Cas. You needed saving, you got saved. All I want is to help you get the sonofabitch that started all this.”
“I don’t understand you.” The deadpan statement, so factual, almost surprises a laugh out of Dean. What else is new?
Cas downs the rest of his beer, stares at the empty bottle in deliberation like it’s got the answer to some riddle he absolutely needs to solve. It makes Dean go cold, because he remembers a Cas who’d solved everything with alcohol. With anything that would make him feel not like himself anymore. It’s something Dean knows he’s got to watch out for.
“This is all very strange.” Cas bites at his lip again, and it’s so chapped Dean knows it has to hurt, but his friend doesn’t seem to notice. He levels Dean with a look. “And I think there’s more to this than you’d like me to recognize. But I believe you.”
“Good.” Dean nods, tries to look reassuring. “Because I do want to help, Cas. And I really, really, wanna kill whatever elusive motherfucker is jacking us around. Believe that.”
Cas’s expression never changes, never lightens from that look of fatigued consternation, but Dean can read him well enough. It’s not much, not game changing, but he knows he’s gotten through. It’s a start, or maybe more. A beginning.
He just wishes it had happened sooner. Dean’s not one for clichés, but he knows this moment, this interaction for what it is. It’s the calm before the storm. He just hopes he can help Cas weather it.
*****
Slight of build, and slighter still after over a week of inadequate nutrition and overexertion, you couldn’t exactly look at Cas and think: strong. The second Gabriel’s daughters burst through the door, however, their uncle scoops them up like neither weighs a thing. He pulls them impossibly closer, holds tight like it’s the first time he’s seen them in years and years, and it is.
The girls screech their delight at being picked up, obviously unused to such a grand welcome from their normally reserved uncle. The youngest one, Emily, plants a kiss on his cheek, and it’s so sweet that Dean can’t decide whether to smile or just friggin’ bawl.
He can’t say for sure why the image affects him so much, except for maybe the anguish visibly written over Castiel’s face, and the way his still-healing hands ball in the fabric of his niece’s shirts. The way he holds them tight like he’d been sure he’d never see them again. It’s been a long time, but Dean can still remember the way this feels acutely: a tidal wave of I-was-dead-and-you-were-dead-to-me-and-there-was-no-hope-nothing and little reaffirming mantras of I’m-alive-I’m-back-I’m-out. He remembers that desperate need to cling to loved ones, like he’d been willing himself to understand that he was alive too, even if he didn’t really feel like it.
He sees it, all of it, reflected in the pained set of his friend’s features, and when Cas finally sets the girls down his eyes are emptier than Dean’s seen in days. He kisses each of his nieces on the temple, departs in such a hurry that it leaves them baffled. Soon after the guest room door swings shut and locks, and Dean guesses that’s where Cas will be for a while.
Quick to rescue the moment, Nora smiles reassuringly at her granddaughters and explains, in that infallible way of hers, that their uncle just isn’t feeling well and he needs to get some rest. They’ll get things ready for the party tomorrow quietly, and she’s sure he’ll be feeling better by then.
Talk of the birthday is sufficient distraction, and the girls rush to show off their multi-colored streamers and various party favors like they’re gold. Dean doesn’t even know these kids, but he soon finds his hands full of birthday paraphernalia, and he’s saying things like “yeah, Tweety Bird’s pretty cool” to the delight of a soon to be six year old.
Both kids are charming as hell, and surprisingly funny, but this is not where Dean wants to be. The only thing stopping him from heading out and checking on Cas is the silent plea in Gabriel’s eyes to stay. The other man slips out instead, and while it’s not exactly what Dean had wanted, he can at least keep the girls occupied while Gabe does his big brother thing.
He helps out with the decorations for about an hour, endures Hannah’s onslaught of demands - as being an eight year old has given her supreme insight on exactly how much streamers should twist. After, he bears the bombardment of questions about himself, and he can’t help but weirdly feel like these two kids have gotten him pegged. When Hannah refers to him as Uncle Cas’s “friend” in audible quotation marks, Dean thanks God it’s also the same time Gabe reemerges and announces that it’s time to go.
They’ve only just met, and they’ll be back early tomorrow, but Dean still gets a hug from each girl as they say goodbye. It’s not until they’ve actually left that Dean realizes how much of a distraction they’d been for him, too, and perhaps even a welcome one. It had been nice, caught up in the exaggerated drama of little kid-world for a bit. It had been easy. It had been… just the complete fucking opposite of everything else, lately.
Dean waits a little while before knocking on Cas’s door, but he doesn’t get an answer. His friend doesn’t come out for dinner, or even make an appearance for the rest of the night. He’s so quiet in there that Dean guesses Cas wants everyone to think he’s sleeping, probably in an effort to be left alone. The guest room has a bathroom attached, so it’s a perfect place for the guy to stay holed up until he’s ready to face them again, and he does just that.
Dean leaves it, for now. He hates it, and his stomach is twisting with the heavy weight of commiseration, but right now there’s nothing he can do. He’d been there, kind of, and the last thing he’d wanted in Cas’s place had been to be consistently nagged by an angel.
For Dean, of course, it had all worked out. Somehow his weird-ass angel stalker’s abysmal people skills and unintentional bluntness had eventually become welcome. Somehow, he’d managed to totally blindside everyone and become family. His angel had fucked up plenty on the way, and Dean had resented him like hell a couple of times, but after everything it’d all been worth it because what he’d ended up with was Cas.
Dean can’t promise anything like that. He can’t promise, after time has done its healing work and Cas is a little more himself, that he’ll ever be able to look back and be grateful for Dean. He can’t know for sure if Cas will appreciate him, or if he’ll learn to harbor some kind of hatred for the angel who’d never left him alone, who’d never stopped pushing him.
Obviously, Dean has his preferences. But as long as Cas does gets better, he doesn’t really care. Dean will play whatever role he needs to play in this, just so long as his friend heals. He owes Cas that much. He owes himself that much. It feels a little bit like a cosmic promise, and Dean intends to make good on it even if it kills him.
*****
The party is an awful idea. Dean understands what Nora had been going for, insisting Cas be in attendance for his niece’s birthday. It’s a mark of normalcy, a way for the guy to reunite with his family in a non-threatening manner. A way to reintroduce him to life, maybe. Like, this is your family, this is where you belong. You are safe. It’s a good idea, almost, except Dean can’t help but think that Nora’s desire for her son to be better is driving her to force Cas into a situation he’s not ready to handle. That maybe she didn’t realize being around all this normal would only serve to make him feel more secluded.
Dean’s not a specialist, but he doesn’t need a degree to see when Castiel begins to breakdown. Hell, he doesn’t even need eyes to see it. It’s in the sinking of his gut every time Cas draws near, the heavy weight of dread he feels that sounds the alarm more effectively than his friend’s silence ever could. It’s disturbingly like watching different components of a car fail in rapid succession, only Dean’s not sure he has the right tools to fix it.
It happens in stages.
He remembers that summer on the east coast had always been different than summer in the Midwest. During those long ago hunting trips he’d found himself by the shore, the oppressive humidity had never failed to be a shock to his system and time hasn’t changed that. Gabriel’s got the air-conditioner on full-blast as the guests file in, and each of them seems content with the manufactured climate. But Dean watches as Cas, unused to the cold for obvious freaking reasons (Hell ain’t exactly equipped with a thermostat), progresses from a flare of goose bumps to poorly hidden shivers and huddling in on himself. Despite himself, Dean thinks there goes your heat.
At first, he’s impressed with Castiel’s determination. His friend forces a smile in all the right places, speaks when spoken to, greets his nieces with kisses and hugs. Dean’s not sure whether it’s completely an act or sheer force of will, but Castiel pulls off the performance with ease, for a while. It’s only after he’s made the rounds that Cas seems to retreat back into himself, and he does it so damn quietly that, in the chaos of things, it escapes almost everyone’s notice. He’s shut down, closed for business, and Dean thinks there goes your starter.
Any time he’s confronted by declarations of concern from Sam or his mother or brother, Cas just shrugs it off and insists that he’s fine. His family doesn’t buy it for a second, but there’s only so long they can spend talking before something in the party calls them elsewhere and Cas breathes a sigh of relief. Still, he must be aware that Dean’s shadowing him, that the casual attempts at small talk Dean makes disguise something like worry, but for the most part Castiel just seems to ignore him. It’s not all that long before he begins to ignore everyone, occasionally to the point of rudeness, and Dean thinks there goes your steering. It’s painfully obvious Cas is losing control.
He watches his friend head back into the kitchen for a third beer, and thinks there goes your brakes.
It’s Dean’s cue to intervene, his sign to swoop in and play the hero like he’s been trying to from the start. But for a few strange, frozen minutes, he can’t. Now the time’s come, he’s a little reluctant to face Cas like this. To face a part of that shattered man he’d seen in Hell, to see him looking out through Cas’s eyes and know that that brokenness is a part of him now. Dean may be an angel, but he’s not a friggin’ saint, and he’s not so sure he’s ready for this confrontation. He’s all for helping Cas get better, but God, it hurts to see him fragmented.
But this is not about Dean.
He sucks it up, shoves everything down that’s got him frozen in place, and does a little mental scan of Cas’s whereabouts. Before he can change his mind, freak himself out any more, he flies.
When he reappears, seated in the passenger side of the rusted old rental car, Cas doesn’t so much as flinch. He’s got both hands on the wheel, loose like he can’t quite bring himself to grip it tight. The keys dangle from the ignition, totally still, and Dean knows his friend has been sitting like this for at least a few minutes.
“Hey,” He tries the gentle approach, just in case Cas somehow missed his new angel friend popping into existence in the next seat. “Any particular reason you’re out here, man? It’s like a hundred plus degrees.”
From the way his sweat-dampened hair curls and plasters itself to the nape of his neck, his forehead, Dean guesses Cas has figured that much out. He glances over, eyes bright and vaguely wild in the harsh light. It’s not quite right, but Dean is suddenly reminded of animals he’s seen at the zoo, primal and caged.
“One hundred and four.” Cas’s hands slip from the wheel, fall gracelessly to land in his lap. “The weather man said it was the hottest day of the year.”
“So, what, you wanted to come out here and make yourself a sauna? Because they have those. Real ones. Ones you probably have less of a chance of dying in.” Because Cas doesn’t particularly seem up to it, Dean reaches over and turns the keys. He remembers from the ride up that the air conditioning is shot, but the fan works just fine so he switches that on too.
“Cas.” He waits for the other man to look over, repeats his name with a little more force when he doesn’t. “Castiel. Come on, man. What are you doing?”
His friend shrugs, glances over once more, and that wild-eyed look is lessened. In its place is exhaustion, and Dean wonders how Cas had even kept moving at all, with how drained he looks. He inhales a deep breath of humid air, and shrugs again.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Cas’s voice is stone scraped over stone. Rasped, like it hurts just to speak. It makes something in Dean ache with sympathy, makes him want to reach out and take the guy’s hand just to make the sound stop, but he knows Cas needs to get this off his chest.
When he speaks again, his tone is forced flat. “When I saw those girls yesterday, Dean… it makes no sense, but when I saw those girls some small part of me expected them to be grown. I expected them to be different. I think, after everything, I expected something would have changed. But it’s just…me.” Dark blue eyes find him, plead for understanding. “I’ve waited years to see them, and when I finally could, all I could think about was how I’d been changed. What was done to me.”
“Cas, man, you don’t -” Dean starts to speak, starts to silence him, because they both know damn well what was done to him and he doesn’t want to go there if they don’t have to. He doesn’t want to go there at all. But Cas just gives him that disappointed look, and Dean gives in with a cave that feels like falling.
Cas flashes him a smile so wry it’s heartbreaking. “You saw, Dean. You know. There’s no point in pretending you don’t. They did that, among other things, for years. They delighted in it, in my pain and humiliation. I would be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. I would be lying if I said it hadn’t changed me.” His voice catches, a barely audible break, and Dean realizes with no small amount of alarm that the other man is shaking. Cas balls his fists so that the knuckles turn white, tries to anchor himself, but the tremors persist. “And now I’m back. And everything, everyone, is precisely the same as when I’d left. They’re the same, and I could not be more different.”
Cas breaks his gaze, sets it somewhere to the left, but Dean knows he’s just replaying images in his head. He knows, whatever Cas is seeing right now, it takes place somewhere a whole lot hotter than the stifling car. “It’s very difficult, Dean, to move on when the world hasn’t. It’s difficult, to pretend as though I’m okay.”
“Jesus.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, tries to will some solution into being. But he doesn’t know what to say and Cas isn’t finished speaking, so he braces himself and waits.
“So I thought I might drive.” Cas shakes his head, looks over at Dean like he can’t even believe what he’d been thinking. “I thought I might drive away. So I came out here, and got in the car. And I realized I didn’t know where I was going. I realized I didn’t have anywhere to go.”
He makes a helpless little gesture with his hands, and there’s such a desperate kind of plea in his eyes that Dean doesn’t really know how to handle it. “I had an irrational impulse to solve an emotional dilemma through physical means. Driving away would only be symbolic. It wouldn’t solve anything. It would mean nothing.”
“Hey.” The word comes out a little more forcefully than he’d intended, but Dean blames it on the sudden vise around his heart. He can’t take much more of this, and from the tormented look on Cas’s face he doubts his friend can either. “If you think driving will help, then drive. If you need to get away, do it, Cas. Just say the word, and I’ll have your things packed up and in the trunk, and we’ll go.”
It gets Cas’s attention, calms him down just a bit. For the first time since they’ve met, Dean feels like Castiel is finally seeing him, and the feeling rocks him with unexpected force. “You would do that.”
“I would. You wanna leave this all behind, it’s good by me. It’s your call, Cas.” He would do it in a heartbeat, if it took that haunted look out of Castiel’s eyes. He would do it if Cas asked.
“I’ve been under the impression you wanted me here in order to… acclimate. So that I might go into the investigation with a clear head.” His friend frowns, and though he’s still shaking, curiosity seems to still him, a bit. Knowledge and understanding always were Cas’s drugs of choice, aside from all the other ones. “You would put all that at risk, just because I asked you to?”
Dean smiles, wants to let him know that Cas can talk him into just about anything, because he remembers a slew of lame trips to operas and museums he’d been dragged into because Castiel had wanted to experience what he called “Your human culture.”
It’s a little late, but Dean thinks he gets why he’d always managed to have fun on those outings despite himself. It’s a little late, but he gets now why he’d always kind of looked forward to them.
“I would. I told you before - I’ve been there, man. More than you know, I get it.” He gives Cas a pointed look. “And as far as gettin’ your shit together here is concerned? I hate to break it to ya, Cas, but it clearly ain’t doing any wonders.”
It pulls a reluctant smile to his friend’s lips, lopsided and hesitant before it disappears. Cas looks down at his hands, lashes a dark fan against heat-flushed cheeks, and Dean feels his chest swell with affection so overwhelming it borders on fucking ridiculous. “And if I said I didn’t want to find the demon that did this?”
His friend looks up, looks over at Dean like he’s trying to read him, and the question in his eyes is clear: “If I said I didn’t want to do this, would you make me?”
Dean shrugs, and even to him it feels kind of helpless. But it’s always been this way, with Cas. “I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to. It’s your life, Cas. It’s your choice.”
The response draws a strangled little sound from the back of Cas’s throat, has him watching Dean with wide eyes before he lunges forward, and Dean has about .002 seconds to wonder whether he’s about to get hit before Cas’s hands are on his face and he’s kissing him.
Dean doesn’t even have time to process it, to really think it through like he knows he should, before he’s suddenly kissing him back, pulling Cas closer likes he’s been starving for this, and he has. He’s been hungry for years, for longer than he’s even known, and it’s about a million times better than he even remembers. Better, maybe, because Cas bears his mark now and on some deeper level Dean still bears his. Better because Cas is human, this time, because it’s less delicate and somehow more fragile than anything Dean’s ever experienced with him, and he’s dizzy with it.
It amazes him how his palm fits the curve of Cas’s neck, how his thumb slips into that divot behind his ear, so easy, like it never left. How Cas’s slender hands, possessive on either side of Dean’s face, feel like home. Cas tastes like sweat and beer, like fire and brimstone and milk and honey and everything Dean’s ever known, and the push of his tongue spells redemption.
Of course, in the way of most great things, it doesn’t last long. It’s only a few seconds before Castiel breaks away, hitching uneven breaths, and Dean feels loss so acute it stuns him. Euphoria fades as quickly as it came, and in its stead is the rapidly dawning notion that he’d definitely just made out with a guy who maybe needs his space right about now. That, even if Cas had initiated it, Dean probably should have been a little more reserved with someone who’d gotten so damn used to being used. To being hurt.
“I’m sorry.” Cas’s voice is barely there, a murmured apology. He’s shaken, so pale his eyes stand out in stark contrast against the shock-white of his skin. It takes him three tries before he’s finally able to switch off the ignition and pocket the keys with trembling hands, and when he exits the car with a hurried fumble Dean hates himself.
He makes a half-hearted wish for God to strike him down where he sits, and, when that goes unanswered, a wholehearted one. Dean’s got no idea how this got out of hand so quickly, how he’d been able to fuck things up with such incredible efficiency in such a short amount of time. He’s never felt so damn sure that he’s got no idea what the fuck he’s doing here, and for a few short moments he’s devastated.
His saving grace, as it so often has, comes in the form of a fallen angel.
A shuffle of footsteps, and then a hesitant knock sounds against his window, staccato-nervous. “Dean.”
Castiel is hovering uncertainly when Dean looks, still pale, but when he rotates an unsteady hand in a familiar motion it’s so ridiculous that Dean gets the message and rolls down his window. He just hopes he can’t fuck things up any more than he already has. “Yeah, Cas. What’s up?”
Castiel steps closer and, even though it’s obvious he’s still on edge, still freaking, his eyes are rich with sincerity when he speaks next. “Dean. I am sorry for that. But I don’t regret it.”
With that, he departs. But it’s okay. Because, suddenly, Dean doesn’t regret it either.
*****
Cas does get well and truly hammered that night after the guests leave, and Dean decides to give him a temporary pass. The guy’s had a rough time of it lately even in earthbound terms, what with the job loss and socially awkward groping of his new angel friend, so Dean figures he can let it slide. In a way he’d be worried if Cas wasn’t drinking, at least a little. God knows, it’s probably the only escape the guy might have from his own head, at least for a while. Who’s Dean to deny him that?
In any case, Drunk Cas is every bit the surly motherfucker Dean remembers, rude and weirdly formal all at once. It’s both exasperating and comforting to be snarled at in a voice plunged low with irritability, to hear monosyllabic answers ground out with even less tact than usual. It’s actually kind of funny the way Cas primly informs his family with slurred decisiveness that, while he’s grateful for both the support and lodgings, he and The Angel Dean Winchester will be departing soon; they’ve wasted enough time as it is.
When Nora just pulls her son in close and says, in a voice full of understanding, “Okay, baby. You do what you need to do,” it’s not really funny anymore. When she tugs him downward and places a gentle kiss to his brow, when Cas’s face abruptly crumples and he clings tight, Dean remembers that none of this was every really funny at all.
When Cas lets out a sob so broken it hurts to hear, Dean absolutely needs to get the fuck out of there.
He makes his exit quietly, tries to control the awful churn of rage and misery he feels as he heads out to the back porch. It’s a wasted emotion, Dean knows, but he can’t help but feel a little fucking useless. He reaches out and grips the railing for no other reason than it’s something he can hold onto, something he can affect, and when paint flakes off beneath his palms he’s almost grateful.
He’s thankful to note Sam’s presence beside him a moment later, but it’s awhile before either of them speak. Maybe awhile before either of them can. As far as traumatic sights go they’ve had their fill, but it doesn’t make this shit any easier to witness. It doesn’t make it easier, period.
Eventually Sam clears his throat, nudges his shoulder against Dean’s in what’s meant to be a comforting manner, and it almost is. “You okay?”
“I’m good.” It’s a knee-jerk response, an oldie but a goodie. They both know it doesn’t mean a damn thing. “You?”
His brother just responds with a snort, and it’s probably best they leave it at that. They haven’t talked about it, not really, but Dean can read the guilt in Sam’s eyes like it’s written there. He wonders how long Sam can go on blaming himself for not finding Cas sooner, and guesses long enough. Winchesters don’t bear anything quite like they do the fucking cross.
“He’ll be okay.” Sam nods, almost to himself, and Dean’s not sure who the declaration is meant to convince until Sam looks over. Even then, he considers it about a fifty-fifty shot. “He will. You know that, right?”
Dean just nods in response, says, “I know.” Because he does. He gets that Castiel will be okay, eventually. Or at least as okay as he ever can be. Dean gets it, but it’s damn hard to take solace in eventually when right fucking now sucks so much.
“Good.” Sam lowers himself onto the porch swing with an almighty groan, makes a motion for Dean to do the same, and he does. Sitting out in the fading heat, buffeted by the swell of trilling cicadas, it almost feels normal. It almost feels alright.
“So you and Cas are heading out soon?” Sam barely waits for an answer, just throws a significant look in Dean’s direction. What comes next is fairly obvious, but Dean gives him points for at least putting it out there. “You do realize I’m coming with you, right?”
“Wouldn’t have dreamt otherwise.” It feels wrong that the thought buoys him, with Cas so upset just a few feet away. But Dean knows from experience that he can’t linger on this shit without end, can’t feel guilty for every bit of happiness he feels even when someone he cares about is suffering. It’s just one more way to lose himself, and if he does that then he ends up helping exactly no one.
“You can come. But let me ask you this. Do you promise you won’t wander away at every stop we make? Or hold us up so you can have three-hour long conversations with strangers about how ‘when you were young, things were different’?” It’s not the best Dean’s ever come up with, but it suits him fine all the same. “See, because you’re old. Like an old person. And I feel like it’s something we need to address.”
When Sam chokes out a laugh, Dean considers it a personal victory. “You were in Heaven for how many years? How are you still a dick?”
He grins. “Dedication, Sammy. It takes dedication.”
That one earns him an eye roll, a huff of exasperation, and Dean’s missed this. “Jerk.”
Dean just smiles. He’s knows he’s not in for a particularly easy journey; none of them are. But he’s got his brother back. It’s hard not to feel at least a little optimistic with his co-pilot at the helm. It’s hard not to feel like, with the three of them together, everything might actually turn out okay. He just hopes he’s right.
TBC
So, I suck. It's been forever since I posted anything, and it probably doesn't mean much by this point, but I can promise it'll actually get finished. Bear with me. I am slow.
Characters/Pairings: Castiel/Dean, Sam, Gabriel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9,732
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to CW.
Notes: Sort of an AR, follows the show through season 5.
Summary: Dean has no idea how things got so backasswards, how he's the angel now while Cas is the broken soul in need of saving, but he can't dwell on it. Whatever sent Cas to Hell may be after him still, and they've got to find it and stop it before it can happen again.
SO MANY THANKS to my amazing beta Laurie-ky, without whom this would not be comprehensible.
Dean misses Heaven every goddamn second. It’s not like he’s pining for it, or anything, looking longingly up at the sky with dewy eyes and cursing the day he left, but this feeling is there.
It’s a distant thing; a low-grade fever burning just below the skin, an itch he manages to forget until he thoughtlessly scratches it with his nail. As pissed as he still is there’s a compulsive kind of yearning to return, to surround himself with his brethren. To go home. He doesn’t know if it’s more an “absence makes the heart grow fonder” deal or more of a strictly angel thing, and that, more than anything, pisses him off.
Actually missing the place would be understandable - Dean’s got family there, and a few friends. But if the majority of this feeling stems from purely celestial roots like he suspects? It’s been pretty well established in Dean’s experience that if he can’t control something he generally doesn’t like it, and he sure as shit won’t stand for something controlling him. He doesn’t like the idea, even after all these years, that being an angel has changed him. He can’t stand the thought that it might affect him at all, and especially not when the last damn thing he needs is a distraction.
He’s got better things to do, more important issues to attend to, and the notion that this fucking angel thing might have a hold over him now is infuriating. He doesn’t want to lose himself, like he did up there. He doesn’t want to get so caught up in this crap that he misses what’s happening right in front of him.
It’s not healthy, God knows it’s not healthy at this point, but Dean can’t help but cling to a notion of himself as a human. He doesn’t want to let go of that guy, doesn’t want to lose anything that made him him. And yeah, maybe he could afford to gain a few angelic attributes (he never claimed to be without flaw), but he’d rather not. Being back with Sam and Cas reminds him of who he’d been, and he misses it.
He feels cleaved in two, stretched in different directions. He feels lost. He feels like he has no idea who the fuck he is, anymore. But he’s got things to do.
He’s got things to do.
*****
Dean estimates he’s spent about a third of his life crammed in the Impala, more often than not beside a freakishly large certain someone of freakishly large proportions, so claustrophobia’s never really been an issue for him. Even having gotten used to the expansiveness of Heaven, the endlessness of it, he’s sure he’d still feel every bit as comfortable holed up in a hotel room as he would out in the wide open. He doesn’t need much space, never has. He is not claustrophobic. Having spent a few days inside Gabriel’s tiny-ass house with four other people, though… he’s getting there.
Though, if he’s gonna be honest, it’s not so much the lack of space as it is the lack of damn oxygen. He appreciates that Sam and Nora had felt the need to stay at the house, to take metaphorical arms while Cas took some time to recover. He’s glad for the familiar faces, and he could sure as hell use the backup. But he can’t breathe. Dean’s an angel now, so he’s not sure it’s even really a necessity, but the air is so damn thick with tension he can feel it clamp around his chest like a vise. They’re on edge, every one of them, and the source of their anxiety is clear enough; they’re waiting for the break.
One week since he was pulled out of Hell, and Cas is still on autopilot. No worse, but he’s definitely not any better, and at this point Dean would take either just to see a little progress. Not like he wants the guy to break down, he doesn’t, but anything’s got to be better than this impassive shit. Dean doesn’t know if it has more to do with the fact that Cas is surrounded by family or more to do with this maddening friggin standstill they’re at, but Castiel is so damn mild. He’ll eat, sleep, do his research and make his calls, but that’s about it; anything else seems almost too much to bear.
It’s an eerily reminiscent echo of a Cas Dean had known a long time ago, so close to the desolate edge but so damn reluctant to give in to any kind of weakness. He’s like a shell-shocked soldier trudging ever freaking onward, like he hasn’t got a choice. Like he’s too damn stubborn to acknowledge that taking a break is even an option, and it’s wearing him thin. It drives Dean crazy for a lot of reasons, but none of them is more frustrating than the knowledge that had it been thirty years earlier, he could have fixed this.
Dean knows Cas, probably more than he ever realized, and thirty years ago he would have known what to do here. He would have known how to help and maybe, after some persistence, Cas would have let him. Hell, if persistence alone didn’t work Dean would have made him accept the damn help, because back then that was something they could do. Push each other around, bitch at each other, whatever, because deep down they’d both known they had one another’s best interests at heart.
They’d been on even ground, then. They’d known each other. It’s something Dean aches for, something he didn’t realize he missed until the absence of it was thrown in his face. It’s fucking staggering, the loss of it. The loss of them.
Cas doesn’t know Dean anymore. He doesn’t know they were best friends, or whatever it was their relationship might have been called. If Cas trusts him at all it’s a tentative thing, and Dean knows that any attempt he might make to approach him now like he would have back then would end in disaster. He may have yanked him out of the pit, but as far as Castiel is concerned Dean is a stranger. He hasn’t earned the right to be worried, to assert himself in Castiel’s business. He hasn’t earned the right to care.
Problem is, he does. For reasons he’d rather not think about Dean cares so damn much, and it kills him just to stand back and watch Castiel suffer. He didn’t think anything could have really felt worse than being stuck in Heaven, unable to intervene, but this takes the fucking cake. It’s a level of helplessness that’s almost too much to stand, and Dean’s never hated the phrase “so close, but so far away” as much as he does now. He’s about as near to losing it as Cas is, in his own way, but at least he’s doing a better job of hiding it.
Of course, Sam sees right through him. Dean loves his brother, and he’s missed him like crazy, but he’s really not so much in the mood for “the talk.” But he knows it’s time. Knows it, specifically, when Sam corners him in the guest room and orders him to sit. And if Dean thought he had trouble with Sam manipulating him with his cute little kid routine, he knows he’s fucked now. Saying no to his eighty year old little brother isn’t really something he has in him.
“God, what?” He doesn’t have to make it easy, though.
“Really?” Sam arches an eyebrow. “You’re gonna go all defensive before I even have the chance to speak? What if I just wanted to say hey? It’s been a long time, Dean, maybe I just want to reconnect.”
“Do you?”
His brother sighs, has the grace to look a little guilty as he settles into a chair. “No. I mean, yeah, but that’s not why I called you in here.”
He pauses, assesses Dean with a thoughtful look, and Dean can just hear him phrasing things out in his head. Debating whether to tread lightly or go in for the kill. It’s not long before Sam makes up his mind, and the chosen method is clear. “What are you going to do about this thing with Cas, Dean? How long do you really think you can keep this up?”
“Dude, keep what up? You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Sam, I got a lot going on.” There are about a million different ways to interpret the questions, about half of which Dean doesn’t really want to think about, let alone answer.
“Everything. All of it. You’re juggling a lot of balls here, Dean, but pretty soon you’re gonna lose your grip.” Concern colors Sam’s words, draws his eyebrows together like fretful wings. “I mean, dying, finding out you’re an angel. Saving Cas. Going through Hell, again. Even just being here now. It’s just a lot, Dean, and I know it can’t be any easier with… you know, the way that you feel about him.”
Dean’s not really sure how to respond to that one, not quite yet equipped with the right answer, and it must show. Sam continues with a knowing little smile. “Dean, come on. Not without reason, but you’ve been hovering over him for the past couple days. If you were any more obvious you’d be scooping him up to your chest like a lost baby bird.”
“Come on, man. Did you try to think of the most disturbing image you could possibly conjure, or does that shit just come naturally?” He’s got a point; Dean could have attempted to be a little more discreet. But still. It’s not like he can just turn his concern off, look the other way while Cas is all hollow smiles and empty reassurances. It’s not like he can make himself not care.
“Look, what I’m saying is… I know this has to suck for you. Having to watch Cas go through all this and pretend like it doesn’t really bother you. Having to act like you don’t even know him.” Sam pauses, levels him with an empathetic look that Dean would be tempted to mock if his brother wasn’t so damn on the mark.
“Lying to him, evading him…I know how it is, Dean. I’ve been doing it his entire life. You can try to pull your tough guy routine all you want, but I know it’s gotta be eating at you. So I just wanted you to know that if you need someone to talk to I’m here, okay?”
“I know, Sammy.” He reaches over, clumsily pats him on the shoulder and tries not to feel the sharp jut of bones beneath the worn flannel. Nearly thirty years later, and Sam is still Sam. Dean’s not sure how he got by without him. “Thanks. And, uh, same goes.”
Somehow he’d never really thought of it until now, but he can’t imagine what it must have been like watching Cas grow up, lying to him the whole time. Dean had been pretty convinced when Castiel had originally come to him about falling that he’d be able to pull off the ruse, but now he’s not so sure.
He’s got a pretty good idea that, in his own uncertain way, Cas must know there’s something off about himself. It’s in his eyes, a quiet kind of something that spells awareness, even if only on a subconscious level. Cas might not realize exactly what it is about himself that’s different, but Dean knows for a fact that he can feel it. The second the kid ever mentioned something to him about not fitting in, or just feeling generally out of place, Dean’s fairly certain he would have cracked. Willpower has never exactly been an iron asset for him.
As far as pretending not to be Dean Winchester goes, well… he’d never been all that great at that, either. He’d spent twenty-odd years after the Almost Apocalypse living as Dean Ulrich, and even though only a select few knew his true identity, he’d still felt weirdly thrown every time someone referred to him by his borrowed name. It had felt like a betrayal of sorts, like hiding, and if it had made him that uncomfortable with strangers, Dean seriously doubts he would have been able to carry on the lie with Castiel. He wasn’t there to help raise the kid, so he can’t say for sure, but right now he just can’t imagine having to have lied to Cas for all those years. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he put Dean back together, that he’d known Dean’s soul and accepted every bit of him, but Dean doesn’t think he could have pretended to be anything but himself with Cas. In any case, he doesn’t want to.
“So why didn’t you guys ever tell him about us? I mean, that was the plan, right?” He knows the basics from Nora, that she’d been reluctant to tell Cas anything once he developed a certain distaste for the angels, but he also knows there’s got to be more. Or at least Dean hopes there is because even if Cas didn’t have his angelic memories back, this would be a million times easier if he knew the truth about everyone’s identities. “Just telling him who we were wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d remember everything. And even if he did, so what? He’s strong enough to get over not liking angels, Sam, you know that.”
His brother seems caught between a cringe and a sigh, and he settles for an awkward combination of both. “I know. I know that. And if it was just that he had beef with the angels, we would have told him by now.”
Dean clings to that “just”, latches onto it with a cautious kind of foreboding. “But?” He does not like the fact that he has to prompt Sam to continue.
“Listen, it’s not my story to tell, but…” Sam shrugs, an apologetic shift. “He’s read the gospels, Dean. It’s not so much that he has a huge issue with all the angels, though he sort of does. It’s more he has an issue with Castiel. Specifically.”
“With himself.” He mulls the implications of that one over, lets it sink in. Dean’s pretty sure there’s a morbid kind of humor about the whole situation, but right about now it’s not particularly funny. “You’re telling me he’s got all these douchebag angels to choose from in the gospels, and the one he has a problem with is himself?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah.” For lack of a better option, Sam shrugs once more. “We haven’t told him anything because we didn’t want to risk him putting two and two together. I mean, could you even imagine what that would be like, realizing you’re someone you hate? And God, Dean, he’s a train wreck right now. He’s barely hanging on. Could you imagine if he realized it now?”
Dean can. It would be awful, he knows it’d be awful, but there are so many awful fucking things about this situation that he can’t even concentrate on just one - or at the very least he can’t bear to. He hates the idea that the guy had unknowingly taken a look at himself and, somehow, found a kind of hatred. He can’t stand the thought of Cas, Cas who’d gotten to be so serenely confident, so self-assured in his own quiet way, looking upon himself with any kind of negativity.
Almost worse than any of it, Dean is horrified at the notion that his Cas had possibly harbored similar feelings all along, which he’d concealed and repressed in an effort not to worry others. He’d always been just a little too protective of Dean in particular, occasionally at his own expense, and the vague possibility that he might have hidden such a detrimental self-image for so long makes Dean feel sick.
A long time ago, Castiel had come to Dean in regards to falling with claims of being weary. He’d needed some small rest, a break. Given this new information, Dean can’t help but wonder what the driving force behind that weariness might have been. He can’t help but wonder what, exactly, Castiel had been trying to escape.
What’s more, he can’t help but think that, despite his efforts, whatever Cas had been running from would find him anyway. Because more than likely, what he’d really been running from was himself.
*****
He spends his time between the house and New York, the house and Bangkok, the house and London. He disappears and reappears in different countries, in cities he’s heard of but never been to. He never stays for any substantial amount of time, but he stays long enough. Sometime he’ll talk to people, but he mainly just watches. He’s got no agenda, not really.
Dean’s just trying to reacquaint himself with the world. But it’s moved on without him.
*****
Dean, while highly skilled and otherwise awesome in some areas, is not exactly a master of angelic trade. Maybe because his holy arsenal had been so unnecessary in the sheltered confines of Heaven, he’s yet to come to a full understanding of every power he’s got in stock. Since his earthly homecoming he hasn’t done much aside from fly and throw around that not-quite-clairvoyance, that knowing that all angels seem to have, and he thinks he gets why: it scares the shit out of him.
Everything that had seemed normal in Heaven makes him feel unbelievably out of place among humans, and he knows it freaks Sam out. An embarrassingly petty part of him feels a little satisfaction that the kid finally understands what Dean had been going through (to some degree, anyway) when Sam had started with all the freaky psychic stuff. But it’s still weird.
He knows his uneasiness stems from bad experiences with the paranormal, even if the paranormal in this situation is himself. Though as a matter of fact it’s almost worse that way; Dean feels a little like a walking nuclear bomb, like he’s behind the wheel of some kind of ancient war machine and he’s got no fucking clue how any of the functions work. He feels dangerous, and not in a good way. Dean’s been an angel for hundreds of years and for a handful of moments, in the scheme of things, and this baby bird is not ready to fly.
He knows, thanks in part to his inexperience, that he’s probably about half as powerful as any of the other angels, and that scares him more. Dean’s got an arsenal with no inventory or directions on how to use it, whereas the Heavenly Brigade had probably toddled out their first few angelic baby steps by smiting the dinosaurs, or some shit.
He wonders if, had he come into existence as an angel instead of just becoming one, these things would be instinctual. Dean’s got some idea of what he can do, but for the most part he’s at a loss.
The one thing he does feel somewhat comfortable with, after getting the hang of the learning curve, is the long distance calling to Heaven - to one person in particular. His initial attempts to make contact had gone a little hinky, and it had taken him a while to figure out why. Conversations with the few angels he’d tried had felt odd, almost exposed, and it hadn’t been until partway through a chat with Joshua that Dean realized his uneasy feeling was one of being listened in on. His celestial line had been tapped, and while Dean couldn’t get a trace on the culprit, he soon recognized the feeling had been present in every conversation but the ones he’d had with Claire.
He doesn’t know for sure why he’s being monitored, but he knows a threat when he feels it. And maybe it’s just paranoia talking, adverse experiences, but as to who the listener might be the first person he instinctively jumps to is Michael. Dean’s got nothing other than his gut to back him up, but his gut has gotten him this far before. Who’s he to question it?
As to why the wiretap doesn’t seem to work when he and Claire speak, Dean’s got a half-assed theory. He can only figure it has something to do with their bond as half-breeds, maybe some kind of singular wavelength the two of them share that might be impervious to others. He doesn’t know. It sounds bat shit crazy even to him when he tries to think it through. But it feels that way.
In any case, it works out. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can trust Claire, both to keep him informed of the goings-on in Heaven and to keep things on the down low as far as he’s concerned. It’s like having a man on the inside, which is good. Except for the increasing, sinking feeling that’s got Dean convinced that he needs one.
Whatever happened to Cas, whatever’s happening to him now, Dean has no clue. But he knows, he knows, someone up there does.
*****
Castiel’s ninth day back with the living also brings the beginning of his breaking point, and Dean should have seen this coming.
He’d known that losing his job had been a definite possibility for Cas, that the rules and regulations for hunters these days deem dealing with a demon an unforgiveable- and unredeemable - indiscretion. He’d known it, and he’d known the evidence of Cas’s deal must have been out there for the experienced eye to find long before Dean even came along, but he’d hoped it would go unnoticed. He’d hoped, God had he hoped, that something would finally go Cas’s way.
Instead, having realized there was a connection between his last case (which had inexplicably been wiped from his memory) and the mysterious deal he’d been forced into, Castiel had called his superiors for information and had been given his marching orders instead. No severance pay, no chance of return in any kind of official capacity.
The case had been priority, and subsequently passed on to another hunter. As a civilian, Cas no longer had access to the classified information. His abandoned truck, as well as any evidence it may have held, had been confiscated until further notice. Were he to check his computer, he’d find all files related to the case deleted.
He’d been well and truly canned, terminated with such cold efficiency that Dean had been surprised not to see ice crystals forming in midair. All those years of dedication, and Castiel had been dismissed like an inconvenience, given a dishonorable discharge in the worst way a hunter can. Just like that, his one lead was gone. His living, gone.
It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, obviously, but Dean can see from the resigned wilt of Cas’s shoulders just how much this dismissal means. That after everything he’d been through, the loss of this job had still been big enough to affect him. Dean’s got a mind to kick some ass and take some names on his behalf, but he knows it’s not what Castiel needs. The guy needs to work things out in his own way, however that might be possible now.
Dean intends to let him have that small grace, that dignity. To let Castiel have some semblance of control over his own damn life.
If, after the local representatives have come to collect Cas’s badge, Dean makes a point to ensure that their car stalls on the way back, it’s not anything he brags about. If he accidentally sends their transmission to some cornfield he vaguely remembers in Pennsylvania, he’s sure the experience will only make them stronger.
He wishes he could do more. He wishes Cas would let him.
The only good thing that comes from the ordeal is that Cas finally begins to talk to him, really talk to him, and whatever the reason Dean doesn’t particularly care. When Cas asks him to come sit at the old picnic table out back, after days of barely noting his presence, Dean all but leaps at the opportunity. It’s what he’s been waiting for, kind of. It’s what he’s needed, and selfish as that is he clings to it.
He accepts the beer that Cas hands him once they’re seated, takes a few sips while his counterpart seems only to contemplate his own. He doubts Castiel even knows for sure why they’re out here, but he knows that being away from the family right now has got to be a welcome break. Dean lets him take his time.
“Thank you.” The graveled utterance, so unexpected after a few moments of quiet, seems to take them both by surprise. Castiel bites at his lower lip, casts his gaze somewhere in the distance before finally looking to Dean. “For saving me.”
It’s another instance where Dean would prefer to pass it off like no big deal, but the weight of Cas’s stare imparts the gravity of his words, so he nods. Says, “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t understand your motives. I don’t understand them now, but…” Any other person would look away while they struggled to find their words, but Cas just keeps those intense blues locked on Dean, unblinking. “I believe you are who you say you are. Perhaps against my better judgment, I also believe your intentions thus far have been good. Or at the very least that you wish me no harm.”
“Shucks, dude. You’re making me blush.” Dean would hate to hear him pay someone an actual compliment.
His friend frowns, tilts his head in a familiar way that lets Dean know he disapproves. “You’re being facetious. This is not a conversation that warrants sarcasm, Dean.”
It’s so much like the old Cas that Dean can’t really help a smile, but he does try to fight it. “Right. Sorry. Continue.”
Apparently satisfied with the apology, Cas nods. He’s pale in the fading light, and there are shadows cast across his frame in such a way that it strikes Dean as tragically symbolic, but somehow not a one manages to reach his eyes. They’re tired, weary beyond belief, but underneath all the hurt Dean can see that old familiar flame. Underneath it all, he can still see Cas.
It gives him hope. His friend is broken, and breaking still, but he isn’t gone. He might be faded, but he isn’t vanished.
“I believe you are who you say you are.” Cas repeats. “But I need to know if I can trust you.”
It’s kind of a tall order, when Dean doesn’t really have anything to back it up besides words. But he wants that trust. He needs it. “Your family, Sam. They all seem to trust me. I don’t see your mom trusting just anyone.”
“You pulled her youngest son from the depths of Hell. Some might say that would occlude one’s common sense.” Cas takes a long sip of his beer, watches for Dean’s reaction with interest.
“True. But somehow I don’t think she’d be that easily swayed. I’m also pretty sure either Gabriel or Sam would have banished me by now if they thought I was a threat.” Dean leans forward, makes sure Cas is looking him in the eye, though of course he never looked away. “But more importantly, Cas? You could have banished me, too.”
He lets that sink in for a moment, sees it register that Cas knows exactly what he’s driving at. “I’ve been there, man. Hell? I know what it’s like when you first get back. Your nerves are shot, everything is a threat just waiting to happen. You get so fucked up sometimes, you don’t even know if you can trust yourself. All you have, all you can trust after all that shit, is your instinct. It kept you sane down there, and it’ll save your ass up here, too.” Dean shrugs. “I’ve been here for the past five days, Castiel, and you haven’t tried to get rid of me yet. What’s your instinct telling you?”
A long beat passes between them, and Dean can see his friend work toward some resolve. When he inclines his head, almost in concession, Dean feels himself let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“I suppose you have a point there. I’ve been distracted.” Cas frowns, looks down at the table as his features suddenly struggle for a neutral expression, but Dean had seen the flash of distress. This is hard for Cas. All of it, every bit of it, has been hard for him. “I’ve been… not myself. But I’m certain my faculties are still intact, at least to that degree. I’m certain I would have recognized if you were a threat, by now.”
Dean shrugs halfheartedly, tries not to let it show how much that damn look on Cas’s face is affecting him. That desperate need, like his friend has to believe he’s not that far gone. That he has to know his mind’s not so fucked up he can’t even recognize a danger when he sees it. “I told you from the beginning, Cas. You needed saving, you got saved. All I want is to help you get the sonofabitch that started all this.”
“I don’t understand you.” The deadpan statement, so factual, almost surprises a laugh out of Dean. What else is new?
Cas downs the rest of his beer, stares at the empty bottle in deliberation like it’s got the answer to some riddle he absolutely needs to solve. It makes Dean go cold, because he remembers a Cas who’d solved everything with alcohol. With anything that would make him feel not like himself anymore. It’s something Dean knows he’s got to watch out for.
“This is all very strange.” Cas bites at his lip again, and it’s so chapped Dean knows it has to hurt, but his friend doesn’t seem to notice. He levels Dean with a look. “And I think there’s more to this than you’d like me to recognize. But I believe you.”
“Good.” Dean nods, tries to look reassuring. “Because I do want to help, Cas. And I really, really, wanna kill whatever elusive motherfucker is jacking us around. Believe that.”
Cas’s expression never changes, never lightens from that look of fatigued consternation, but Dean can read him well enough. It’s not much, not game changing, but he knows he’s gotten through. It’s a start, or maybe more. A beginning.
He just wishes it had happened sooner. Dean’s not one for clichés, but he knows this moment, this interaction for what it is. It’s the calm before the storm. He just hopes he can help Cas weather it.
*****
Slight of build, and slighter still after over a week of inadequate nutrition and overexertion, you couldn’t exactly look at Cas and think: strong. The second Gabriel’s daughters burst through the door, however, their uncle scoops them up like neither weighs a thing. He pulls them impossibly closer, holds tight like it’s the first time he’s seen them in years and years, and it is.
The girls screech their delight at being picked up, obviously unused to such a grand welcome from their normally reserved uncle. The youngest one, Emily, plants a kiss on his cheek, and it’s so sweet that Dean can’t decide whether to smile or just friggin’ bawl.
He can’t say for sure why the image affects him so much, except for maybe the anguish visibly written over Castiel’s face, and the way his still-healing hands ball in the fabric of his niece’s shirts. The way he holds them tight like he’d been sure he’d never see them again. It’s been a long time, but Dean can still remember the way this feels acutely: a tidal wave of I-was-dead-and-you-were-dead-to-me-and-there-was-no-hope-nothing and little reaffirming mantras of I’m-alive-I’m-back-I’m-out. He remembers that desperate need to cling to loved ones, like he’d been willing himself to understand that he was alive too, even if he didn’t really feel like it.
He sees it, all of it, reflected in the pained set of his friend’s features, and when Cas finally sets the girls down his eyes are emptier than Dean’s seen in days. He kisses each of his nieces on the temple, departs in such a hurry that it leaves them baffled. Soon after the guest room door swings shut and locks, and Dean guesses that’s where Cas will be for a while.
Quick to rescue the moment, Nora smiles reassuringly at her granddaughters and explains, in that infallible way of hers, that their uncle just isn’t feeling well and he needs to get some rest. They’ll get things ready for the party tomorrow quietly, and she’s sure he’ll be feeling better by then.
Talk of the birthday is sufficient distraction, and the girls rush to show off their multi-colored streamers and various party favors like they’re gold. Dean doesn’t even know these kids, but he soon finds his hands full of birthday paraphernalia, and he’s saying things like “yeah, Tweety Bird’s pretty cool” to the delight of a soon to be six year old.
Both kids are charming as hell, and surprisingly funny, but this is not where Dean wants to be. The only thing stopping him from heading out and checking on Cas is the silent plea in Gabriel’s eyes to stay. The other man slips out instead, and while it’s not exactly what Dean had wanted, he can at least keep the girls occupied while Gabe does his big brother thing.
He helps out with the decorations for about an hour, endures Hannah’s onslaught of demands - as being an eight year old has given her supreme insight on exactly how much streamers should twist. After, he bears the bombardment of questions about himself, and he can’t help but weirdly feel like these two kids have gotten him pegged. When Hannah refers to him as Uncle Cas’s “friend” in audible quotation marks, Dean thanks God it’s also the same time Gabe reemerges and announces that it’s time to go.
They’ve only just met, and they’ll be back early tomorrow, but Dean still gets a hug from each girl as they say goodbye. It’s not until they’ve actually left that Dean realizes how much of a distraction they’d been for him, too, and perhaps even a welcome one. It had been nice, caught up in the exaggerated drama of little kid-world for a bit. It had been easy. It had been… just the complete fucking opposite of everything else, lately.
Dean waits a little while before knocking on Cas’s door, but he doesn’t get an answer. His friend doesn’t come out for dinner, or even make an appearance for the rest of the night. He’s so quiet in there that Dean guesses Cas wants everyone to think he’s sleeping, probably in an effort to be left alone. The guest room has a bathroom attached, so it’s a perfect place for the guy to stay holed up until he’s ready to face them again, and he does just that.
Dean leaves it, for now. He hates it, and his stomach is twisting with the heavy weight of commiseration, but right now there’s nothing he can do. He’d been there, kind of, and the last thing he’d wanted in Cas’s place had been to be consistently nagged by an angel.
For Dean, of course, it had all worked out. Somehow his weird-ass angel stalker’s abysmal people skills and unintentional bluntness had eventually become welcome. Somehow, he’d managed to totally blindside everyone and become family. His angel had fucked up plenty on the way, and Dean had resented him like hell a couple of times, but after everything it’d all been worth it because what he’d ended up with was Cas.
Dean can’t promise anything like that. He can’t promise, after time has done its healing work and Cas is a little more himself, that he’ll ever be able to look back and be grateful for Dean. He can’t know for sure if Cas will appreciate him, or if he’ll learn to harbor some kind of hatred for the angel who’d never left him alone, who’d never stopped pushing him.
Obviously, Dean has his preferences. But as long as Cas does gets better, he doesn’t really care. Dean will play whatever role he needs to play in this, just so long as his friend heals. He owes Cas that much. He owes himself that much. It feels a little bit like a cosmic promise, and Dean intends to make good on it even if it kills him.
*****
The party is an awful idea. Dean understands what Nora had been going for, insisting Cas be in attendance for his niece’s birthday. It’s a mark of normalcy, a way for the guy to reunite with his family in a non-threatening manner. A way to reintroduce him to life, maybe. Like, this is your family, this is where you belong. You are safe. It’s a good idea, almost, except Dean can’t help but think that Nora’s desire for her son to be better is driving her to force Cas into a situation he’s not ready to handle. That maybe she didn’t realize being around all this normal would only serve to make him feel more secluded.
Dean’s not a specialist, but he doesn’t need a degree to see when Castiel begins to breakdown. Hell, he doesn’t even need eyes to see it. It’s in the sinking of his gut every time Cas draws near, the heavy weight of dread he feels that sounds the alarm more effectively than his friend’s silence ever could. It’s disturbingly like watching different components of a car fail in rapid succession, only Dean’s not sure he has the right tools to fix it.
It happens in stages.
He remembers that summer on the east coast had always been different than summer in the Midwest. During those long ago hunting trips he’d found himself by the shore, the oppressive humidity had never failed to be a shock to his system and time hasn’t changed that. Gabriel’s got the air-conditioner on full-blast as the guests file in, and each of them seems content with the manufactured climate. But Dean watches as Cas, unused to the cold for obvious freaking reasons (Hell ain’t exactly equipped with a thermostat), progresses from a flare of goose bumps to poorly hidden shivers and huddling in on himself. Despite himself, Dean thinks there goes your heat.
At first, he’s impressed with Castiel’s determination. His friend forces a smile in all the right places, speaks when spoken to, greets his nieces with kisses and hugs. Dean’s not sure whether it’s completely an act or sheer force of will, but Castiel pulls off the performance with ease, for a while. It’s only after he’s made the rounds that Cas seems to retreat back into himself, and he does it so damn quietly that, in the chaos of things, it escapes almost everyone’s notice. He’s shut down, closed for business, and Dean thinks there goes your starter.
Any time he’s confronted by declarations of concern from Sam or his mother or brother, Cas just shrugs it off and insists that he’s fine. His family doesn’t buy it for a second, but there’s only so long they can spend talking before something in the party calls them elsewhere and Cas breathes a sigh of relief. Still, he must be aware that Dean’s shadowing him, that the casual attempts at small talk Dean makes disguise something like worry, but for the most part Castiel just seems to ignore him. It’s not all that long before he begins to ignore everyone, occasionally to the point of rudeness, and Dean thinks there goes your steering. It’s painfully obvious Cas is losing control.
He watches his friend head back into the kitchen for a third beer, and thinks there goes your brakes.
It’s Dean’s cue to intervene, his sign to swoop in and play the hero like he’s been trying to from the start. But for a few strange, frozen minutes, he can’t. Now the time’s come, he’s a little reluctant to face Cas like this. To face a part of that shattered man he’d seen in Hell, to see him looking out through Cas’s eyes and know that that brokenness is a part of him now. Dean may be an angel, but he’s not a friggin’ saint, and he’s not so sure he’s ready for this confrontation. He’s all for helping Cas get better, but God, it hurts to see him fragmented.
But this is not about Dean.
He sucks it up, shoves everything down that’s got him frozen in place, and does a little mental scan of Cas’s whereabouts. Before he can change his mind, freak himself out any more, he flies.
When he reappears, seated in the passenger side of the rusted old rental car, Cas doesn’t so much as flinch. He’s got both hands on the wheel, loose like he can’t quite bring himself to grip it tight. The keys dangle from the ignition, totally still, and Dean knows his friend has been sitting like this for at least a few minutes.
“Hey,” He tries the gentle approach, just in case Cas somehow missed his new angel friend popping into existence in the next seat. “Any particular reason you’re out here, man? It’s like a hundred plus degrees.”
From the way his sweat-dampened hair curls and plasters itself to the nape of his neck, his forehead, Dean guesses Cas has figured that much out. He glances over, eyes bright and vaguely wild in the harsh light. It’s not quite right, but Dean is suddenly reminded of animals he’s seen at the zoo, primal and caged.
“One hundred and four.” Cas’s hands slip from the wheel, fall gracelessly to land in his lap. “The weather man said it was the hottest day of the year.”
“So, what, you wanted to come out here and make yourself a sauna? Because they have those. Real ones. Ones you probably have less of a chance of dying in.” Because Cas doesn’t particularly seem up to it, Dean reaches over and turns the keys. He remembers from the ride up that the air conditioning is shot, but the fan works just fine so he switches that on too.
“Cas.” He waits for the other man to look over, repeats his name with a little more force when he doesn’t. “Castiel. Come on, man. What are you doing?”
His friend shrugs, glances over once more, and that wild-eyed look is lessened. In its place is exhaustion, and Dean wonders how Cas had even kept moving at all, with how drained he looks. He inhales a deep breath of humid air, and shrugs again.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Cas’s voice is stone scraped over stone. Rasped, like it hurts just to speak. It makes something in Dean ache with sympathy, makes him want to reach out and take the guy’s hand just to make the sound stop, but he knows Cas needs to get this off his chest.
When he speaks again, his tone is forced flat. “When I saw those girls yesterday, Dean… it makes no sense, but when I saw those girls some small part of me expected them to be grown. I expected them to be different. I think, after everything, I expected something would have changed. But it’s just…me.” Dark blue eyes find him, plead for understanding. “I’ve waited years to see them, and when I finally could, all I could think about was how I’d been changed. What was done to me.”
“Cas, man, you don’t -” Dean starts to speak, starts to silence him, because they both know damn well what was done to him and he doesn’t want to go there if they don’t have to. He doesn’t want to go there at all. But Cas just gives him that disappointed look, and Dean gives in with a cave that feels like falling.
Cas flashes him a smile so wry it’s heartbreaking. “You saw, Dean. You know. There’s no point in pretending you don’t. They did that, among other things, for years. They delighted in it, in my pain and humiliation. I would be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. I would be lying if I said it hadn’t changed me.” His voice catches, a barely audible break, and Dean realizes with no small amount of alarm that the other man is shaking. Cas balls his fists so that the knuckles turn white, tries to anchor himself, but the tremors persist. “And now I’m back. And everything, everyone, is precisely the same as when I’d left. They’re the same, and I could not be more different.”
Cas breaks his gaze, sets it somewhere to the left, but Dean knows he’s just replaying images in his head. He knows, whatever Cas is seeing right now, it takes place somewhere a whole lot hotter than the stifling car. “It’s very difficult, Dean, to move on when the world hasn’t. It’s difficult, to pretend as though I’m okay.”
“Jesus.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, tries to will some solution into being. But he doesn’t know what to say and Cas isn’t finished speaking, so he braces himself and waits.
“So I thought I might drive.” Cas shakes his head, looks over at Dean like he can’t even believe what he’d been thinking. “I thought I might drive away. So I came out here, and got in the car. And I realized I didn’t know where I was going. I realized I didn’t have anywhere to go.”
He makes a helpless little gesture with his hands, and there’s such a desperate kind of plea in his eyes that Dean doesn’t really know how to handle it. “I had an irrational impulse to solve an emotional dilemma through physical means. Driving away would only be symbolic. It wouldn’t solve anything. It would mean nothing.”
“Hey.” The word comes out a little more forcefully than he’d intended, but Dean blames it on the sudden vise around his heart. He can’t take much more of this, and from the tormented look on Cas’s face he doubts his friend can either. “If you think driving will help, then drive. If you need to get away, do it, Cas. Just say the word, and I’ll have your things packed up and in the trunk, and we’ll go.”
It gets Cas’s attention, calms him down just a bit. For the first time since they’ve met, Dean feels like Castiel is finally seeing him, and the feeling rocks him with unexpected force. “You would do that.”
“I would. You wanna leave this all behind, it’s good by me. It’s your call, Cas.” He would do it in a heartbeat, if it took that haunted look out of Castiel’s eyes. He would do it if Cas asked.
“I’ve been under the impression you wanted me here in order to… acclimate. So that I might go into the investigation with a clear head.” His friend frowns, and though he’s still shaking, curiosity seems to still him, a bit. Knowledge and understanding always were Cas’s drugs of choice, aside from all the other ones. “You would put all that at risk, just because I asked you to?”
Dean smiles, wants to let him know that Cas can talk him into just about anything, because he remembers a slew of lame trips to operas and museums he’d been dragged into because Castiel had wanted to experience what he called “Your human culture.”
It’s a little late, but Dean thinks he gets why he’d always managed to have fun on those outings despite himself. It’s a little late, but he gets now why he’d always kind of looked forward to them.
“I would. I told you before - I’ve been there, man. More than you know, I get it.” He gives Cas a pointed look. “And as far as gettin’ your shit together here is concerned? I hate to break it to ya, Cas, but it clearly ain’t doing any wonders.”
It pulls a reluctant smile to his friend’s lips, lopsided and hesitant before it disappears. Cas looks down at his hands, lashes a dark fan against heat-flushed cheeks, and Dean feels his chest swell with affection so overwhelming it borders on fucking ridiculous. “And if I said I didn’t want to find the demon that did this?”
His friend looks up, looks over at Dean like he’s trying to read him, and the question in his eyes is clear: “If I said I didn’t want to do this, would you make me?”
Dean shrugs, and even to him it feels kind of helpless. But it’s always been this way, with Cas. “I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to. It’s your life, Cas. It’s your choice.”
The response draws a strangled little sound from the back of Cas’s throat, has him watching Dean with wide eyes before he lunges forward, and Dean has about .002 seconds to wonder whether he’s about to get hit before Cas’s hands are on his face and he’s kissing him.
Dean doesn’t even have time to process it, to really think it through like he knows he should, before he’s suddenly kissing him back, pulling Cas closer likes he’s been starving for this, and he has. He’s been hungry for years, for longer than he’s even known, and it’s about a million times better than he even remembers. Better, maybe, because Cas bears his mark now and on some deeper level Dean still bears his. Better because Cas is human, this time, because it’s less delicate and somehow more fragile than anything Dean’s ever experienced with him, and he’s dizzy with it.
It amazes him how his palm fits the curve of Cas’s neck, how his thumb slips into that divot behind his ear, so easy, like it never left. How Cas’s slender hands, possessive on either side of Dean’s face, feel like home. Cas tastes like sweat and beer, like fire and brimstone and milk and honey and everything Dean’s ever known, and the push of his tongue spells redemption.
Of course, in the way of most great things, it doesn’t last long. It’s only a few seconds before Castiel breaks away, hitching uneven breaths, and Dean feels loss so acute it stuns him. Euphoria fades as quickly as it came, and in its stead is the rapidly dawning notion that he’d definitely just made out with a guy who maybe needs his space right about now. That, even if Cas had initiated it, Dean probably should have been a little more reserved with someone who’d gotten so damn used to being used. To being hurt.
“I’m sorry.” Cas’s voice is barely there, a murmured apology. He’s shaken, so pale his eyes stand out in stark contrast against the shock-white of his skin. It takes him three tries before he’s finally able to switch off the ignition and pocket the keys with trembling hands, and when he exits the car with a hurried fumble Dean hates himself.
He makes a half-hearted wish for God to strike him down where he sits, and, when that goes unanswered, a wholehearted one. Dean’s got no idea how this got out of hand so quickly, how he’d been able to fuck things up with such incredible efficiency in such a short amount of time. He’s never felt so damn sure that he’s got no idea what the fuck he’s doing here, and for a few short moments he’s devastated.
His saving grace, as it so often has, comes in the form of a fallen angel.
A shuffle of footsteps, and then a hesitant knock sounds against his window, staccato-nervous. “Dean.”
Castiel is hovering uncertainly when Dean looks, still pale, but when he rotates an unsteady hand in a familiar motion it’s so ridiculous that Dean gets the message and rolls down his window. He just hopes he can’t fuck things up any more than he already has. “Yeah, Cas. What’s up?”
Castiel steps closer and, even though it’s obvious he’s still on edge, still freaking, his eyes are rich with sincerity when he speaks next. “Dean. I am sorry for that. But I don’t regret it.”
With that, he departs. But it’s okay. Because, suddenly, Dean doesn’t regret it either.
*****
Cas does get well and truly hammered that night after the guests leave, and Dean decides to give him a temporary pass. The guy’s had a rough time of it lately even in earthbound terms, what with the job loss and socially awkward groping of his new angel friend, so Dean figures he can let it slide. In a way he’d be worried if Cas wasn’t drinking, at least a little. God knows, it’s probably the only escape the guy might have from his own head, at least for a while. Who’s Dean to deny him that?
In any case, Drunk Cas is every bit the surly motherfucker Dean remembers, rude and weirdly formal all at once. It’s both exasperating and comforting to be snarled at in a voice plunged low with irritability, to hear monosyllabic answers ground out with even less tact than usual. It’s actually kind of funny the way Cas primly informs his family with slurred decisiveness that, while he’s grateful for both the support and lodgings, he and The Angel Dean Winchester will be departing soon; they’ve wasted enough time as it is.
When Nora just pulls her son in close and says, in a voice full of understanding, “Okay, baby. You do what you need to do,” it’s not really funny anymore. When she tugs him downward and places a gentle kiss to his brow, when Cas’s face abruptly crumples and he clings tight, Dean remembers that none of this was every really funny at all.
When Cas lets out a sob so broken it hurts to hear, Dean absolutely needs to get the fuck out of there.
He makes his exit quietly, tries to control the awful churn of rage and misery he feels as he heads out to the back porch. It’s a wasted emotion, Dean knows, but he can’t help but feel a little fucking useless. He reaches out and grips the railing for no other reason than it’s something he can hold onto, something he can affect, and when paint flakes off beneath his palms he’s almost grateful.
He’s thankful to note Sam’s presence beside him a moment later, but it’s awhile before either of them speak. Maybe awhile before either of them can. As far as traumatic sights go they’ve had their fill, but it doesn’t make this shit any easier to witness. It doesn’t make it easier, period.
Eventually Sam clears his throat, nudges his shoulder against Dean’s in what’s meant to be a comforting manner, and it almost is. “You okay?”
“I’m good.” It’s a knee-jerk response, an oldie but a goodie. They both know it doesn’t mean a damn thing. “You?”
His brother just responds with a snort, and it’s probably best they leave it at that. They haven’t talked about it, not really, but Dean can read the guilt in Sam’s eyes like it’s written there. He wonders how long Sam can go on blaming himself for not finding Cas sooner, and guesses long enough. Winchesters don’t bear anything quite like they do the fucking cross.
“He’ll be okay.” Sam nods, almost to himself, and Dean’s not sure who the declaration is meant to convince until Sam looks over. Even then, he considers it about a fifty-fifty shot. “He will. You know that, right?”
Dean just nods in response, says, “I know.” Because he does. He gets that Castiel will be okay, eventually. Or at least as okay as he ever can be. Dean gets it, but it’s damn hard to take solace in eventually when right fucking now sucks so much.
“Good.” Sam lowers himself onto the porch swing with an almighty groan, makes a motion for Dean to do the same, and he does. Sitting out in the fading heat, buffeted by the swell of trilling cicadas, it almost feels normal. It almost feels alright.
“So you and Cas are heading out soon?” Sam barely waits for an answer, just throws a significant look in Dean’s direction. What comes next is fairly obvious, but Dean gives him points for at least putting it out there. “You do realize I’m coming with you, right?”
“Wouldn’t have dreamt otherwise.” It feels wrong that the thought buoys him, with Cas so upset just a few feet away. But Dean knows from experience that he can’t linger on this shit without end, can’t feel guilty for every bit of happiness he feels even when someone he cares about is suffering. It’s just one more way to lose himself, and if he does that then he ends up helping exactly no one.
“You can come. But let me ask you this. Do you promise you won’t wander away at every stop we make? Or hold us up so you can have three-hour long conversations with strangers about how ‘when you were young, things were different’?” It’s not the best Dean’s ever come up with, but it suits him fine all the same. “See, because you’re old. Like an old person. And I feel like it’s something we need to address.”
When Sam chokes out a laugh, Dean considers it a personal victory. “You were in Heaven for how many years? How are you still a dick?”
He grins. “Dedication, Sammy. It takes dedication.”
That one earns him an eye roll, a huff of exasperation, and Dean’s missed this. “Jerk.”
Dean just smiles. He’s knows he’s not in for a particularly easy journey; none of them are. But he’s got his brother back. It’s hard not to feel at least a little optimistic with his co-pilot at the helm. It’s hard not to feel like, with the three of them together, everything might actually turn out okay. He just hopes he’s right.
TBC
So, I suck. It's been forever since I posted anything, and it probably doesn't mean much by this point, but I can promise it'll actually get finished. Bear with me. I am slow.