Coming Home (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Coming Home
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1.1k
Pairings: Dean/Castiel (pre-slash)
Warnings/spoilers: Spoilers for 8x23, mentions of slight body horror and death.
Summary: The angels are still falling, Dean is trying not to be hopeful, and Castiel is on a journey.
Notes: 8x23 episode coda.
(Read in light format | on AO3)
They call it a fluke, a meteor shower, the end of the world. An act of God. There are UFO conspiracies, scientists are called in, physicists and geologists. And then it turns out some of the craters are filled with shards of bone and blood, scraps of material, as if there had been a body thrown apart, crushed into dust, by the impact of each collision of space with Earth. Other craters - some in London, Paris, Dubai, Seoul, tiny villages in Peru, in India - are filled with nothing at all. Some have long, black scorch marks that stretch across the giant hole in the ground, but nobody can figure out what they are. Some say they look like scales, like scars on the Earth, others say like wings.
None of the craters are found with survivors inside. Dean figures the angels - humans, the ones that lived - scampered out of there and got the hell out of dodge.
None of them have Cas in, either.
Dean spends two days kneeling down in the dirt, staring into craters, trying to see if he can find any sign of Cas. He hopes, every time, that he won’t find anything. He never does, but it doesn’t give him any more answers, and he’s left empty handed and wishing all it would take is a prayer to get Cas listening to him.
That’s assuming Castiel is still alive.
Sam is slowly, slowly getting better. Kevin stays out of the way most of the time, and Dean tries to stay away from windows and doors, where he might catch a flash of burning grace lighting up the darkness. He slowly carves his knife into the watermelon in front of him, into methodical slices, and chucks them into the glass bowl. They’re going to need some more food soon, down to eating crackers and soup, but Dean’s going to put it off as long as possible.
Three days later and Sam is walking about the bunker and has shook the fever off. He’s caught Dean in the living room, has sat down next to him on the couch and is staring at him in the way Dean knows they’re about to have a talk.
"He hasn’t shown up yet?"
Dean guesses Sam isn’t bothering with trying to worm information out of Dean anymore, and is going straight for bullseye.
"Who?"
The attempt at avoidance doesn’t work, and Sam gives him a pitying look, slaps one of his huge hands on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. “If you want to go look for him again, it’s okay. I’m getting better.”
"No," Dean says. "If he’s out there, he knows where to go. If he wants to see us - we’re here."
Sam stares at him a few moments longer, not saying anything, and then he nods, letting his hand drop away.
Dean goes back to staring at the television and tries to ignore the nervous buzz that’s like electricity eating away at him beneath his skin.
It takes a week after The Fall for the angels to finally stop burning in the sky. They fizzle out and nights become ordinary again, dark and quiet and full of bright, flickering stars.
Dean checks the sky every night before he goes to bed.
***
Everything is silent.
It’s dark, and cold, and lonely. He wants to fly away, tries to spread his wings, and he’s left standing in the muddy field beneath the sky that’s burning with his falling brothers and sisters.
Of course, he doesn’t fly away. He walks towards the nearest town, and has no idea how far it is or how long it takes him, only that it looks like he’s still in the US and figures Metatron can’t have thrown him far.
There’s a heavy thump thump thump in his head that he hoped at first was the static of his brothers and sisters, but there is no more angel radio, and it’s only Castiel’s thoughts filling up the silence, now. Although, he’s not so sure he’s worthy of being Castiel anymore.
Cas, then. Just Cas.
He doesn’t know what to do, or where to go. He doesn’t know what the right thing to do is.
In the end, he decides to walk.
***
It’s been eight days since The Fall. The air smells of summer. There are birds chirping in the quiet night, and a light breeze that comes and goes. Dean’s sitting on the hood of the Impala, a bottle of beer beside him, when there’s a rustle in the distance and a dark figure comes stumbling towards him.
"Cas?"
The word leaps from his mouth before he has a chance to even understand where it came from, and then Cas is swaying forwards and Dean is running towards him, hands clutching at the top of Cas’ trenchcoat to keep him upright.
Cas steadies himself and looks up at Dean with wide, tired eyes. There are deep, dark shadows beneath his eyes and coarse hair across his chin and cheeks. Dean pats him down, hands running over his shoulders, his back, his arms, his chest, up to the back of his neck and sides of his head.
"Don’t you dare," Dean says, swallowing hard against the constriction of his throat. "Don’t you dare do that again.”
Cas frowns at him, eyes running over Dean’s face. It takes him a moment before he says, “I’m sorry. I- I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Dean’s hand is resting over the side of Cas’ neck. Over his pulse, that’s beating a steady thrum.
"I’m not talking about that," Dean says. "I’m talking about you leaving."
They’re frozen in front of each other, breathing each other’s air, Dean’s thumb gently brushing against Cas’ skin. Dean reads the protest and confusion in Cas’ eyes before he even needs to speak it.
"Don’t you get it yet, Cas? We’re family. I need you. Man, you’re- you’re back. You’re alive.”
Dean pulls him close and Cas falls against his chest. He stubbornly continues to stand there before slowly lifting his arms up and hugging back. Dean feels as he relaxes, as the tension seeps out of him and he’s no longer a cold, marble statue but a warm and pliable, fragile human who’s strong in all the ways Dean isn’t and weak in all the ways that Dean wants to fix.
"I’m not an angel anymore," Cas says. "I’m not powerful."
"I don’t care," Dean says.
"I can’t heal Sam, I can’t-"
"I don’t care."
Dean slowly pulls back and ducks his head to meet Cas’ gaze. He waits until Cas looks up, and lets his hands linger on Cas’ arms, fingers moving down to circle his wrists.
"Stay," he says. "Stay because you want to, Cas."
"I do," Cas says, quietly.
Dean shuffles a tiny step closer, stares down into the deep blue of Cas’ eyes that haven’t dulled, that still stare at Dean with the same intimidating intensity.
"I’m cold," Cas says quietly.
Dean slowly smiles. “That’s okay. We’ve got enough blankets.”
Dean takes his hand and they walk to the door of the bunker together.