30_romances: 08. Analysis
Theme/Title: 08. Analysis (Full theme: Analysis; collection)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: T
Spoilers: 5.16
Word count: 3,140
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: The little details don’t add up to the bigger picture, but Sam still sees the forest for what it is.
Author’s Note: I have no idea what this is. Last-minute coda for 5.16, take it or leave it. ETA: I keep editing this one line, sorry! I really need to not fic while out of my mind.
When Castiel is suddenly grounded he thinks he’s just tired and tells them he just needs a moment. Sam gives him a slow, concerned nod before cramming himself into the too-small chair with a dusty book, but Dean doesn’t move, arms crossed over his chest while his eyes track Castiel to one of the twin beds, where the angel perches on its edge.
“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel says, hands on his knees and fingertips pulling at the fabric. He takes a deep breath, trying to find the pieces of himself that flicker like fireflies.
“No,” Dean says, crossing and kneeling down in front of him. “No, you’re not. You can’t fly.”
Castiel’s hearing is still sharper than the average human’s; he can hear Sam’s finger sliding down the page, his steady breath breaking at Dean’s words. Dean himself breathes quick and shallow, pulse pounding rapidly as the hand he places on top of Castiel’s slides upwards and wraps callused fingers around his wrist.
He shuts his eyes tight, grasping at his grace, but like candles the fireflies are snuffing out.
“No,” he hears himself say. “I can fly.”
What is an angel without his wings?
Three hours later Dean rouses him from the chair where he meant to keep watch but ended up dozing off in, and pushes him into bed, trench coat, tie, wingtips, and all.
“Tomorrow,” he says, sliding in and turning off the lamp, “I’m teaching you self-defense.”
He forgets to tell Castiel how to sleep, and the angel remains awake for another two hours, lying on his side and watching Dean snore softly. He can hear Sam shift on the other mattress, snuffling and rubbing his face into his pillow, mumbling about someone named Jess.
* * *
“Come on,” Dean growls. “Hit me.”
“Dude,” Sam says from a safe corner of the room, tossing Castiel’s coat and jacket on the unmade bed, “what if he still has super strength? How are we going to explain the holes in the wall?”
“We’ll worry about that later.”
“You could teach him some basics, not throw him into the deep end-”
“‘Cause we don’t have time,” Dean says. “Besides, Cas used to lead a garrison. Isn’t that what you told me, before they started demoting you for ‘getting too close to humans’?”
“Yeah, but that was when he could knock you out by touching your forehead-”
“You mind?” Dean says, and Sam falls silent. All throughout the exchange his eyes never leave Castiel’s. They’re hard, glinting like the sheen of his sword that’s now safely packed away in Dean’s duffel. “C’mon, Cas, show me what you’ve got.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Castiel says, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“There’s more to self-defense than throwing your fists around,” Dean replies as he bends his knees, a fist up while the other hovers close to his chest. “Don’t hold back.”
Dean’s confidence is strangely compelling, mostly because it’s so rare nowadays, a glimpse of the elusive out of the corner of his eye. Castiel stares at him, posture curling forward and predatory, and then curls his right hand into a fist and swings. Suddenly Dean is gone, and then right next to him, driving an elbow into his side, and Castiel crashes.
“Holy shit,” Sam says while Castiel curls into himself, grimacing from the bruising, blinding pain. Then someone hovers over him, a large warm hand resting on it and enveloping the sharp agony, a low voice whispering in his ear, “Not bad, darling, but not good enough.”
Castiel can hear Sam suck in a breath.
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, his voice louder. “On your feet. I need to show you what you did wrong.”
He rubs his side, dulling the pain, and then pushes off. Castiel opens his eyes; he can see the little scratches in the lacquered knobs of the dresser holding up the television set and all the tiny synthetic loops of the dull red wine carpet. He takes a deep breath and tastes dust as he sits up.
“Again,” he says as he rises to his feet and Dean raises an eyebrow. “Let’s do it again.”
“You sure?”
He nods. Dean ponders it for a few more seconds, and then steps back and picks up his fists again. This time Castiel slowly shifts his posture to mimic Dean’s, and is pleased when he gets a small nod of approval.
“Hit me,” Dean says.
* * *
This is the fourth day and neither brother believes that all Castiel needs is rest. He says that he feels tired and that his body seems to drag over the cement, carpet, and tiles; Dean tells him to stop sitting up and come to bed, and Sam asks him why he’s okay with sleeping but not okay saying he can’t fly anymore.
“I can,” Castiel says, turning over to look at Sam. The room is cold but the sunlight streaming through the curtains is golden and warm, glancing off of Sam’s head and filtering through the steam rising from the thick foam cup by his book. Sam isn’t reading; he’s staring off into the distance and his mind is on Castiel. “My grace is weak but still here. I can see them-”
“Them?”
“My grace. They’re like…fireflies,” Castiel says. When he closes his eyes he can see them, shimmering iridescent shards against the black mortality wrapping cold fingers around him. He shudders and pulls the sheets up to his chin. “I have to focus to gather them; it is exhausting, but doable.”
“Cas-” Sam begins.
“I don’t understand,” he says, blinking slowly and then exhaling. He can taste the tip of a shard escaping with his breath, gold dust falling to the carpet with the dirt.
“Understand what?” Sam says a little while later and Castiel opens his eyes. One minute and twenty three seconds; he fell asleep without finishing his thought and now he’s forgotten.
“I’m tired,” Castiel says and closes his eyes again.
* * *
On the seventh day Dean gently shakes him awake. His breath is hot and vaguely minty; Castiel thinks of Moroccan mint tea, bitter and sweet, and wonders if Dean would make a good substitute while he’s currently incapacitated.
“C’mon, Cas. Got you some coffee,” Dean says. The stiff mattress dips, the springs creaking, and Castiel opens his eyes, blinking several times because the world seems to tip from one side to the other. His mouth is dry; he runs his tongue over his teeth, and then sits up.
The heavy rich aroma curls around him as he accepts the cardboard cup from Dean. He can see his reflection in the black surface; his hair is unkempt, his eyes shadowed, wrinkles pressed into the side of his face. The stubble along his jaw hasn’t changed, though, but he drags a finger along it anyway, feeling the prickle under his fingertip.
Dean is staring at him. He’s been doing that lately, starting on the fifth day.
“A few more days,” Castiel says, raising the cup to his mouth. “I just need a few more days.”
He can still hear Dean swallow hard, the Adam’s apple bobbing, and the splash of coffee against his upper lip.
“Yeah?” Dean says. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? If you keep sleeping your battery will recharge and you can zap out of here?”
“I will come back,” Castiel says. He doesn’t like the serrated edge in Dean’s voice, shaking so hard there’s no way he can make the cut without botching it. “You know that.”
“At this point I’d be more worried about being able to go away so you can come back,” Dean says. “Have you even left this room?”
“You took me out to the parking lot because I almost threw you into the television set,” Castiel reminds him. “It was one in the morning.”
Dean stares at him, and then sighs and drinks from his cup. “Well Sam thinks he found something the next town over. We’re leaving as soon as you get dressed.”
When Castiel stares at himself in the small mirror, he sees his grace glowing behind Jimmy’s eyes. The light is dimmer and the colors less vibrant, turning his irises a muted damp blue. He looks up at the row of light bulbs along the wall and think s they need changing; the orange cast is deceiving.
Dean knocks on the door. “You okay in there?”
He hears rustling through the wood like Sam skimming the pages of the newspapers from the motel lobby. He hears Sam say, “He’s been stalking us for almost two years, Dean. I think he knows how to use the sink.”
“Shut up, bitch,” Dean throws back. “You didn’t get stuck with him for several weeks.”
Castiel looks down at the porcelain bowl and turns the faucet.
* * *
“I want you to have something,” Sam says.
Castiel stirs and presses his forehead against the glass. He can see Dean picking at things from the shelves in the convenience store while the man at the counter watches, drumming thick fingers. There’s a woman, sandy hair tied back, handing a little boy bottled water. Castiel turns his head away from the store; a gleaming black sports utility vehicle is parked parallel to the Impala and in front of it is a dusty red convertible. A young man in a leather jacket and ratty jeans is leaning against its door, a cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth.
“Cas?”
He looks at Sam, who’s turned himself around completely so he’s facing the backseat. There’s something in his hand, thick black string looping out between his fingers.
“I don’t need it anymore,” he says, but his voice quavers under the weight of Sam’s dark gaze.
“I know,” he says, “but I think you should have it anyway.”
Castiel tilts his head back towards the store again; Dean is perusing a magazine and the counter is cluttered with things. If he narrows his eyes he can pick out individual letters; the big bag is filled with salt and the angular glass bottle reads “Johnnie Walker”.
“Does he know?” Castiel asks, but the answer is clear like the story behind Sam’s sudden repossession of the roughly shaped metal.
“I gave this to him one Christmas,” Sam says slowly. “It was for Dad but he never showed up. No surprise there…so I gave it to Dean. He never took it off, not until you said you needed it to find…Him.”
Castiel looks away. Something very bitter is rising up in his throat and he swallows hard to push it back down.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” Sam says. “Just…please take it. You probably don’t know how much this necklace means to me, how much it hurt watching him drop it in the trash. It meant so much to him, but after what I told him, after what he saw…” Sam shakes his head, sniffs once, and then rubs his face with his free hand.
Castiel stares at the outstretched hand. He realizes what Sam is doing, but this is not his place and so he pushes the hand back.
“When the time is right,” Castiel says carefully, watching Dean leave the store with two plastic bags, “give it to him again. I was…wrong to call it worthless. It’s not, and he needs to understand that.”
When Dean gets back into the car Castiel is stretched out on the backseat again, eyes closed and waiting for the gentle rumble of the Impala’s engine.
* * *
The diner food is greasy but the coffee is heavenly. Dean ends up eating the rest of his cheeseburger while Sam offers him half of his limp, dressing-sodden salad; Castiel accepts and also eats all of Dean’s fries.
“More coffee?” the waitress asks, startled when she peers into the speckled mug and finds it empty.
“Yes-”
“How about some tea?” Dean cuts in. The woman still looks concerned when she walks away with the coffee pot and Castiel glowers at Dean. Sam is laughing behind his hand, the fork skidding across the plate, as Dean leans away. “Yeah, see, this is why we need to cut down on your coffee intake.”
The motel is just down the road, looking about as dingy and nondescript as every other motel Sam and Dean manage to find. The only hint of character is the random Albert Bierstadt prints framed on the walls of the lobby and their room.
Castiel watches Dean toss his duffel onto the bed furthest from the bathroom and tips himself into it, curling up despite the trench coat tangling in his legs.
“How can you have food coma with all the coffee in your system?” Sam wonders as he kicks off his boots.
“I don’t think he knows the difference,” Dean says. “Cas, if you’re gonna sleep, take your shoes off.”
He toes them off and pushes them haphazardly off the mattress, hears them tumble to the carpet with a muffled thud. He hears Dean sigh, his footsteps as he crosses the room to pick them up and stash them elsewhere, and Sam’s suddenly quiet, “Can we talk?”
When he opens his eyes it’s dark and Dean’s not in bed. He raises his head and then sits up, his head heavy with sleep. As it drains away his eyes sharpen, adapting to the night, and he can make out Sam sleeping on top of the covers, spread-eagled with his hands and feet dangling off the bed. Castiel suddenly exhales and his grace comes to life.
* * *
Dean snaps the phone shut and then looks down at his feet. “Where’re your shoes?”
Castiel doesn’t know. He doesn’t care, actually, since he can fly back and get them if he needs them. He knows where Dean stashed them, wiped down and gleaming with shoe polish.
“What are you doing here?” he says instead, looking up at the sky. This far from town he can see the stars with his human eyes. They gleam bright against the dark blue backdrop, starlight illuminating the empty field next to the freeway.
Dean sighs and bows his head, rubbing it with his hands. “You didn’t hear us?”
Castiel regards him carefully, eyes skimming over him but finding nothing else. “You had a fight.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. He looks up at Castiel, eyes dry but shining. “Didn’t end well.”
He’s purposefully avoiding the inflammatory topic that has Sam in the room and Dean out in the open field, so Castiel chooses not to press him for details. It’s not his place, like the amulet.
Dean clears his throat. “So you’re okay now.”
“Yes.” He presses the ball of his foot into the dirt, the thin sock a poor barrier between it and bare skin. He slips his hands into his coat pockets but the fingers on his right hand close around lint instead of cold metal and he frowns.
“What are you going to do now?” Dean asks.
“I don’t know.” It’s as honest an answer as he can give, because Castiel doesn’t know. He hasn’t given much thought to it since the day he couldn’t leave the motel room. It’s a one-way road and if Castiel steps onto it he won’t be able to turn back.
Dean laughs like a man with no future. “Me, neither.”
He slides to his left and pats the hood, so Castiel carefully climbs onto the Impala and sits down next to him. The metal is warm from the engine underneath; it bleeds through his clothes, enveloping him from the persistent chill of deep night. Dean himself is a radiator of heat and Castiel presses close to him, shoulders, hips, and knees lining up while they sit and study the sky.
“I don’t want to say it,” Dean says quietly. “She says it’s not so bad, Heaven. If half the world dies, they have their-their favorite memories to live out forever. That’s not so bad, right?”
“I can’t tell you,” Castiel admits. He’s ventured to the Other Side only a few times in his life because soldiers have no business walking amongst human souls and their dreams. “I had a garrison to command.”
“No,” Dean agrees. “You can't. You fought Hell for centuries, and then you had to drag my sorry ass out.” He sighs and lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “And it was my sorry ass that started everything…”
His breath is hot and heavy, thickly sweet and tinged with alcohol. Castiel assumes the bottle of Johnnie Walker is to blame, although it’s nowhere in sight. Dean slumps against him, breathing slowing down to an easy rhythm, and Castiel wraps his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and hearing his heart beat against the carved ribcage.
When he opens his eyes the sky is tinged pink and orange.
* * *
Sam is waiting when Castiel sets the Impala down, one slot over, and appears besides it, Dean in his arms. He’s exhausted, face drawn and eyes bruised with uneasy sleep, and he stumbles out onto the blacktop on bare feet to help bring Dean inside.
“You had a fight,” Castiel says while Sam pulls back the covers.
“Yeah,” is the only reply he gets.
Castiel lays Dean down on the bed and Sam leans over to undo the laces on his boots. Something dangles from his neck, shining in the dim morning light. Castiel stares at it for a long moment, eyes tracing the horned face, and his fingers twitch and rub against each other, feeling the traitorous chill of the metal as he swept through the world, searching, searching…
“He won’t talk about it,” Sam suddenly says as he drops the shoes over the edge. He sits down at the foot of the bed and Castiel pulls the sheets over Dean up to his chin. “I know he’s thinking about it, though.”
Dean stirs, pressing his face into the starchy pillows and exhaling softly.
“You’re not talking about it, either,” Sam says. He’s not accusing, but he’s saying it slowly, warily, and maybe that’s what triggered the fight. “You know what’s happening, but you’re not-”
“I know what’s happening,” Castiel says. He woke up today even though he can still fly. “Not everyone talks about it, Sam.”
He sits down next to Dean’s head, watching him sleep. The sun is spilling into the room and Castiel starts counting the freckles on his face.
“So what are you going to do?”
He traces the line of Dean’s jaw, his grace alight with the memory, the slow and steady rebuilding of bone and muscle, blood and skin. The pounding in his head is from his heart, though, and one of the fireflies shatters.
“If God won’t do anything,” Castiel says, “then I will. Dean will never say yes.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: T
Spoilers: 5.16
Word count: 3,140
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: The little details don’t add up to the bigger picture, but Sam still sees the forest for what it is.
Author’s Note: I have no idea what this is. Last-minute coda for 5.16, take it or leave it. ETA: I keep editing this one line, sorry! I really need to not fic while out of my mind.
When Castiel is suddenly grounded he thinks he’s just tired and tells them he just needs a moment. Sam gives him a slow, concerned nod before cramming himself into the too-small chair with a dusty book, but Dean doesn’t move, arms crossed over his chest while his eyes track Castiel to one of the twin beds, where the angel perches on its edge.
“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel says, hands on his knees and fingertips pulling at the fabric. He takes a deep breath, trying to find the pieces of himself that flicker like fireflies.
“No,” Dean says, crossing and kneeling down in front of him. “No, you’re not. You can’t fly.”
Castiel’s hearing is still sharper than the average human’s; he can hear Sam’s finger sliding down the page, his steady breath breaking at Dean’s words. Dean himself breathes quick and shallow, pulse pounding rapidly as the hand he places on top of Castiel’s slides upwards and wraps callused fingers around his wrist.
He shuts his eyes tight, grasping at his grace, but like candles the fireflies are snuffing out.
“No,” he hears himself say. “I can fly.”
What is an angel without his wings?
Three hours later Dean rouses him from the chair where he meant to keep watch but ended up dozing off in, and pushes him into bed, trench coat, tie, wingtips, and all.
“Tomorrow,” he says, sliding in and turning off the lamp, “I’m teaching you self-defense.”
He forgets to tell Castiel how to sleep, and the angel remains awake for another two hours, lying on his side and watching Dean snore softly. He can hear Sam shift on the other mattress, snuffling and rubbing his face into his pillow, mumbling about someone named Jess.
* * *
“Come on,” Dean growls. “Hit me.”
“Dude,” Sam says from a safe corner of the room, tossing Castiel’s coat and jacket on the unmade bed, “what if he still has super strength? How are we going to explain the holes in the wall?”
“We’ll worry about that later.”
“You could teach him some basics, not throw him into the deep end-”
“‘Cause we don’t have time,” Dean says. “Besides, Cas used to lead a garrison. Isn’t that what you told me, before they started demoting you for ‘getting too close to humans’?”
“Yeah, but that was when he could knock you out by touching your forehead-”
“You mind?” Dean says, and Sam falls silent. All throughout the exchange his eyes never leave Castiel’s. They’re hard, glinting like the sheen of his sword that’s now safely packed away in Dean’s duffel. “C’mon, Cas, show me what you’ve got.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Castiel says, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“There’s more to self-defense than throwing your fists around,” Dean replies as he bends his knees, a fist up while the other hovers close to his chest. “Don’t hold back.”
Dean’s confidence is strangely compelling, mostly because it’s so rare nowadays, a glimpse of the elusive out of the corner of his eye. Castiel stares at him, posture curling forward and predatory, and then curls his right hand into a fist and swings. Suddenly Dean is gone, and then right next to him, driving an elbow into his side, and Castiel crashes.
“Holy shit,” Sam says while Castiel curls into himself, grimacing from the bruising, blinding pain. Then someone hovers over him, a large warm hand resting on it and enveloping the sharp agony, a low voice whispering in his ear, “Not bad, darling, but not good enough.”
Castiel can hear Sam suck in a breath.
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, his voice louder. “On your feet. I need to show you what you did wrong.”
He rubs his side, dulling the pain, and then pushes off. Castiel opens his eyes; he can see the little scratches in the lacquered knobs of the dresser holding up the television set and all the tiny synthetic loops of the dull red wine carpet. He takes a deep breath and tastes dust as he sits up.
“Again,” he says as he rises to his feet and Dean raises an eyebrow. “Let’s do it again.”
“You sure?”
He nods. Dean ponders it for a few more seconds, and then steps back and picks up his fists again. This time Castiel slowly shifts his posture to mimic Dean’s, and is pleased when he gets a small nod of approval.
“Hit me,” Dean says.
* * *
This is the fourth day and neither brother believes that all Castiel needs is rest. He says that he feels tired and that his body seems to drag over the cement, carpet, and tiles; Dean tells him to stop sitting up and come to bed, and Sam asks him why he’s okay with sleeping but not okay saying he can’t fly anymore.
“I can,” Castiel says, turning over to look at Sam. The room is cold but the sunlight streaming through the curtains is golden and warm, glancing off of Sam’s head and filtering through the steam rising from the thick foam cup by his book. Sam isn’t reading; he’s staring off into the distance and his mind is on Castiel. “My grace is weak but still here. I can see them-”
“Them?”
“My grace. They’re like…fireflies,” Castiel says. When he closes his eyes he can see them, shimmering iridescent shards against the black mortality wrapping cold fingers around him. He shudders and pulls the sheets up to his chin. “I have to focus to gather them; it is exhausting, but doable.”
“Cas-” Sam begins.
“I don’t understand,” he says, blinking slowly and then exhaling. He can taste the tip of a shard escaping with his breath, gold dust falling to the carpet with the dirt.
“Understand what?” Sam says a little while later and Castiel opens his eyes. One minute and twenty three seconds; he fell asleep without finishing his thought and now he’s forgotten.
“I’m tired,” Castiel says and closes his eyes again.
* * *
On the seventh day Dean gently shakes him awake. His breath is hot and vaguely minty; Castiel thinks of Moroccan mint tea, bitter and sweet, and wonders if Dean would make a good substitute while he’s currently incapacitated.
“C’mon, Cas. Got you some coffee,” Dean says. The stiff mattress dips, the springs creaking, and Castiel opens his eyes, blinking several times because the world seems to tip from one side to the other. His mouth is dry; he runs his tongue over his teeth, and then sits up.
The heavy rich aroma curls around him as he accepts the cardboard cup from Dean. He can see his reflection in the black surface; his hair is unkempt, his eyes shadowed, wrinkles pressed into the side of his face. The stubble along his jaw hasn’t changed, though, but he drags a finger along it anyway, feeling the prickle under his fingertip.
Dean is staring at him. He’s been doing that lately, starting on the fifth day.
“A few more days,” Castiel says, raising the cup to his mouth. “I just need a few more days.”
He can still hear Dean swallow hard, the Adam’s apple bobbing, and the splash of coffee against his upper lip.
“Yeah?” Dean says. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? If you keep sleeping your battery will recharge and you can zap out of here?”
“I will come back,” Castiel says. He doesn’t like the serrated edge in Dean’s voice, shaking so hard there’s no way he can make the cut without botching it. “You know that.”
“At this point I’d be more worried about being able to go away so you can come back,” Dean says. “Have you even left this room?”
“You took me out to the parking lot because I almost threw you into the television set,” Castiel reminds him. “It was one in the morning.”
Dean stares at him, and then sighs and drinks from his cup. “Well Sam thinks he found something the next town over. We’re leaving as soon as you get dressed.”
When Castiel stares at himself in the small mirror, he sees his grace glowing behind Jimmy’s eyes. The light is dimmer and the colors less vibrant, turning his irises a muted damp blue. He looks up at the row of light bulbs along the wall and think s they need changing; the orange cast is deceiving.
Dean knocks on the door. “You okay in there?”
He hears rustling through the wood like Sam skimming the pages of the newspapers from the motel lobby. He hears Sam say, “He’s been stalking us for almost two years, Dean. I think he knows how to use the sink.”
“Shut up, bitch,” Dean throws back. “You didn’t get stuck with him for several weeks.”
Castiel looks down at the porcelain bowl and turns the faucet.
* * *
“I want you to have something,” Sam says.
Castiel stirs and presses his forehead against the glass. He can see Dean picking at things from the shelves in the convenience store while the man at the counter watches, drumming thick fingers. There’s a woman, sandy hair tied back, handing a little boy bottled water. Castiel turns his head away from the store; a gleaming black sports utility vehicle is parked parallel to the Impala and in front of it is a dusty red convertible. A young man in a leather jacket and ratty jeans is leaning against its door, a cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth.
“Cas?”
He looks at Sam, who’s turned himself around completely so he’s facing the backseat. There’s something in his hand, thick black string looping out between his fingers.
“I don’t need it anymore,” he says, but his voice quavers under the weight of Sam’s dark gaze.
“I know,” he says, “but I think you should have it anyway.”
Castiel tilts his head back towards the store again; Dean is perusing a magazine and the counter is cluttered with things. If he narrows his eyes he can pick out individual letters; the big bag is filled with salt and the angular glass bottle reads “Johnnie Walker”.
“Does he know?” Castiel asks, but the answer is clear like the story behind Sam’s sudden repossession of the roughly shaped metal.
“I gave this to him one Christmas,” Sam says slowly. “It was for Dad but he never showed up. No surprise there…so I gave it to Dean. He never took it off, not until you said you needed it to find…Him.”
Castiel looks away. Something very bitter is rising up in his throat and he swallows hard to push it back down.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” Sam says. “Just…please take it. You probably don’t know how much this necklace means to me, how much it hurt watching him drop it in the trash. It meant so much to him, but after what I told him, after what he saw…” Sam shakes his head, sniffs once, and then rubs his face with his free hand.
Castiel stares at the outstretched hand. He realizes what Sam is doing, but this is not his place and so he pushes the hand back.
“When the time is right,” Castiel says carefully, watching Dean leave the store with two plastic bags, “give it to him again. I was…wrong to call it worthless. It’s not, and he needs to understand that.”
When Dean gets back into the car Castiel is stretched out on the backseat again, eyes closed and waiting for the gentle rumble of the Impala’s engine.
* * *
The diner food is greasy but the coffee is heavenly. Dean ends up eating the rest of his cheeseburger while Sam offers him half of his limp, dressing-sodden salad; Castiel accepts and also eats all of Dean’s fries.
“More coffee?” the waitress asks, startled when she peers into the speckled mug and finds it empty.
“Yes-”
“How about some tea?” Dean cuts in. The woman still looks concerned when she walks away with the coffee pot and Castiel glowers at Dean. Sam is laughing behind his hand, the fork skidding across the plate, as Dean leans away. “Yeah, see, this is why we need to cut down on your coffee intake.”
The motel is just down the road, looking about as dingy and nondescript as every other motel Sam and Dean manage to find. The only hint of character is the random Albert Bierstadt prints framed on the walls of the lobby and their room.
Castiel watches Dean toss his duffel onto the bed furthest from the bathroom and tips himself into it, curling up despite the trench coat tangling in his legs.
“How can you have food coma with all the coffee in your system?” Sam wonders as he kicks off his boots.
“I don’t think he knows the difference,” Dean says. “Cas, if you’re gonna sleep, take your shoes off.”
He toes them off and pushes them haphazardly off the mattress, hears them tumble to the carpet with a muffled thud. He hears Dean sigh, his footsteps as he crosses the room to pick them up and stash them elsewhere, and Sam’s suddenly quiet, “Can we talk?”
When he opens his eyes it’s dark and Dean’s not in bed. He raises his head and then sits up, his head heavy with sleep. As it drains away his eyes sharpen, adapting to the night, and he can make out Sam sleeping on top of the covers, spread-eagled with his hands and feet dangling off the bed. Castiel suddenly exhales and his grace comes to life.
* * *
Dean snaps the phone shut and then looks down at his feet. “Where’re your shoes?”
Castiel doesn’t know. He doesn’t care, actually, since he can fly back and get them if he needs them. He knows where Dean stashed them, wiped down and gleaming with shoe polish.
“What are you doing here?” he says instead, looking up at the sky. This far from town he can see the stars with his human eyes. They gleam bright against the dark blue backdrop, starlight illuminating the empty field next to the freeway.
Dean sighs and bows his head, rubbing it with his hands. “You didn’t hear us?”
Castiel regards him carefully, eyes skimming over him but finding nothing else. “You had a fight.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. He looks up at Castiel, eyes dry but shining. “Didn’t end well.”
He’s purposefully avoiding the inflammatory topic that has Sam in the room and Dean out in the open field, so Castiel chooses not to press him for details. It’s not his place, like the amulet.
Dean clears his throat. “So you’re okay now.”
“Yes.” He presses the ball of his foot into the dirt, the thin sock a poor barrier between it and bare skin. He slips his hands into his coat pockets but the fingers on his right hand close around lint instead of cold metal and he frowns.
“What are you going to do now?” Dean asks.
“I don’t know.” It’s as honest an answer as he can give, because Castiel doesn’t know. He hasn’t given much thought to it since the day he couldn’t leave the motel room. It’s a one-way road and if Castiel steps onto it he won’t be able to turn back.
Dean laughs like a man with no future. “Me, neither.”
He slides to his left and pats the hood, so Castiel carefully climbs onto the Impala and sits down next to him. The metal is warm from the engine underneath; it bleeds through his clothes, enveloping him from the persistent chill of deep night. Dean himself is a radiator of heat and Castiel presses close to him, shoulders, hips, and knees lining up while they sit and study the sky.
“I don’t want to say it,” Dean says quietly. “She says it’s not so bad, Heaven. If half the world dies, they have their-their favorite memories to live out forever. That’s not so bad, right?”
“I can’t tell you,” Castiel admits. He’s ventured to the Other Side only a few times in his life because soldiers have no business walking amongst human souls and their dreams. “I had a garrison to command.”
“No,” Dean agrees. “You can't. You fought Hell for centuries, and then you had to drag my sorry ass out.” He sighs and lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “And it was my sorry ass that started everything…”
His breath is hot and heavy, thickly sweet and tinged with alcohol. Castiel assumes the bottle of Johnnie Walker is to blame, although it’s nowhere in sight. Dean slumps against him, breathing slowing down to an easy rhythm, and Castiel wraps his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and hearing his heart beat against the carved ribcage.
When he opens his eyes the sky is tinged pink and orange.
* * *
Sam is waiting when Castiel sets the Impala down, one slot over, and appears besides it, Dean in his arms. He’s exhausted, face drawn and eyes bruised with uneasy sleep, and he stumbles out onto the blacktop on bare feet to help bring Dean inside.
“You had a fight,” Castiel says while Sam pulls back the covers.
“Yeah,” is the only reply he gets.
Castiel lays Dean down on the bed and Sam leans over to undo the laces on his boots. Something dangles from his neck, shining in the dim morning light. Castiel stares at it for a long moment, eyes tracing the horned face, and his fingers twitch and rub against each other, feeling the traitorous chill of the metal as he swept through the world, searching, searching…
“He won’t talk about it,” Sam suddenly says as he drops the shoes over the edge. He sits down at the foot of the bed and Castiel pulls the sheets over Dean up to his chin. “I know he’s thinking about it, though.”
Dean stirs, pressing his face into the starchy pillows and exhaling softly.
“You’re not talking about it, either,” Sam says. He’s not accusing, but he’s saying it slowly, warily, and maybe that’s what triggered the fight. “You know what’s happening, but you’re not-”
“I know what’s happening,” Castiel says. He woke up today even though he can still fly. “Not everyone talks about it, Sam.”
He sits down next to Dean’s head, watching him sleep. The sun is spilling into the room and Castiel starts counting the freckles on his face.
“So what are you going to do?”
He traces the line of Dean’s jaw, his grace alight with the memory, the slow and steady rebuilding of bone and muscle, blood and skin. The pounding in his head is from his heart, though, and one of the fireflies shatters.
“If God won’t do anything,” Castiel says, “then I will. Dean will never say yes.”