.
YOU WERE JUST A DREAM IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD
[future fic] dean/castiel, dean/ofc, ocs. mild sex scene. rated r. ~4,200
He doesn't know what it feels like anymore, to love Dean, but he can remember it so vividly it's almost as if he still does.
(c) title from on my knees by abbie gardner and anthony de costa
a/n: written for spn13 prompt love
You were just a dream in the back of my head
In Carson City, Nevada, a man named Alex Witmer prays to be a saint. He prays to be the one resounding change in someone's life. He prays to bring happiness, love. He prays for God's guiding hand, but God hasn't answered prayers in years.
Castiel sees this as his only chance.
Alex drinks before he sleeps to ease his worries, his anxieties, to forget his losses and missed opportunities (or, at least, that's what he tells himself, justifies the dwindling pay checks swapped for the empty rows of dark liquor bottles). Castiel thinks he is worthy, broken enough, wild enough, desperate enough that he can force his way in; thinks this will be enough to make him finally feel fulfilled.
As Alex falls asleep on his couch, bottle clutched in his hand, Castiel speaks to him.
“Hello. I am Castiel.”
Alex's eyes fly open, startles himself awake and tumbles off the couch. “Who's there?” He blinks, bleary-eyed, hands out in front of him, as if to ward off Castiel.“What do you want?”
“I am an angel of the Lord.”
Alex is breathing quickly, short rasps of inhale and exhale, trying to find Castiel in the darkness. “What do you want?” he demands; softer, this time, more accepting.
Castiel smiles. “Don't be afraid. I am here to help you.”
-
The yard looks different from what Castiel remembers (now trimmed lawn a vibrant green, clothesline caught between a tree and a freshly painted shed, cleared junkyard making way to miles of shimmering heat waves and golden fields), but he had only seen it once when wicked things still roamed the land like gods. It's a sore in his mind and it's hard to understand.
Against a clear blue sky, the house in front of him is a startling white with green trim. It's clean and alarmingly simple and normal. Basket-of-gold and Russian sage grow aimlessly along a dirt and stone path leading to the front porch where a young boy sits on the steps, pulling petals off a yellow daisy.
The young boy looks up, bright blue eyes flickering in a blistering afternoon sun; he doesn't seem surprised to see Castiel standing there.
“Hello,” Castiel says.
“Hi.” The boy looks back at his flower, fingers dusted bright yellow.
“What is your name?” Castiel asks. He takes a tentative step forward.
The boy suddenly looks uncomfortable, wary; he looks up, eyes wide and hesitant. “My daddy says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“It's okay-”
He stands up suddenly, petals falling to his bare feet; this catches Castiel off guard. The boy rushes to the door, yanking it open with hurried determination and disappears inside.
Castiel, at loss at what to do, stands on the front lawn, hands at his sides. In the distance, he hears the roar of an engine and the buzz of dragonflies.
A few minutes later, the narrow screen door slams open and-
Castiel feels the air catch in his lungs; he almost remembers this feeling, this fleeting sharpening of the world and how everything stops and starts, slows down so quickly, he is breathless. “Dean.”
He's older now, much older; still Dean, still looks like Dean, but his face is softer, lighter, like the years didn't torture him (not like they did to Castiel); his skin has darkened from the sun, fine wrinkles breaking up his face, endless, seamless lines, telling stories of a too-soon forgotten past. He's aged, aged so wonderfully and naturally that Castiel can't help but feel a surge of-regret, relief. There is a certain ease and grace that Dean holds, something that is shocking and new to Castiel, as he walks slowly, uncertainly, to the steps, leaning on the hand railing.
“Yeah, that's me.” Dean looks back at the door; another person, long hair, distorted by the thick mesh screen. He holds up his hand. “Can I help you?”
He's different. His voice is different. But it's still there-that protective stance. Castiel only saw it for one person, just one. The young boy behind him, tiny, frail fingers clenched into the rough fabric of Dean's pants. The bright, bright eyes against a bright, bright sky.
“Dean,” someone calls from inside. “Who is it?”
Castiel moves towards the steps. He reaches out, up, catching Dean's hand in his own; Dean stiffens as their hands touch. He pulls back; Castiel moves closer. His fingers tighten around Dean's wrist and he's looking for something, hoping that this was right, that he was right, that he might actually still know Dean.
“I needed to see you,” Castiel says. “Dean-”
Dean turns his head, looks at him, confused. Then it's subtle, effortless; the drawn out realization etched in his face. He shakes free from the boy's grip, lips parted, body slack. Castiel doesn't know how, doesn't care how, but Dean recognizes him, even in this stranger's body.
“Cas?” he whispers.
(So long, so long since he has been called that name. He breathes deeply, a slumbering warmth washing over him.)
Dean walks down the steps, awkward and unnerving, stops in front of Castiel, so close to him he can feel Dean's fingertips brush across the back of his hand. There's a sharp wind that runs through Castiel's thin cotton sweater and everything is illuminated, heightened, brilliant out here.
The young boy is still holding onto the post, calling out to his father. A woman has appeared on the porch, holding a small child, hidden by her arms.
“Cas,” Dean says.
Again, again, please, again.
There are rough hands on his shoulders and there is something else, more life besides the sound of Dean's voice and the disbelief in his eyes, but he can't see it, taste it, know it; not now. Castiel is unable to move as Dean closes the space between them, pulling him flush against his chest. There it is again-the beating heart so familiar to Castiel and he's needed this; yes, he's needed this for so long.
“Cas,” Dean says in the way only Castiel is meant to know and it's right.
-
Dean is talking too loudly to Beverley in the kitchen. Castiel is in the living room (sunny yellow walls and white furniture such an odd contrast to the red walls and dusty books drawn in his short memory) with the young boy. He is watching his baby sister play with colourful building blocks, stacking them and knocking them over. The clattering is muffled, drowned by the voices in the next room.
“That's my sister,” the young boy says. “Her name is Melanie.” He isn't disturbed by the yelling. Not as far as Castiel can tell.
“She is beautiful,” Castiel comments. “What's your name?”
“-showing up without even a warning, what the hell, Dean-!”
Castiel looks at his hands. (They are not familiar to him and he almost forgets who he is.)
“David.” He's pulling out green and red cars, blue toy trucks, throwing them to the floor. “Guess what?”
“-seen him in a long time, Bev, God, can't you understand that-”
“I don't know.” Castiel clenches his hands into fists.
“I'm turning four in this many days.” David drops the dump truck he holds in his arms, the plastic making a sickening crack against the wood, holding up ten fingers. They are painted with blue marker. Castiel smiles.
“Melanie's only a baby, though,” David says, almost sneering.
David gets on his hands and knees and pushes the rather impressive pile of plastic toy vehicles to the middle of the floor, half-hearted grunts escaping between exaggerated heavy gasps. Melanie coos from the window, chewing on one of the blocks. Her eyes dance as she looks up at Castiel; they spend a moment looking at each other. She suddenly giggles, a wide, toothless smile, clapping her hands together.
“Do you want to play cars with me?” David asks. He has his hands on his hips and his tone is rather demanding.
Through the partially closed French doors that divide the kitchen and where Castiel sits, he sees Dean stand with his head bent. Beverley is beside him, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. Castiel looks away, a vague tugging in his chest.
“Yes, I would.”
-
Beverly gives him the guest room. She looks rather disgruntled about it, but Dean grins the entire time, standing in the door frame. Castiel stands in the corner of the room, watching Dean's wife make the double bed.
“All set,” Beverly says, smoothing out the pillow cases.
“Thank you,” Dean says, grinning at her.
Beverly walks briskly from the room, shifting out of reach from Dean's out stretched arms. “Supper will be ready in half an hour,” she calls from down the hall.
Dean looks at Castiel; his smile is frozen on his face.
“I'm sorry,” Castiel blurts out.
“Why?”
“Your wife doesn't approve of me being here.” Castiel thought it was somewhat obvious.
The smile falters a bit. Dean tips his head and shrugs, brushing his socked feet across the rough tan carpet. “She'll get over it.”
Castiel can only nod.
Dean walks to where Castiel is standing. He grasps his shoulder, like old friends do, and laughs. “Hey, forget about it, okay? She's just surprised, is all. Hell, so am I.”
“I didn't mean to be so-”
“Forget it,” Dean stresses. “You're here now and I'm happy you are.”
The words sting Castiel. He's not sure why.
“How about this? We'll go fishing tomorrow, just you and me.” Dean is still holding onto Castiel's shoulder. It's a disturbing shock and a sickening, desperate relief that he feels. Dean smiles and smiles and smiles. “Catch up?”
Castiel can only smile back.
-
Castiel lies in the bed, only to pacify Beverly, only to let Dean feel at ease that his family will never know him, not like Dean did. Castiel isn't so sure about this anymore.
He stares at the ceiling, squares of blue moon light distorted and misshaped; outside, he hears grasshoppers and owls and it all sounds too strange, too out of place, what with Dean in the room down the hall and how Castiel wishes it would be. What it should be, because this isn't Dean. (Dean is loud engines and shot guns and the smell of sweat and gun powder and dirt; not fine wrinkles and trimmed lawns and his whole life naked and there for the world to see.)
But that's just Castiel.
He seems nice. They all do.
(This is the first time Alex has talked to him. He's always resting in the corner of Castiel's mind, like Jimmy, waiting, watching. Jimmy never spoke.)
“Yes,” Castiel whispers into the dark.
They seem normal, though. Like everything is all right. What do you need me for?
“In time,” Castiel answers.
(Castiel feels Alex's impatience; his heart races and his palms sweat.)
“God has plans for you,” he lies.
-
Dean comes into the room early, knocking before he enters. Castiel is sitting on the edge of the bed. He has a book from the night stand open in his hands.
“Hey.”
Castiel looks out the window; a dull grey glares back at him, specks of pink and yellow dusting the horizon. “It's not light yet.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah, that's usually how fishing works.” He tilts his head, furrowing his brow. “You didn't change?”
Castiel looks down at himself. “I didn't sleep.”
Dean smiles, an odd, pressured smile, and nods. “Right. Well, come on.”
-
The water licks the rocks on the shore, a quiet symphony in the sour morning air. The sun is breaking over the ink-black horizon as Dean casts out his line and sits cross-legged on the grassy shore. He hums under his breath, lost in a static trance, staring out across the rippling lake.
“How's your brother?” Castiel asks suddenly.
“Sam?” Dean asks, still drifting out of focus. “He's good. Back in California, studying folklore at the state university.” He's nodding, wiggling the line. He looks over his shoulder, back at Castiel. His eyes are colourless and soft in this sickly yellow glow. “Takes a few odd hunting jobs on the weekends, but nothing too far from home.” He smiles again, laughs quickly. “Of all of us, he was the one who wasn't able to stop.”
Castiel nods. He takes a step forward. “Does your wife know?”
Dean looks back to his line. “I try not to think about. Too many bad memories, you know?” He sighs. “ But yeah, she knows.”
Castiel sits down beside him, legs spread awkwardly in front of him. He leaves his hands at his sides.
(He doesn't know what it feels like anymore, to love Dean, but he can remember it so vividly it's almost as if he still does. This is why it suddenly hurts all over again.) He can't look at Dean.
“Hey, I'm happy here, Cas.” Dean's hand is on Castiel's back, gentle and warm. “This is good. It's what I've always wanted.”
And Castiel almost asks: what about me?
(“You're what I've always wanted, Cas.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know everything about me and... you're still around.”
“I see nothing wrong with you, Dean.”)
Dean is smiling and it's warm like the sun. His hand lingers on Castiel's hip, fingers slipping off the soft fabric of the t-shirt, tugging at his skin, electricity in his touch, before turning away, looking back to the water.
Castiel pushes Dean to the ground, crawling on top of him. Dean grunts, face twisted into obvious discomfort and crossness, but Castiel holds him down, knees locked into Dean's side, hands hold down his arms.
“Cas!” Dean struggles to move, arching his back into Castiel's hips. Castiel shakes his head, groaning.
(Again, again, please, again.)
“No,” Castiel commands. “Just-let me.” He leans down, closing the space between them. Dean turns his head away. Castiel's lips find Dean's neck-skin hot and smooth and he breathes deep, smells wet grass and him. He feels like crying out, collapsing into Dean's arms, making him his again, just like he was before.
“Cas,” Dean begs. “Don't.”
Just his.
Castiel kisses Dean's jaw line, revels in the sound Dean makes, something hopeless and deprived, humming in the back of his throat. He twines his fingers through Dean's, pulls his arms above his head, finds Dean's mouth and bites his bottom lip.
“My family,” Dean breathes, soft and light, whispering into his mouth. “Castiel. Stop.”
Castiel bristles. His grip weakens and Dean shoves him off. Dean sits up, holding his arms close to his body, rubbing his wrists. Castiel lays still, hands over his eyes, chest heaving. He doesn't notice Dean leave: hears the reel being pulled in and ground move beside him.
“Get up,” Dean mutters.
Castiel doesn't move.
-
Dean hasn't said a word since they left. The old Ford truck trembled on the gravel roads and Dean took the corners dangerously quick, tires squealing, silent eyes wild and vicious, dust kicking up behind them in a billowing cloud. His fingers tighten against the rubber wheel, teeth clenched, cheeks sucked in.
Castiel feels like he should say something but he doesn't know what.
(There's a moment where Dean looks at him and Castiel catches his gaze. Castiel opens his mouth to speak but Dean has that closed off look, that detached look that spirals sharply and leaves holes in Castiel's heart.)
He throws the truck into park as soon as their in the yard, engine screeching in protest. He climbs out of the truck, slams the door behind him and jogs into the shed. Castiel thinks that maybe he shouldn't follow him. His fingers twitched against the window, the sky a steel-grey blue, vast and unyielding.
(What's going on, Castiel?
Alex sounds panicked and far away.)
Castiel gets out of the truck, feet touching soft, plush ground. He closes the door quietly behind him and sets off towards the shed. He stops in front of the door, fingers resting on the handle.
David is sitting on the front porch, looking at Castiel. He has a truck in his hands and his eyes are wide and young.
Castiel wrenches the door open. Dean is standing in the corner of the dark shed. His sweater is hanging over a workbench, the fishing tackle and reel thrown to the ground. His back is turned.
“Dean.” Castiel closes the door behind him. He cautiously steps towards Dean, his all too human heart pounding, voices whispering in his head, something sparking in his lungs when he remembers what he was before. “I'm sorry.”
“Why did you come back, Cas?” Dean spins around; Castiel stumbles back. He looks devastated and Castiel-fuckinghell-he's never been more sorry for it all. “Why?”
Castiel tries to find the words, the right words, to make Dean happy again. “I missed you.” Like when he was happy before.
“You left me,” Dean hisses, jabbing an accusing finger into Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel sucks in a breath, shoulders heaving. He looks out the window, towards the flax field, a startling violet so early in the year, resting along the edges of their scattered land. “I was angry with myself,” Castiel confesses.
Dean grabs both sides of Castiel's face. “You left!” Dean screams. “You have no right to be angry,” he adds, gently. His face falls and his hands slip down to Castiel's neck. “God, Cas, what you did to me.”
Castiel wraps his fingers around Dean's, digs his nails into Dean's palms. “I'm sorry, Dean.” He shifts, moves closer to Dean, remembers how to do this. “Please. Look at me.”
Dean tugs his hands free of Castiel's grasp, backs away, not looking at the angel. He turns quickly, punching the door. The walls shake and Castiel flinches, something he forgot about. Dean looks at him, knuckles now scraped and bloody.
He looks lost.
Castiel pushes himself from the wall, closes the gap between them. Tentatively, he pulls Dean's face to his, lips barely brushing, nerves tingling through his skin. He can feel Dean's hesitance, his reluctant pull away from Castiel, how he struggles to not touch him.
Dean mutters something and they crash together, a flood of reality and sharp disenchantment, holding onto each other, fingers clawing into skin, lips bruised from the weight of it all. Castiel pushes Dean against the door, the wood creaking on it's hinges, hips grinding against Dean's.
Dean bites down on Castiel's bottom lip, drawing blood and Castiel has needed this. Yeah, he's missed Dean, he's missed Dean so fucking much, it hurt for years. It still hurts, but it's easier when Dean is wrapped up in him like this, making him need it that much more.
He remembers the taste of everything, how it all felt, and he's anticipating it, complying with Dean's touches, his movements, going with him, falling to the floor, where Dean fumbles with his belt, one hand still cradling his head.
Dean's hand is cold and uncomfortable when he runs his fingers down Castiel's stop, muscles jumping under the familiar touch. Dean is pushing his shirt up, hands skimming across his chest, and Castiel feels it in his bones, the ache of it's absence. He arches into Dean's touch, hummingbird quick grazes that skitter across his skin.
Dean tugs Castiel's jeans down, palms Castiel's cock through the cotton boxers. (Castiel thought it would be different with this body-so ready with Jimmy, so easy and accustomed to it-but it's good with this stranger.) Castiel shudders, hands brushing across Dean's shoulder. His shirt rides up and Castiel catches the glimpse of faint outline of a hand print, the colour of a bruised peach, tender and scarred.
“Dean.”
Dean looks at him, lips parted and slick-wet. “Yeah?” he breathes.
Castiel shifts, tries to move closer to Dean, trying to fill the space between them that has been there too long-
“Daddy!” David is pounding on the door.
Dean pulls away. He blinks, the blank look in his eyes lost, replaced with hard realization. “No,” he whispers. He stumbles to his feet. “It's not you.”
“Dinner's ready!”
Castiel stands, fingers curled around the belt loops on his jeans. He's breathing hard, fingers numb and aching. Dean hastily does up his own jeans, unbuckled and pushed down sometime between now and then, runs his hand through his hair-he looks briefly at Castiel, a static look of regret and shock on his face, before opening the door.
“Hey buddy!” Dean scoops David up in his arms, twirling him around in the stark afternoon sun. He disappears, David giggling wildly.
Castiel winces when his hand bumps his bottom lip.
-
Beverly corners him in the upstairs hallway. He's coming out of his room, feigning interest in showers and changing clothes and eating supper; he tugs at the too small shirt, the ill-fitting jeans. He can still smell Dean on him.
“So, Cas,” she says, blocking the stairway. “Are you enjoying your stay?”
Castiel would be confused by this if it weren't for the quicksilver slide of her tongue and the closed look, a distant coolness in her eyes that Dean taught him through his own various actions to look out for. “Yes. Thank you for being so kind on such short notice.”
She stares at him, scrutinizing. “I imagined you would look different.”
“How so?” Castiel asks slowly. Maybe he's too obvious, too awkward in this vessel.
She snorts. “From the way Dean talked about you, you'd think you were some sort of gift from God.”
Castiel looks away. “Oh.”
“No pictures of you, even though he talked about how important you were.” She clicks her tongue and runs her hand through her hair. She looks at Castiel sideways, eyes narrowed. “All the hunts you went on, all the times you saved him.”
“We didn't know each other very long,” Castiel says.
She pushes herself from the wall, hands at her sides. “But long enough.”
Castiel steps back.
“Dean is a good man,” Beverley says, suddenly wild and desperate. “He is honest and kind and he loves me and he loves our kids. But I know what you were to him and what he was to you.” There are tears in her eyes and Castiel can't feel sorry for her because he loves Dean. She knows this. “You helped him. I guess I should thank you; he wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.”
Castiel moves towards her. She holds her hands in front of her, shaking her head. She sighs and looks at the wall. “I don't care about his past. I only care about now.” She looks up again, at him. Her eyes are wide and pleading. “But don't you dare try to become part of his future. You had your chance.”
Castiel nods. “I know.”
-
David is handing Castiel a book and asking him to read it. Dean is sitting across from him, a mug of cold coffee in his hands. Castiel pulls David onto his lap and tries to avoid Dean's eyes as he reads the story without thought or comprehension, still tasting Dean on his lips.
At supper, Dean's hand finds Castiel's under the table. It's a light squeeze, but it's nowhere near reassuring. Castiel looks at Dean, a sudden rush of-of-
Dean doesn't look at him. His hand slips away. It's cold in the house, suddenly.
-
It's barely light out. Dean is standing a few feet away from Castiel, head bent towards the ground. He's not wearing shoes.
“Don't come back, Cas.”
“Dean-”
Dean looks up. Castiel can't see his face. “Please.”
Castiel nods quickly. As he turns, he feels he shouldn't be going so soon.
“You know I loved you,” Dean calls out.
Castiel stops, mid-step, hands placed awkwardly in front of him. He stumbles to a halt. He doesn't turn around.
“I still do.” Dean's voice carries and it sounds like the end of the days in Castiel's head, loud and unbearable.
(Tell him you do, too.)
Castiel closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he's back in Carson City, Nevada, standing in Alex's living room.
-
“Who was that man?” Alex is falling asleep on his bed, an empty mickey of vodka in his hands.
Castiel sits on the side of the bed. “Someone I knew a long time ago.”
Alex smiles, eyes half-closed. “Did I help?” he murmurs. “Did I change the world?”
Castiel can only nod, can only lie. “Yes, you did.”
-
(Castiel remembers it was a pleasant day, void of wind and sounds and darkness.
He remembers that Dean was holding his hand as they sat on the hood of the Impala.
He remembers being scared.
“You are fortunate, Dean,” Castiel had said.
“How's that?”
Castiel smiled. “One day, you will forget.”)
-
end.
[future fic] dean/castiel, dean/ofc, ocs. mild sex scene. rated r. ~4,200
He doesn't know what it feels like anymore, to love Dean, but he can remember it so vividly it's almost as if he still does.
(c) title from on my knees by abbie gardner and anthony de costa
a/n: written for spn13 prompt love
You were just a dream in the back of my head
In Carson City, Nevada, a man named Alex Witmer prays to be a saint. He prays to be the one resounding change in someone's life. He prays to bring happiness, love. He prays for God's guiding hand, but God hasn't answered prayers in years.
Castiel sees this as his only chance.
Alex drinks before he sleeps to ease his worries, his anxieties, to forget his losses and missed opportunities (or, at least, that's what he tells himself, justifies the dwindling pay checks swapped for the empty rows of dark liquor bottles). Castiel thinks he is worthy, broken enough, wild enough, desperate enough that he can force his way in; thinks this will be enough to make him finally feel fulfilled.
As Alex falls asleep on his couch, bottle clutched in his hand, Castiel speaks to him.
“Hello. I am Castiel.”
Alex's eyes fly open, startles himself awake and tumbles off the couch. “Who's there?” He blinks, bleary-eyed, hands out in front of him, as if to ward off Castiel.“What do you want?”
“I am an angel of the Lord.”
Alex is breathing quickly, short rasps of inhale and exhale, trying to find Castiel in the darkness. “What do you want?” he demands; softer, this time, more accepting.
Castiel smiles. “Don't be afraid. I am here to help you.”
-
The yard looks different from what Castiel remembers (now trimmed lawn a vibrant green, clothesline caught between a tree and a freshly painted shed, cleared junkyard making way to miles of shimmering heat waves and golden fields), but he had only seen it once when wicked things still roamed the land like gods. It's a sore in his mind and it's hard to understand.
Against a clear blue sky, the house in front of him is a startling white with green trim. It's clean and alarmingly simple and normal. Basket-of-gold and Russian sage grow aimlessly along a dirt and stone path leading to the front porch where a young boy sits on the steps, pulling petals off a yellow daisy.
The young boy looks up, bright blue eyes flickering in a blistering afternoon sun; he doesn't seem surprised to see Castiel standing there.
“Hello,” Castiel says.
“Hi.” The boy looks back at his flower, fingers dusted bright yellow.
“What is your name?” Castiel asks. He takes a tentative step forward.
The boy suddenly looks uncomfortable, wary; he looks up, eyes wide and hesitant. “My daddy says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“It's okay-”
He stands up suddenly, petals falling to his bare feet; this catches Castiel off guard. The boy rushes to the door, yanking it open with hurried determination and disappears inside.
Castiel, at loss at what to do, stands on the front lawn, hands at his sides. In the distance, he hears the roar of an engine and the buzz of dragonflies.
A few minutes later, the narrow screen door slams open and-
Castiel feels the air catch in his lungs; he almost remembers this feeling, this fleeting sharpening of the world and how everything stops and starts, slows down so quickly, he is breathless. “Dean.”
He's older now, much older; still Dean, still looks like Dean, but his face is softer, lighter, like the years didn't torture him (not like they did to Castiel); his skin has darkened from the sun, fine wrinkles breaking up his face, endless, seamless lines, telling stories of a too-soon forgotten past. He's aged, aged so wonderfully and naturally that Castiel can't help but feel a surge of-regret, relief. There is a certain ease and grace that Dean holds, something that is shocking and new to Castiel, as he walks slowly, uncertainly, to the steps, leaning on the hand railing.
“Yeah, that's me.” Dean looks back at the door; another person, long hair, distorted by the thick mesh screen. He holds up his hand. “Can I help you?”
He's different. His voice is different. But it's still there-that protective stance. Castiel only saw it for one person, just one. The young boy behind him, tiny, frail fingers clenched into the rough fabric of Dean's pants. The bright, bright eyes against a bright, bright sky.
“Dean,” someone calls from inside. “Who is it?”
Castiel moves towards the steps. He reaches out, up, catching Dean's hand in his own; Dean stiffens as their hands touch. He pulls back; Castiel moves closer. His fingers tighten around Dean's wrist and he's looking for something, hoping that this was right, that he was right, that he might actually still know Dean.
“I needed to see you,” Castiel says. “Dean-”
Dean turns his head, looks at him, confused. Then it's subtle, effortless; the drawn out realization etched in his face. He shakes free from the boy's grip, lips parted, body slack. Castiel doesn't know how, doesn't care how, but Dean recognizes him, even in this stranger's body.
“Cas?” he whispers.
(So long, so long since he has been called that name. He breathes deeply, a slumbering warmth washing over him.)
Dean walks down the steps, awkward and unnerving, stops in front of Castiel, so close to him he can feel Dean's fingertips brush across the back of his hand. There's a sharp wind that runs through Castiel's thin cotton sweater and everything is illuminated, heightened, brilliant out here.
The young boy is still holding onto the post, calling out to his father. A woman has appeared on the porch, holding a small child, hidden by her arms.
“Cas,” Dean says.
Again, again, please, again.
There are rough hands on his shoulders and there is something else, more life besides the sound of Dean's voice and the disbelief in his eyes, but he can't see it, taste it, know it; not now. Castiel is unable to move as Dean closes the space between them, pulling him flush against his chest. There it is again-the beating heart so familiar to Castiel and he's needed this; yes, he's needed this for so long.
“Cas,” Dean says in the way only Castiel is meant to know and it's right.
-
Dean is talking too loudly to Beverley in the kitchen. Castiel is in the living room (sunny yellow walls and white furniture such an odd contrast to the red walls and dusty books drawn in his short memory) with the young boy. He is watching his baby sister play with colourful building blocks, stacking them and knocking them over. The clattering is muffled, drowned by the voices in the next room.
“That's my sister,” the young boy says. “Her name is Melanie.” He isn't disturbed by the yelling. Not as far as Castiel can tell.
“She is beautiful,” Castiel comments. “What's your name?”
“-showing up without even a warning, what the hell, Dean-!”
Castiel looks at his hands. (They are not familiar to him and he almost forgets who he is.)
“David.” He's pulling out green and red cars, blue toy trucks, throwing them to the floor. “Guess what?”
“-seen him in a long time, Bev, God, can't you understand that-”
“I don't know.” Castiel clenches his hands into fists.
“I'm turning four in this many days.” David drops the dump truck he holds in his arms, the plastic making a sickening crack against the wood, holding up ten fingers. They are painted with blue marker. Castiel smiles.
“Melanie's only a baby, though,” David says, almost sneering.
David gets on his hands and knees and pushes the rather impressive pile of plastic toy vehicles to the middle of the floor, half-hearted grunts escaping between exaggerated heavy gasps. Melanie coos from the window, chewing on one of the blocks. Her eyes dance as she looks up at Castiel; they spend a moment looking at each other. She suddenly giggles, a wide, toothless smile, clapping her hands together.
“Do you want to play cars with me?” David asks. He has his hands on his hips and his tone is rather demanding.
Through the partially closed French doors that divide the kitchen and where Castiel sits, he sees Dean stand with his head bent. Beverley is beside him, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. Castiel looks away, a vague tugging in his chest.
“Yes, I would.”
-
Beverly gives him the guest room. She looks rather disgruntled about it, but Dean grins the entire time, standing in the door frame. Castiel stands in the corner of the room, watching Dean's wife make the double bed.
“All set,” Beverly says, smoothing out the pillow cases.
“Thank you,” Dean says, grinning at her.
Beverly walks briskly from the room, shifting out of reach from Dean's out stretched arms. “Supper will be ready in half an hour,” she calls from down the hall.
Dean looks at Castiel; his smile is frozen on his face.
“I'm sorry,” Castiel blurts out.
“Why?”
“Your wife doesn't approve of me being here.” Castiel thought it was somewhat obvious.
The smile falters a bit. Dean tips his head and shrugs, brushing his socked feet across the rough tan carpet. “She'll get over it.”
Castiel can only nod.
Dean walks to where Castiel is standing. He grasps his shoulder, like old friends do, and laughs. “Hey, forget about it, okay? She's just surprised, is all. Hell, so am I.”
“I didn't mean to be so-”
“Forget it,” Dean stresses. “You're here now and I'm happy you are.”
The words sting Castiel. He's not sure why.
“How about this? We'll go fishing tomorrow, just you and me.” Dean is still holding onto Castiel's shoulder. It's a disturbing shock and a sickening, desperate relief that he feels. Dean smiles and smiles and smiles. “Catch up?”
Castiel can only smile back.
-
Castiel lies in the bed, only to pacify Beverly, only to let Dean feel at ease that his family will never know him, not like Dean did. Castiel isn't so sure about this anymore.
He stares at the ceiling, squares of blue moon light distorted and misshaped; outside, he hears grasshoppers and owls and it all sounds too strange, too out of place, what with Dean in the room down the hall and how Castiel wishes it would be. What it should be, because this isn't Dean. (Dean is loud engines and shot guns and the smell of sweat and gun powder and dirt; not fine wrinkles and trimmed lawns and his whole life naked and there for the world to see.)
But that's just Castiel.
He seems nice. They all do.
(This is the first time Alex has talked to him. He's always resting in the corner of Castiel's mind, like Jimmy, waiting, watching. Jimmy never spoke.)
“Yes,” Castiel whispers into the dark.
They seem normal, though. Like everything is all right. What do you need me for?
“In time,” Castiel answers.
(Castiel feels Alex's impatience; his heart races and his palms sweat.)
“God has plans for you,” he lies.
-
Dean comes into the room early, knocking before he enters. Castiel is sitting on the edge of the bed. He has a book from the night stand open in his hands.
“Hey.”
Castiel looks out the window; a dull grey glares back at him, specks of pink and yellow dusting the horizon. “It's not light yet.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah, that's usually how fishing works.” He tilts his head, furrowing his brow. “You didn't change?”
Castiel looks down at himself. “I didn't sleep.”
Dean smiles, an odd, pressured smile, and nods. “Right. Well, come on.”
-
The water licks the rocks on the shore, a quiet symphony in the sour morning air. The sun is breaking over the ink-black horizon as Dean casts out his line and sits cross-legged on the grassy shore. He hums under his breath, lost in a static trance, staring out across the rippling lake.
“How's your brother?” Castiel asks suddenly.
“Sam?” Dean asks, still drifting out of focus. “He's good. Back in California, studying folklore at the state university.” He's nodding, wiggling the line. He looks over his shoulder, back at Castiel. His eyes are colourless and soft in this sickly yellow glow. “Takes a few odd hunting jobs on the weekends, but nothing too far from home.” He smiles again, laughs quickly. “Of all of us, he was the one who wasn't able to stop.”
Castiel nods. He takes a step forward. “Does your wife know?”
Dean looks back to his line. “I try not to think about. Too many bad memories, you know?” He sighs. “ But yeah, she knows.”
Castiel sits down beside him, legs spread awkwardly in front of him. He leaves his hands at his sides.
(He doesn't know what it feels like anymore, to love Dean, but he can remember it so vividly it's almost as if he still does. This is why it suddenly hurts all over again.) He can't look at Dean.
“Hey, I'm happy here, Cas.” Dean's hand is on Castiel's back, gentle and warm. “This is good. It's what I've always wanted.”
And Castiel almost asks: what about me?
(“You're what I've always wanted, Cas.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know everything about me and... you're still around.”
“I see nothing wrong with you, Dean.”)
Dean is smiling and it's warm like the sun. His hand lingers on Castiel's hip, fingers slipping off the soft fabric of the t-shirt, tugging at his skin, electricity in his touch, before turning away, looking back to the water.
Castiel pushes Dean to the ground, crawling on top of him. Dean grunts, face twisted into obvious discomfort and crossness, but Castiel holds him down, knees locked into Dean's side, hands hold down his arms.
“Cas!” Dean struggles to move, arching his back into Castiel's hips. Castiel shakes his head, groaning.
(Again, again, please, again.)
“No,” Castiel commands. “Just-let me.” He leans down, closing the space between them. Dean turns his head away. Castiel's lips find Dean's neck-skin hot and smooth and he breathes deep, smells wet grass and him. He feels like crying out, collapsing into Dean's arms, making him his again, just like he was before.
“Cas,” Dean begs. “Don't.”
Just his.
Castiel kisses Dean's jaw line, revels in the sound Dean makes, something hopeless and deprived, humming in the back of his throat. He twines his fingers through Dean's, pulls his arms above his head, finds Dean's mouth and bites his bottom lip.
“My family,” Dean breathes, soft and light, whispering into his mouth. “Castiel. Stop.”
Castiel bristles. His grip weakens and Dean shoves him off. Dean sits up, holding his arms close to his body, rubbing his wrists. Castiel lays still, hands over his eyes, chest heaving. He doesn't notice Dean leave: hears the reel being pulled in and ground move beside him.
“Get up,” Dean mutters.
Castiel doesn't move.
-
Dean hasn't said a word since they left. The old Ford truck trembled on the gravel roads and Dean took the corners dangerously quick, tires squealing, silent eyes wild and vicious, dust kicking up behind them in a billowing cloud. His fingers tighten against the rubber wheel, teeth clenched, cheeks sucked in.
Castiel feels like he should say something but he doesn't know what.
(There's a moment where Dean looks at him and Castiel catches his gaze. Castiel opens his mouth to speak but Dean has that closed off look, that detached look that spirals sharply and leaves holes in Castiel's heart.)
He throws the truck into park as soon as their in the yard, engine screeching in protest. He climbs out of the truck, slams the door behind him and jogs into the shed. Castiel thinks that maybe he shouldn't follow him. His fingers twitched against the window, the sky a steel-grey blue, vast and unyielding.
(What's going on, Castiel?
Alex sounds panicked and far away.)
Castiel gets out of the truck, feet touching soft, plush ground. He closes the door quietly behind him and sets off towards the shed. He stops in front of the door, fingers resting on the handle.
David is sitting on the front porch, looking at Castiel. He has a truck in his hands and his eyes are wide and young.
Castiel wrenches the door open. Dean is standing in the corner of the dark shed. His sweater is hanging over a workbench, the fishing tackle and reel thrown to the ground. His back is turned.
“Dean.” Castiel closes the door behind him. He cautiously steps towards Dean, his all too human heart pounding, voices whispering in his head, something sparking in his lungs when he remembers what he was before. “I'm sorry.”
“Why did you come back, Cas?” Dean spins around; Castiel stumbles back. He looks devastated and Castiel-fuckinghell-he's never been more sorry for it all. “Why?”
Castiel tries to find the words, the right words, to make Dean happy again. “I missed you.” Like when he was happy before.
“You left me,” Dean hisses, jabbing an accusing finger into Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel sucks in a breath, shoulders heaving. He looks out the window, towards the flax field, a startling violet so early in the year, resting along the edges of their scattered land. “I was angry with myself,” Castiel confesses.
Dean grabs both sides of Castiel's face. “You left!” Dean screams. “You have no right to be angry,” he adds, gently. His face falls and his hands slip down to Castiel's neck. “God, Cas, what you did to me.”
Castiel wraps his fingers around Dean's, digs his nails into Dean's palms. “I'm sorry, Dean.” He shifts, moves closer to Dean, remembers how to do this. “Please. Look at me.”
Dean tugs his hands free of Castiel's grasp, backs away, not looking at the angel. He turns quickly, punching the door. The walls shake and Castiel flinches, something he forgot about. Dean looks at him, knuckles now scraped and bloody.
He looks lost.
Castiel pushes himself from the wall, closes the gap between them. Tentatively, he pulls Dean's face to his, lips barely brushing, nerves tingling through his skin. He can feel Dean's hesitance, his reluctant pull away from Castiel, how he struggles to not touch him.
Dean mutters something and they crash together, a flood of reality and sharp disenchantment, holding onto each other, fingers clawing into skin, lips bruised from the weight of it all. Castiel pushes Dean against the door, the wood creaking on it's hinges, hips grinding against Dean's.
Dean bites down on Castiel's bottom lip, drawing blood and Castiel has needed this. Yeah, he's missed Dean, he's missed Dean so fucking much, it hurt for years. It still hurts, but it's easier when Dean is wrapped up in him like this, making him need it that much more.
He remembers the taste of everything, how it all felt, and he's anticipating it, complying with Dean's touches, his movements, going with him, falling to the floor, where Dean fumbles with his belt, one hand still cradling his head.
Dean's hand is cold and uncomfortable when he runs his fingers down Castiel's stop, muscles jumping under the familiar touch. Dean is pushing his shirt up, hands skimming across his chest, and Castiel feels it in his bones, the ache of it's absence. He arches into Dean's touch, hummingbird quick grazes that skitter across his skin.
Dean tugs Castiel's jeans down, palms Castiel's cock through the cotton boxers. (Castiel thought it would be different with this body-so ready with Jimmy, so easy and accustomed to it-but it's good with this stranger.) Castiel shudders, hands brushing across Dean's shoulder. His shirt rides up and Castiel catches the glimpse of faint outline of a hand print, the colour of a bruised peach, tender and scarred.
“Dean.”
Dean looks at him, lips parted and slick-wet. “Yeah?” he breathes.
Castiel shifts, tries to move closer to Dean, trying to fill the space between them that has been there too long-
“Daddy!” David is pounding on the door.
Dean pulls away. He blinks, the blank look in his eyes lost, replaced with hard realization. “No,” he whispers. He stumbles to his feet. “It's not you.”
“Dinner's ready!”
Castiel stands, fingers curled around the belt loops on his jeans. He's breathing hard, fingers numb and aching. Dean hastily does up his own jeans, unbuckled and pushed down sometime between now and then, runs his hand through his hair-he looks briefly at Castiel, a static look of regret and shock on his face, before opening the door.
“Hey buddy!” Dean scoops David up in his arms, twirling him around in the stark afternoon sun. He disappears, David giggling wildly.
Castiel winces when his hand bumps his bottom lip.
-
Beverly corners him in the upstairs hallway. He's coming out of his room, feigning interest in showers and changing clothes and eating supper; he tugs at the too small shirt, the ill-fitting jeans. He can still smell Dean on him.
“So, Cas,” she says, blocking the stairway. “Are you enjoying your stay?”
Castiel would be confused by this if it weren't for the quicksilver slide of her tongue and the closed look, a distant coolness in her eyes that Dean taught him through his own various actions to look out for. “Yes. Thank you for being so kind on such short notice.”
She stares at him, scrutinizing. “I imagined you would look different.”
“How so?” Castiel asks slowly. Maybe he's too obvious, too awkward in this vessel.
She snorts. “From the way Dean talked about you, you'd think you were some sort of gift from God.”
Castiel looks away. “Oh.”
“No pictures of you, even though he talked about how important you were.” She clicks her tongue and runs her hand through her hair. She looks at Castiel sideways, eyes narrowed. “All the hunts you went on, all the times you saved him.”
“We didn't know each other very long,” Castiel says.
She pushes herself from the wall, hands at her sides. “But long enough.”
Castiel steps back.
“Dean is a good man,” Beverley says, suddenly wild and desperate. “He is honest and kind and he loves me and he loves our kids. But I know what you were to him and what he was to you.” There are tears in her eyes and Castiel can't feel sorry for her because he loves Dean. She knows this. “You helped him. I guess I should thank you; he wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.”
Castiel moves towards her. She holds her hands in front of her, shaking her head. She sighs and looks at the wall. “I don't care about his past. I only care about now.” She looks up again, at him. Her eyes are wide and pleading. “But don't you dare try to become part of his future. You had your chance.”
Castiel nods. “I know.”
-
David is handing Castiel a book and asking him to read it. Dean is sitting across from him, a mug of cold coffee in his hands. Castiel pulls David onto his lap and tries to avoid Dean's eyes as he reads the story without thought or comprehension, still tasting Dean on his lips.
At supper, Dean's hand finds Castiel's under the table. It's a light squeeze, but it's nowhere near reassuring. Castiel looks at Dean, a sudden rush of-of-
Dean doesn't look at him. His hand slips away. It's cold in the house, suddenly.
-
It's barely light out. Dean is standing a few feet away from Castiel, head bent towards the ground. He's not wearing shoes.
“Don't come back, Cas.”
“Dean-”
Dean looks up. Castiel can't see his face. “Please.”
Castiel nods quickly. As he turns, he feels he shouldn't be going so soon.
“You know I loved you,” Dean calls out.
Castiel stops, mid-step, hands placed awkwardly in front of him. He stumbles to a halt. He doesn't turn around.
“I still do.” Dean's voice carries and it sounds like the end of the days in Castiel's head, loud and unbearable.
(Tell him you do, too.)
Castiel closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he's back in Carson City, Nevada, standing in Alex's living room.
-
“Who was that man?” Alex is falling asleep on his bed, an empty mickey of vodka in his hands.
Castiel sits on the side of the bed. “Someone I knew a long time ago.”
Alex smiles, eyes half-closed. “Did I help?” he murmurs. “Did I change the world?”
Castiel can only nod, can only lie. “Yes, you did.”
-
(Castiel remembers it was a pleasant day, void of wind and sounds and darkness.
He remembers that Dean was holding his hand as they sat on the hood of the Impala.
He remembers being scared.
“You are fortunate, Dean,” Castiel had said.
“How's that?”
Castiel smiled. “One day, you will forget.”)
-
end.